A Flaw Beyond Your League

Six years ago, on the day of my daughter, Quinn Evans's full moon celebration, the little one cried and wet Joan Smith's childhood toy horse and Seward's suit pants. Before I could step forward to wipe it, Joan snatched Quinn away, her eyes full of disgust. "Bast*rd!" she screamed, turning toward the balcony, "It's all your fault for ruining Seward and my love!" My heart stopped suddenly, and I rushed over, gripping her arm tightly: "Joan, she is our daughter!" "I don't have a daughter like that!" she struggled, tears mixed with hatred streaming down, "If you hadn't used this child to trap me, how would I have been forced to marry you, a mere driver?" I was stunned, blood rushing to my head instantly. What I thought was deep, enduring love was, in her eyes, nothing but a cruel scheme. She kept crying out, saying I ruined her life, saying Seward was truly her true love. Looking at her twisted face, the last spark of warmth in my heart died out completely. I abruptly grabbed Quinn and stepped back to the edge of the balcony. "If you hate us father and daughter that much, then we'll just disappear." Holding Quinn in my arms, I leapt off. People were already waiting downstairs to catch us; this "jump" was just a desperate ploy I devised to break free from the Smith family. Six years later, inside the city stadium, the ballet competition finals were in full swing. Under the spotlight, Quinn wore a white tutu, twirling and leaping like a little swan. When the music ended and the judges gave a perfect score, I couldn't help but tear up. Quinn bowed to the audience, her face glowing with a confident smile. During the award ceremony, the chief judge stood up and took the trophy. When I caught sight of her face, my fingertips clenched tightly. It was Joan Smith. Over these six years, she seemed to have done well—dressed in a tailored suit, makeup flawless, no longer the impulsive young girl she once was. Joan's gaze landed on Quinn's face, first puzzled, then her pupils suddenly contracted. Her hand holding the trophy trembled slightly, her voice barely trembling: "What's your name?" Quinn lifted her head, her voice clear and crisp: "My name is Quinn Evans." "Who is your father?" Joan pressed, her breathing growing rapid. "My dad's name is Cyrus Evans." Quinn answered without hesitation, glancing briefly in my direction. Joan looked as if struck by lightning, abruptly stepping back; the trophy crashed to the ground with a harsh sound. "Bast*rd! You are that bast*rd!" she screamed, losing control, pointing at Quinn. "How are you still alive?" The entire room fell into an uproar, camera shutters clicking non-stop. Quinn was so frightened that her face went pale, and her eyes reddened in an instant. I quickly stepped onto the stage, shielding Quinn behind me. "Ms. Smith, watch your words." Joan's pupils dilated once more at the sight of me, too shocked to speak. A familiar voice came from beside the judges' table, laced with heavy sarcasm. "Cyrus? You're actually still alive." Seward came over and slung an arm around Joan's shoulder. "That old pity act you put on back then was pretty convincing. Now you're back with your daughter, just looking to snatch the Smith family fortune, huh?"