The Stolen Name, My Fiery Comeback

Gu Chen

Modern | Completed

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The day my husband' s stepsister announced her pregnancy wasn' t the first time my world shattered. It had already been destroyed when his reckless driving killed our daughter, Lily. I was forced to play the perfect, grieving wife, trapped in a deal with his powerful grandfather: one year of silence for my freedom. But then they stole my daughter's name for their newborn son. They named him Lily. It was a sacred name, meant for the child I lost, and they twisted it into a monument of their betrayal. The final insult came when his mistress wore my late mother's blazer to their son's celebration, parading my last precious memory like a prize. They expected me to remain the silent, dignified victim they had created. They thought I was too broken to fight. They were wrong. I walked into that banquet ready to burn their world to the ground, and I started with the clothes on their backs.

Revenge Ex-wife Comeback Revenge Ex-wife

Chapter 11

Today 17:58

Chapter 1

But then they stole my daughter's name for their newborn son.

They named him Lily.

It was a sacred name, meant for the child I lost, and they twisted it into a monument of their betrayal. The final insult came when his mistress wore my late mother's blazer to their son's celebration, parading my last precious memory like a prize.

They expected me to remain the silent, dignified victim they had created. They thought I was too broken to fight.

They were wrong. I walked into that banquet ready to burn their world to the ground, and I started with the clothes on their backs.

Chapter 1

Althea POV:

The day my husband' s stepsister announced her pregnancy wasn' t the first time my world shattered, but it was the one that finally froze the pieces in place.

Ashli stood there, her hands cradling her belly, a smug smirk playing on her lips as she looked directly at me. Hudson, my husband, stood beside her, his face a mask of false concern, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of something that might have been shame. Or maybe it was just indigestion. I couldn' t tell anymore. My vision blurred around the edges, the ornate patterns on the carpet swirling into a dizzying vortex. The air in the room felt thick, heavy, like trying to breathe underwater.

I had always been the type to fight, to scream, to demand answers when my heart was being ripped from my chest. That was the old Althea, the one who still believed in a future, in fairness, in the power of love. But that Althea died in a car crash alongside our daughter, Lily. Now, there was just a hollow shell, emptied of hope, filled only with the echoing silence of grief.

A strange calm settled over me. It was a cold, desolate peace, like the quiet after a storm has taken everything. I simply nodded, a slow, deliberate movement that surprised even myself. I watched Ashli' s triumphant smile falter, replaced by a flicker of confusion. Hudson' s brow furrowed, his weak-willed mind surely scrambling to decode my unexpected composure.

I was supposed to rage. I was supposed to weep. I was supposed to confirm all their nasty predictions about the hysterical wife. But I didn't. Instead, I walked over to Ashli, a polite, almost serene smile on my face. I extended my hand, my voice surprisingly steady. "Congratulations, Ashli," I said, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "Hudson, you must be thrilled."

The silence that followed was deafening, thicker than the expensive velvet curtains adorning the Marks family mansion. The servants hovering in the background exchanged bewildered glances. Ashli, always the manipulator, recovered quickly, grasping my hand with a theatrical squeeze. Her smile returned, wider now, laced with a new kind of victory. "Thank you, Althea," she purred, her eyes shining with malicious glee. "It means so much to have your support."

My public display of unexpected grace sent ripples through our insulated social circle. Suddenly, I was the enigmatic, impossibly strong woman, enduring unimaginable pain with saint-like composure. The tabloids, always hungry for scandal but even more so for a fresh angle, dubbed me "The Unbreakable Althea." They spun narratives of my unwavering devotion, my selfless sacrifice for the Marks family legacy.

It was all a lie, of course. A brutal, humiliating lie.

The paparazzi, like vultures circling carrion, camped outside our gates, snapping photos of me leaving Lily's untouched nursery, my face carefully blank. They caught me attending charity galas, my arm linked with Hudson's, my smile fixed and lifeless for the cameras. Each headline, each glossy photo, was a fresh wound, a testament to the gilded cage I was trapped in. My private torment became public fodder, turning my agony into entertainment.

I became a perverse symbol. Women who had been cheated on, who had endured similar betrayals, sent me messages of misplaced admiration. "You're so strong," they wrote. "I wish I had your courage." They saw a martyr. I saw a pawn. My newfound "fame" felt like a cruel joke, a mockery of everything I had lost.

Ashli, meanwhile, basked in the glow of public sympathy for her "delicate condition," playing the victim to perfection. She' d post saccharine updates about her pregnancy, subtly weaving in tales of my "unwavering support," further cementing her image as the innocent woman caught in a complex love triangle. I was a prop in her twisted narrative, a stepping stone to her desired throne.

The whispers followed me everywhere. At exclusive club lunches, the wives of prominent businessmen would cast pitying glances, their eyes filled with a mixture of disdain and morbid curiosity. They saw me as a woman who had lost everything, including her dignity, clinging to a broken marriage for the sake of wealth. A pariah. A shame.

Nine months passed, each day a slow, agonizing crawl. Ashli' s belly grew, a constant, undeniable monument to Hudson's betrayal and Lily's absence. The day the contractions started, the house buzzed with a nervous energy that felt alien and unwelcome. I sat in the sterile waiting room of the private hospital, the scent of antiseptic burning my nostrils, a chilling sense of detachment washing over me.

Hours later, the double doors swung open. Hudson emerged, a tired but undeniably relieved smile on his face. Ashli, pale but radiant, was wheeled out behind him, a tiny bundle clutched to her chest. He walked straight to me, his hand reaching out, a familiar, empty gesture. He pressed a kiss to my forehead, a performance for the hushed onlookers, for the lurking shadows of the paparazzi, for the illusion of a united family.

"Althea," he murmured, his voice soft, an artificial tenderness coating each syllable. "Thank you. For everything. For your support."

My stomach churned. He pulled me closer, his voice dropping lower, a stage whisper meant to convey intimacy. "The baby is healthy. All because you were so understanding. So strong." His words felt like a physical assault, a brutal twisting of the knife. My strength was the cost of my daughter's life, and now he was thanking me for enabling his new happiness.

He leaned in further, his breath warm against my ear. "Don't worry," he promised, his voice laced with the same old, empty reassurance. "Your position hasn't changed. You're still my wife. My one true love." His hand tightened on mine, a possessive grip that felt like a trap. "I love you, Althea. Only you."

The world saw a woman accepting her fate with grace, securing her future with quiet dignity. They saw a loving wife, forgiving her wayward husband. They saw a woman accepting a new child into her family. They saw everything but the truth.

The truth was, I was trapped. Barrett Gregory, Hudson's grandfather, the ruthless patriarch of the Marks dynasty, had orchestrated it all. After Lily's death, after Hudson's negligence caused the accident, Barrett had presented me with an ultimatum. Stay, act the part, protect the family's public image, and in one year, after the new baby's first birthday, I would be granted a quiet, financially secure divorce. A gilded cage, indeed. And now, the baby was here. The final count had begun.

I closed my eyes, the faint cry of a newborn echoing in the distance. One year. Three hundred and sixty-five days. Then, I would be free.