I felt dazed.
Ever since elementary school, I was bullied for being the mistress's kid. Kimberly always defended me: “The adults are at fault, not Lee Yung!”
After graduation, she insisted I work at her family's company: “What if you get bullied where I can't see?”

But in the end, the worst humiliation came from her.
For revenge, I lived five years of hell. This was just the beginning.
The past hatred made me rougher. When I finally stopped, the once-proud Miss Kimberly looked like a broken doll. Her tears fell silently onto the pillow, her gaze empty and fixed on the ceiling. Her body was covered in marks.
She mumbled, “Hubby… I'm sorry…”
“Hubby, please forgive me.”
Seeing her face, I found it hilarious.

I asked curiously, “What do you think your dear husband would do if he knew?”
“Call the police? Have me arrested?”
“Have his bodyguards beat me half to death?”
“Or think you're disgusting… divorce you?”

Hearing “divorce,” panic filled her face. She didn't even cover herself, just knelt down: “Don't tell him! I beg you! I'll do anything!”
The next day, Kimberly brought me to her marital home.
She forced a smile: “This is my friend. Her place flooded—she'll stay with us for a few days.”
Her husband, Brandon, eyed me up: “Any friend of yours is welcome. Stay as long as you like.”
So he was the one Kimberly liked back then.
I smiled wider.
My mom was gorgeous—so pretty that my biological father, William, almost left his wife for her. Too bad she had a freak like me.
William couldn't handle it, found new women, but never fully cut ties.
I inherited 70% of my mom's looks—seductive, captivating.
But my features also had a masculine sharpness.
This ambiguous beauty drove Brandon—already a playboy—crazy at first sight.
Seeing Brandon's undisguised desire, Kimberly clenched her fists until her knuckles turned white.
All day, she was on edge. Whether during meals, watching TV, or making conversation, her wary eyes never left me.
Only when I went to my room did she relax.
So naive.
Brandon, who drugged her on their wedding night, was no good husband.
Sure enough, that night he knocked on my door: “You said the Paramount Hotel is yours? The Harrison Group has tourism interests too. Perhaps we could discuss a collaboration??”
I glanced at his bathrobe—not exactly business attire.
I smirked and let him in.
It was an unspoken invitation.
The moment the door closed, Brandon rushed to kiss me. I stopped him: “Not so fast—I haven't showered.”
His eyes lit up. He pulled me toward the bathroom: “Let me help you.”
The shower turned on, water soaking my clothes.
Brandon kissed me while undressing. When my dress dropped, his eyes locked on my body.
He stammered, shocked: “You…”
I laughed lightly: “Scared? Disgusted? Or… turned on?”
Brandon didn't answer, just reached out trembling, fumbling to remove my last piece of clothing.
Seeing his excited, reddened eyes, I smiled: “Seems you like it.”
The taboo of the situation, combined with the uniqueness of my body, shattered his last shred of control. He barely remembered to turn off the shower before his explorations grew more urgent, pulling me from the bathroom and onto the bed.
Soon, the room echoed with two equally frantic breaths.
Later, lying in bed catching my breath, Brandon couldn't keep his hands off me.
He licked his lips, hinting: “Would you... would you like to??”
I looked at him playfully.
Brandon was tall, well-built from obvious regular training, with defined abs and the V-line muscles that spoke of male vanity.
I always thought he'd be the dominant type, but…
This was getting interesting.
“Sure.”
I climbed on top, but not how he expected.
I pretended not to see the hunger and disappointment in his eyes. But as I took control, my hands drifted, with deliberate casualness, to trace the lines of his back, lower and lower.
Seeing him completely under my spell, I whispered: “Don't give Kim the milk tomorrow night.”
I wanted revenge on Kimberly. If she didn't know, what was the point?
Brandon struggled internally.