The Dead Bride's Counterattack

When the medical diagnosis certificate came into my hands, the sharp corners of the paper pricked painfully at my fingertips. "Nancy Shaw, bilateral sensorineural deafness, irreversible." The doctor's voice was muffled, yet I could clearly make out the the word 'irreversible.' Clutching the diagnosis certificate, I stepped out of the hospital; the sunlight was so blinding it forced me to squint. My phone in my pocket vibrated; it was a message from Bruce Quinn's assistant: "Mr. Quinn has instructed that next week's foundation fund allocation is arranged, and Ms. Shaw needs to sign the confirmation documents." I took a deep breath, folded the medical diagnosis certificate, and slipped it into my bag. Without Bruce Quinn's foundation, any chance of continuing treatment would be impossible. Deafness is now an irreversible fate; I cannot afford to lose the opportunity to survive. Returning to that villa called "Home," which in truth felt more like a prison, I noticed a pair of delicate high heels by the entrance. My movement to change shoes faltered for a moment before I quickly regained my composure. Laughter and conversation came from the living room, with Bruce Quinn's voice carrying a tenderness I had never heard before. "Lydia, do you like the decor here? You can come anytime you wish." "Mr. Quinn is joking; after all, this is Ms. Shaw's residence. Would it be inappropriate for me to come?" The woman's voice was coquettish, laced with deliberate provocation. I approached the living room doorway and saw Bruce Quinn holding a woman in a red slip dress in his arms. She was Lydia Lynn, a rising star currently basking in the limelight. When Bruce Quinn noticed me, the warmth in his expression disappeared instantly, replaced by his habitual coldness. "You're back." His tone was flat, as if I were an insignificant passerby. "Hmm." I responded quietly, my gaze briefly flickering over Lydia Lynn before resting on Bruce Quinn. "Shall I prepare dinner?" Lydia Lynn's eyes widened in surprise, as if she had not expected such a reaction from me. "Ms. Shaw is quite magnanimous." She linked her arm with Bruce Quinn's, looking at me with a provocative gaze, "But there's no need to trouble yourself; Mr. Quinn and I have already eaten." Bruce Quinn nodded, "Go prepare some sobering soup—Lydia has had a bit to drink." "Alright." I turned and walked toward the kitchen, ignoring the contemptuous look Lydia Lynn cast over my shoulder. The old me would never have tolerated him bringing another woman home. But now, I am no longer qualified. My life is tightly clenched in his hands. The kitchen light was stark and pale; I deftly rinsed the rice, added water, ginger slices, and red dates. The water in the pot gradually came to a boil, the rising steam blurring my vision. "Ms. Shaw, with your deafness, can you not even hear the footsteps of others?" Lydia Lynn's voice suddenly came from the doorway. I turned off the heat, ladled out the restorative soup, and remained silent. "Mr. Quinn is only pitying you, which is why he supports you with the Foundation's funds." She walked up to me and deliberately bumped into me. "Look at you—deaf and useless. What's the point of keeping you around?" I held the bowl of soup and tried to slip past her to leave the kitchen. Just as I reached the door, Bruce Quinn grabbed my wrist. "Lydia spoke to you. Didn't you hear?" His gaze was icy, his tone thick with impatience. "I heard it." My voice was hoarse. "If you heard it, why didn't you respond?" Bruce Quinn's grip was tight, pinching my wrist until it hurt. "I don't think it's necessary." I whispered. "Not necessary?" Bruce Quinn sneered coldly, then raised his hand and knocked over the bowl of soup I was holding. The scalding soup spilled onto my hand and the floor, sending sharp stabs of pain. "Mr. Quinn!" Lydia Lynn cried out, feigning concern as she tugged on Bruce Quinn's arm, "Don't be angry; Ms. Shaw probably didn't hear clearly." "Go back to your room." Bruce Quinn released my wrist, his tone brooking no argument. I looked at the mess on the floor, then at the reddened skin on the back of my hand, before silently turning and walking upstairs to the room. The moment the door closed behind me, I leaned against it, tears finally escaping down my cheeks. This is the path I chose: to endure and submit, just to survive.