Chapter 4

The next day, Miles’s mother, Sarah, showed up.

She was a woman who always wore heavy makeup and looked down on everyone.

The moment Sarah walked in, she swept a disgusted glance around the living room, as if she had stepped into a slum.

"Sienna, I heard you kicked Miles out?"

She sat across from me, her posture arrogant.

I didn't say a word, continuing to trim the roses in my vase.

I had bought these roses for myself.

Seeing me ignore her, Sarah’s face turned sour.

"I’m warning you, don't think you can manipulate Miles just because you’re dying! Miles is soft-hearted enough to spend your remaining days with you. That is your blessing!"

"Don't be ungrateful! Call Miles back right now and apologize!"

I snipped a stem with a sharp "click".

I finally looked up at her and smiled.

"Sarah, did you forget? This house is mine. I bought it with my pre-marital funds. I can kick out whoever I want."

Sarah’s face instantly turned red.

"You! You little..."

She was speechless with rage.

I laid down the shears and wiped my hands with a cloth.

"And as for the 'blessing' you mentioned, I’ll pass. After all, my life was drained by the 'blessings' of the Whitfield family."

"Your son is accompanying a dying woman while flying to Paris to watch fashion shows and try on wedding dresses with a little starlet. Whoever wants that blessing can have it."

Sarah stood up abruptly, pointing her finger at my nose.

"Lies! Miles did that for work! Lauren is a good girl, unlike you—bitter, toxic, and full of disease!"

"Our family was cursed the day we let you in!"

My smile widened.

I tapped the screen of my phone, which was recording under the table.

Perfect. Keep going.

The nastier, the better.

"Sienna, let me tell you, the moment Miles divorces you, he’s marrying Lauren! She’s young, beautiful, and healthy. Not like you, who can't even bear a child!"

"You better behave. Otherwise, even after you die, we won't let you or your short-lived mother rest in peace!"

She yelled until her throat was dry, then reached for my coffee cup on the table.

I firmly pressed my hand down on the rim of the cup.

"Sarah, I wouldn't drink that if I were you."

She froze. "What do you mean?"

I let out a cold laugh. "I’m afraid my disease might be contagious."

Sarah’s face turned pale instantly. She yanked her hand back.

She pointed at me, her finger trembling.

"You... you psycho!"

With that, she grabbed her Hermès bag and fled.

I stopped the recording, named the file "The Whitfield Family's True Colors," and sent it to my lawyer.

My lawyer replied instantly: "Got it, Ms. Marlowe. Another solid piece of evidence."

My death was near.

But so was my rebirth.