The court summons and property freezing order arrived almost simultaneously. This meant that before the lawsuit concluded, all joint assets under my and Jack's names—including the apartment that had housed my joy, anger, sorrow, and happiness for three years—were sealed. I had to move out.

I packed all my belongings into just two suitcases. As I looked around the apartment one last time, I felt not a trace of attachment. The once-sweet photos of us on the walls now looked like stills from a satirical play; the carefully selected Hestan kitchenware in the kitchen seemed to mock my naivety of "cooking out of love"; even the succulent plants I had tenderly cared for on the balcony now appeared repulsive.


I left the apartment key on the shoe cabinet in the entryway, taking one last look at the keychain Jack had given me, claiming it was from Tiffany—only later did I discover it was just a discounted item from an outlet. I smiled wryly and shut the door with resolute finality.

Outside the building, two gloating faces awaited me. Jack and Chloe sat waiting in a car, deliberately there to witness my humiliating exit. Chloe even rolled down the window and gave me a feigned sympathetic smile.

"Amy, need any help? It's not easy to get a cab with two big suitcases all by yourself," she said softly, barely able to hide the pleasure in her eyes.


Jack leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, looking at me with a condescending gaze that said it all: See, without me, you're nothing.

I ignored them and took out my phone to call an Uber. When the Toyota Camry stopped in front of me, I could clearly hear the suppressed snickers coming from their car.


The driver was a friendly Mexican man who helped me load my suitcases into the trunk and asked where I was headed.

I gave him an address—an obscure location on the North Shore of Long Island that even most New York locals rarely heard of.

The car drove away from downtown, gradually leaving the city's hustle and bustle behind. I watched the scenery recede outside the window, feeling as if I was engaged in a long farewell—a farewell to the woman called "Emily Jackson," a farewell to those years filled with lies and self-deception.

An hour and a half later, the car stopped before a massive black iron gate carved with intricate patterns. On both sides stretched towering, seemingly endless walls, covered with cameras and sensors. The driver whistled: "Damn, miss, is this... a military base?"

I smiled, paid the fare, then carried my suitcase to an inconspicuous scanner beside the gate. I removed my sunglasses, allowing the camera to scan my iris.

"Identity confirmed. Welcome home, Miss Winston." A cold electronic voice announced, and the heavy gates silently slid open.

I looked back at the stunned driver, waved goodbye, and then dragged my suitcase into this mysterious domain known in outside rumors as "Winston Manor."

After crossing a lawn manicured like a golf course and circling a fountain plaza large enough to land a helicopter, I finally reached the main residence. The butler was already waiting at the door and respectfully took my luggage.

"Miss, the master is waiting for you in the study."

Father's study remained unchanged, the air permeated by a mixture of cigar smoke and old books. The enormous mahogany bookshelf reached all the way to the ceiling, filled with various leather-bound volumes. He stood with his back to me before a huge world map, holding a glass of whiskey.

"You're back?" he asked without turning around, his voice steady and authoritative.

"Yes," I responded.

He turned around, his penetrating gaze falling on me—the kind of look that could see through everything, filled with scrutiny and also a hint of barely noticeable... disappointment.

"Three years ago, you gave up your Wharton Business School offer for a man who had nothing going for him except good looks, and came to New York to be some housewife. I thought you could at least judge character." His tone held no reproach, only the calmness of stating facts.

I lowered my head, my face burning. "I was wrong, Dad."

"Knowing you were wrong doesn't help now." He took a sip of his drink and sat down behind his desk. "This world only cares about results. You lost, Emily, and you lost badly."

My heart sank.

"But," he changed his tone, his gaze becoming sharp, "we Winstons may lose a battle, but we never lose the war. I ask you, what do you plan to do next? Will you take my money and travel the world to heal your wounds, or will you take back everything that should have been yours, and make those who hurt you pay tenfold?"

This question, like a key, instantly unlocked all the suppressed pride and rage in my heart. I raised my head, meeting his gaze, and said clearly and firmly: "I want them to have nothing."

Father's face finally showed a trace of satisfaction. He took out two items from the drawer and pushed them toward me.

One was a completely black card without any markings. I knew this was the family's highest-authority Centurion Black Card, with unlimited credit and never reported lost.

The other was a thick manila envelope.

"This card is your short-term life guarantee," he said, pointing at the card. Then, his finger tapped on the document folder. "And this is your weapon to fight back."

I opened the folder. Inside was a share transfer agreement and a CEO appointment letter. The letterhead bore a name that resonated throughout Wall Street—"Vision Capital."

My breath caught in my throat.

"This company is one I acquired in my early years, specifically for investing in high-tech fields," Father leaned back in his chair, his tone as casual as if discussing the weather. "The team there is excellent, but they lack someone with enough courage and vision to steer the ship. It was originally meant to be your graduation gift, but now it seems it will have to serve as your battlefield."

He looked at me, his eyes filled with unprecedented seriousness: "Go, Emily. Stop using that ridiculous name 'Jackson' and reclaim your real name, Emily Winston. Go show everyone what kind of person Arthur Winston's daughter really is."

One week later, New York.

Bloomberg Financial Channel's midday news was broadcasting a bombshell that had captured the attention of the entire Wall Street.

"...According to our latest information, the mysterious 'Vision Capital' held a press conference this morning to officially announce the appointment of its new CEO. Surprisingly, the new leader is not any of the seasoned investors previously speculated, but rather a 28-year-old woman..."

The scene switches to a press conference. Among countless camera flashes, a familiar yet transformed figure walks to the podium. She wears a sharply tailored Alexander McQueen white suit, her long hair tied in a sleek bun, with flawless makeup and confident, piercing eyes, exuding a powerful aura that commands respect.

In Jack's cheap rented apartment, he sits before the television clutching a cup of instant coffee. When the camera zooms in on the woman's face, his pupils suddenly contract.

On the television, the female financial news anchor continues reporting with an excited and slightly admiring tone: "Yes, viewers, you're not seeing things! This powerhouse who has taken over 'Vision Capital' is none other than the only publicly acknowledged heir of New York business tycoon Arthur Winston—Miss Emily Winston! Her appointment will undoubtedly bring an unprecedented storm to the entire venture capital industry!"

"Emily...Winston?" Jack muttered, his mind going blank.

A "thud" sound.

The coffee cup slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor. The brown liquid spread across the tiles like a pool of irretrievable, dirty blood.