Chapter 1

Before the wedding, my boyfriend's childhood sweetheart, Libby Henson, laughed as she backed up her car and rolled it right over my foot.

Before I could even say a word, my boyfriend Alfred Sawyer forgave her on my behalf: "It's fine, it's fine, she can just rub on some pain-relief cream and she'll be okay."

Then he pulled open the car door and said with a doting look on his face, "Get in—what kind of driving is that? I'll take you home."

Libby got out and moved to the passenger seat, and Alfred slid straight into the driver's seat.

Seeing that I was still standing there, Alfred said irritably, "What are you still standing around for? Just grab a cab and head home first."

Then he drove off. I watched the car shrink into the distance, and I dialed the police.

"Hello, I've been run over by a car, and the driver has fled the scene. The license plate number is..."

...

After calling the police, I called an ambulance myself to get to the hospital.

But the next second.

My phone rang. It was Alfred.

The moment the call connected, a torrent of abuse came pouring out from the other end:

"Carrie Winfield, you called the police? Are you out of your mind?"

"It was just your foot getting run over a little. Do you have to blow it so far out of proportion?"

"Because of you, Libby's been hauled off by the police!"

"You have to think about the consequences of what you do. With you making a scene like this, are we still getting married tomorrow or not?"

I looked down at my left foot, now swollen and red beyond recognition:

"Then let's not get married."

Alfred froze for a moment, and when he spoke again there was a hint of shock in his voice:

"What did you say?"

But as if he'd suddenly realized something, Alfred's voice came back through the phone, more impatient than ever:

"Carrie Winfield, if you're going to make a fuss, at least show some restraint, okay?"

"How dare you joke about the wedding?"

"My family's always looked down on you, and it took everything I had to talk them around. Now you're the one throwing an unreasonable tantrum with me?"

"Alright, enough is enough. You write up a signed release waiving charges, I'll go bring Libby back, and then you'll apologize to her properly, and the wedding can go ahead tomorrow."

"Libby's never had to suffer like this. I'm coming to get you right now, and we'll go to the police department together."

He didn't even wait for me to say anything else before the call cut off instantly, leaving nothing but silence.

Staring at the ended call, I didn't hesitate—I opened my email and replied to that message:

"Carrie Winfield agrees to return to the project."

But barely fifteen minutes later.

Alfred called again, and the instant the call connected, his furious voice came through:

"Where are you?"

"Didn't I say I'd come back to get you and take you to the police department?"

I said softly:

"The hospital."

"Fractured left foot."

The man on the other end seemed even angrier:

"Carrie Winfield, are you never going to let this go?"

"I'll say it one more time—if you keep making a scene like this, we're not getting married tomorrow!"

"And I'll say it one more time too. We're canceling the wedding."

That said.

Before he could even speak again, I hung up on him first.

I opened the family and friends group chat and sent a message:

"The wedding is canceled. None of you need to come tomorrow."

The next second.

The door to the ward was pushed open. It was my mother.

She came forward, her face full of heartache:

"How did this happen?"

"Why was the wedding canceled?"

My mother's phone rang.

Out of habit, she casually pressed the speakerphone button, and a voice came through at once:

"You're Carrie Winfield's mother, aren't you?"

"What kind of upbringing did you give your daughter? It was just her foot getting run over a little. Is your whole family this delicate?"

"What's your family playing at? Trying to get a grip on us before she's even married in? Take a look in the mirror and see what you are! You think you're fit to make trouble with us?"

"You tell Carrie Winfield to produce a signed release waiving charges right this instant and go to the police department in person to bring Libby back, or I won't let them hold the wedding!"

My mother stood there, frozen.

The ward fell silent in an instant.

I stepped forward, snatched the phone away, and said calmly:

"I will not be producing any release."

Before the other end could say another word, I hung up first.

Seeing that I kept staring at my phone, my mother stood up, reached down to tug at her washed-out, faded clothes, and said softly:

"I've got something to take care of. I'll step out for a bit."

But not long after she left, I got another message from Alfred:

"What's this supposed to mean?"

"Isn't making trouble on your own enough?"

"Now you've got your mother in on it too?"

In the video.

My mother stood before Alfred, her eyes red, her voice trembling as she spoke—but her words were a demand for justice on my behalf:

"Carrie is my precious daughter. Our family may not be well-off, but I will never let you people bully her!"