Chapter 3

The next day, I suppressed the fear in my heart and went to the research institute.

I'm a pharmacology researcher, and I've been leading a targeted drug experiment for neurological conditions. I'd poured my heart and soul into this project, tracking data for six months, and preliminary results were imminent.

As soon as I entered the lab, my colleagues, who had been in lively discussion, suddenly quieted as if choked.

They quickly lowered their heads, pretending to be busy, but I could feel sticky, probing, even slightly fearful gazes crawling over my back.

Soon after, the director called me into his office.

He poured me a glass of warm water, choosing his words carefully, his tone firm and non-negotiable.

"Summer, please set aside this targeted project for now. Liam will take over the subsequent data analysis. You'll be on paid leave for three months."

I looked at him, my fingers tightly gripping the water glass.

"Why? My data is fine, and the experiment is at a critical stage."

The director sighed, avoiding my gaze.

"Mr. Vance called me this morning and said you've been experiencing extreme sleep deprivation, severe mood swings, and even serious hallucinations at home, with self-harming tendencies. Summer, we're doing this for your own good. Research is stressful, don't push yourself too hard. If something happens in the lab, no one can afford to take responsibility for it."

It was always "for my own good."

I suppressed my anger, trying to keep my voice steady.

"This is my project, and my work state is perfectly fine. I can undergo a psychological evaluation."

The director shook his head.

"Summer, don't get agitated. Mr. Vance has already sent over your diagnosis report; it was issued by Dr. Willow Hayes. Please listen, go home and rest."

Those three words, "don't get agitated," pierced my chest like a needle, shattering all my defenses into "symptoms of an impending episode."

At noon, Ethan came to the institute.

He carried a sophisticated insulated bag and stood at the entrance of the office area, looking gentle and impeccable. Behind his gold-rimmed glasses, his eyes were full of tenderness, like a considerate, devoted husband.

"Summer has a delicate stomach, so I brought her some medicinal soup and came to pick her up."

My colleagues looked at him with envy, and some female colleagues even teared up.

"Mr. Vance is too sweet! Such a big boss, personally delivering food."

"Summer, your husband really loves you. You need to get better soon."

I sat at my desk, suddenly feeling utterly absurd.

He personally took me off my project, stripped me of my right to work, severed my normal connections with the outside world, and then showed up with soup. Everyone saw his devotion, but they didn't see the noose around my neck.

Ethan placed the insulated container on my desk, his voice soft, but loud enough for everyone around to hear.

"Don't try to act tough. Dr. Hayes said you should reduce mental stimulation these days. I've already gotten leave approved with the director. Let's go home."

I looked up at him, my eyes cold.

"What Dr. Hayes? I've never seen any Dr. Hayes."

He paused, still smiling, and reached out to touch my head.

"Tomorrow, I'll go with you to see Dr. Willow Hayes. Did you forget? We just made the appointment last week."

My heart sank.

He had already prepared the next step. Fabricated memories, forced diagnoses.

That afternoon, while he was in the living room on the phone, I slipped into the bathroom and called Serena Thorne.

She was my university classmate and now a top forensic toxicology expert. She specialized in obscure neurotoxins and was extremely rational and fiercely protective of her own.

After hearing my description, there was a minute of silence on the other end of the line.

"Summer, don't go head-to-head with him," Serena's voice was as cold as ice. "He's setting a trap. Gather evidence first. Draw a blood sample, and find a way to get it to me. I suspect the medicine and milk you drink every day are laced with a hallucinogen."

After returning home, I started checking my electronic devices.

My cloud photo album had several new pictures.

The timestamp was 2:17 AM.

In the photos, a woman wearing my white silk nightgown stood on the edge of the apartment rooftop. The strong wind billowed her skirt, her back desolate and despairing, looking exactly like me.

But that night, I had been fed his so-called "calming medicine" and was sound asleep in my bedroom, not even turning over once.

I downloaded the original images, imported them into professional image analysis software to check the hidden EXIF data.

The device used to take the photos was not my phone.

It was an older model, its serial number showing it was Ethan's three-year-old discarded backup phone.

I stared at the serial number, a chill ran down my spine, cold sweat soaked my clothes.

Ethan walked in, carrying a glass of water.

I handed him my phone, staring intently into his eyes.

"Who is this?"

He glanced at it, his brow furrowed slightly, his eyes showing a perfectly timed hint of heartache.

"Summer, are you misremembering again? Didn't you wear this nightgown last night? You sleepwalked onto the rooftop last night, and I barely managed to pull you back. Don't you remember?"

"I didn't take these photos, and I didn't go to the rooftop! Ethan, what exactly do you want?!"

He looked at me, his eyes filled with deep pity, and even stepped forward as if to hug me.

"You've been sleeping so poorly recently; your sleepwalking symptoms are getting worse. Memory gaps are normal. Don't be afraid, I'm here."

I suddenly laughed, tears almost streaming down my face.

So, he had planned it all along.

If I refuted him, it was memory gaps, sleepwalking.

If I was angry, it was emotional breakdown, mania.

If I was suspicious, it was persecutory delusions.

Ethan took an appointment slip from his briefcase and gently placed it on the table.

My name was written on it.

Deep psychological intervention and psychiatric evaluation appointment.

Institution: Willow Hayes Mental Health Recovery Center.

"Summer, tomorrow I'll go with you to see Dr. Hayes."

His voice was low and soft, as if coaxing a disobedient child.

"You need professional help."

I had thought about leaving immediately, escaping far away.

But my identification, the core experimental data my mother left behind, the formula database, and those unencrypted experimental records were all in the basement of this house. They were something my mother died for.

More importantly, I knew he had already started paving the path for my "suicide due to mental illness."

If I left now, no matter where I died, I would walk right into his script, becoming the perfect footnote to his "devoted husband" persona.