Chapter 1

Five years ago, my uncle's family was cornered, running from loan sharks with nowhere left to go, so I lent them my two storefronts on the downtown shopping street, free of charge, to open a fast-food diner.

For five straight years, rents in that prime location have shot through the roof, and I never asked them for a single dime.

My one condition was that the tiny corner stockroom stayed mine, for my goods, and no one was to touch it.

But today I pushed the door open, and through a sky full of dust, the stockroom's load-bearing wall was gone.

My few hundred pieces of stock were piled outside like trash, and inside sat two mahjong tables.

I took photos and posted them to the family group chat, demanding they stop the work immediately and put everything back.

Karl Matthews replied in a heartbeat: “Is it that serious? That rundown room was just sitting there collecting dust anyway. So what if I borrowed it to make a little money?”

“Fine, from now on I'll cover the tea money for the mahjong tables, put it on my tab.”

The aunt jumped in to smooth things over too:

“All right, all right, why are family drawing lines this sharp?”

“You'll marry off sooner or later, and the title to this place will naturally pass to your cousin anyway. Knocking through early is just for the good of the shop's business. Stop nitpicking everything.”

Staring at that glaring “naturally pass to” on the screen, I let out a cold laugh.

Then I turned around and sent the photos straight to the property management and the city building and safety department:

“Reporting the malicious demolition of a load-bearing wall. The storefronts involved are shut down for rectification, effective today, indefinitely.”

……

Less than ten minutes after I sent the photos, property management called, their tone more serious than I'd ever heard from them.

Half an hour later, the people from the building and safety department showed up too.

They surveyed the scene and, without a word, strung up warning tape right at the diner's door and slapped a seal on it.

“Major safety hazard present. Ordered to cease operations for rectification, restore the original structure, and submit to further investigation.”

The family group chat exploded on the spot.

The aunt's voice messages came firing off one after another, shrill enough to stab straight through the screen.

“Marian Matthews! You black-hearted ingrate! What have we ever done to wrong you?”

“You actually reported us? You're cutting off my whole family's livelihood!”

“Have you got any conscience at all? If we hadn't watched the place for you, it would've gone to ruin ages ago!”

“Now that you've grown your wings, you're kicking the mule the second it's done grinding, is that it?”

I looked at my phone and typed back with no expression on my face.

“The ones who cut off the livelihood are you. When you smashed a load-bearing wall, you should've thought about the consequences.”

“Also, those are my storefronts. Not yours.”

After those two lines, I switched the chat to do-not-disturb.

I'd rushed to the scene not to fight with them, but to save my goods.

Those few hundred pieces of high-end clothing were each worth a small fortune, the headline styles I was launching this month.

But by the time I got there, I was still a step too late.

The open ground outside the storefronts was a wreck.

The clothes that had been neatly covered under a dust sheet were now torn off and thrown everywhere.

Dumped in a puddle of rainwater, some of the expensive silk blouses still had grimy black footprints stamped across them.

Karl was sitting on the front steps, one leg crossed over the other.

He was smoking and chatting with a few thuggish-looking young guys, and through the swirl of smoke his face was all smugness and contempt.

“Well, look who it is. Our big boss has arrived?”

He saw me, stood up with that sneering drawl, and blew a smoke ring my way.

“What, does it hurt? They're just a few crummy clothes. All this drama for that?”

I held down my anger and pointed at the filthy pile of clothes: “Karl, this stock. You're paying for it.”

“Paying?” He acted like he'd heard the joke of the century and burst out laughing.

“Marian, are you even awake? I cleared this garbage out for you, and instead of thanking me you want me to pay?”

One of the little punks behind him chimed in:

“Right, Karl even glancing at your junk is doing you a favor!”

I ignored them, took out my phone, aimed it at the ruined heap of clothes, and started recording.

Karl's face darkened.

“What are you filming? Pull that report now, or I'll make sure you can't sell a single piece anywhere in this city again!”

I didn't stop. The lens moved slowly over every trashed piece, then held on that arrogant face of his.

“Go ahead and try.”

My calm seemed to set him off completely.

Karl lunged over and stamped his foot down on a white silk dress right in front of me.

He ground it in twice, hard, and in an instant the pure white fabric had a filthy shoe print and a wad of yellow phlegm on it.

“I fucking tried it! So what!”

He stared at me, taunting, expecting me to scream, to fall apart.

I just quietly turned the lens on his foot.

And the dress he'd destroyed under it, holding a clean close-up.

That was when the aunt came charging around the street corner, wailing at the top of her lungs.

Her target was clear. Not her son. Me.

“You little slut! Still filming? I'll tear you apart!”

She came at me like a rabid lioness, claws out, going for the phone in my hand.

I'd been ready and stepped back, but I didn't guard against Grandma darting out from behind her.

A sharp crack. My face was knocked to one side, burning and raw with pain.