Chapter 1

My neighbor just had a baby, and her husband died shortly after.

She always had watery, reddish eyes.

She would sit at her doorstep holding her baby, complaining that her pipes were broken and that she was completely soaked.

All the married men in the building would go into her apartment to help her for free.

If any of their wives complained even a little, the men would scowl.

"She lost her husband at such a young age. What's wrong with helping her? Can't you show some compassion?"

With this exact trick, she managed to get three neighboring couples divorced.

Last month, Ethan and I moved in.

On our very first night, she knocked on our door.

Wearing a loose robe, with red, teary eyes, she looked at my husband, looking absolutely pitiful.

"Mr. Vance, the baby won't stop crying, and my breast milk is severely clogged. It hurts so bad... can you please help me look at it?"

Ethan didn't say a word. He just turned to look at me.

I stood up from the couch, picked up my professional lactation massage kit, and walked over with a sweet smile.

"A clogged duct?"

"What a coincidence. I happen to be a certified lactation consultant, and I absolutely love cleaning out 'clogged' trash."

1

I slipped on my slippers, walked right past Ethan, and stood in front of Chloe Sterling.

The motion-sensor light in the hallway was on, clearly illuminating her silk slip nightgown.

The fabric was incredibly thin, and the neckline dipped extremely low. As a draft blew through the hallway, she intentionally shivered, leaning weakly against the doorframe.

"Mrs. Vance, you're still awake too."

She managed to squeeze out a weak smile, but her eyes kept drifting past my shoulder, staring straight at Ethan.

"Actually, I was just about to sleep, but you woke me up."

I shook the lactation kit in my hand, making a crisp clinking sound. "Let's go. Didn't you need help with a clogged duct? Lead the way."

Chloe clearly didn't expect me to step in myself.

She froze, awkwardly crossing her hands over her chest. "Oh, I don't want to trouble you, Mrs. Vance. This kind of thing is pretty awkward, and it might make another woman uncomfortable. Mr. Vance is strong and quick, he can probably get it resolved in no time..."

"You think it's appropriate for a man to massage your breasts?!"

I pushed her apartment door wide open and walked straight inside without hesitation. "It's much better for a woman like me to handle it."

Chloe's apartment layout was identical to ours, but the interior style was completely different.

The living room was filled with a strong, cloying perfume. A few pieces of lace lingerie were scattered on the couch, and two wine glasses sat on the coffee table.

This didn't look like the home of a struggling single mother who just had a baby. It looked like a love motel ready to welcome guests at any moment.

"Where are we doing this?" I turned and asked her.

Chloe dragged her feet as she walked in, pointing toward the bedroom. Her voice was barely a whisper. "It was hurting so badly just now, but I don't know what happened... it feels a bit better now..."

I walked up to her and zipped open my kit.

My professional massage hands went to work immediately.

I prepped the tools for a solid thirty seconds, letting the scent of the essential oil fill the air.

"Mrs. Vance, your hands are too heavy. My son is sleeping in the bedroom."

Chloe covered her chest, took two steps back, a flash of annoyance in her eyes.

"Just being thorough," I said, putting my kit heavily back on the coffee table. I turned to look at her. "Otherwise, if it gets clogged again in the middle of the night, you'll have to go knocking on someone else's door."

Chloe's expression shifted.

She took a deep breath, putting on that tragic, helpless face again. "Mrs. Vance, is there some kind of misunderstanding between us? I really couldn't handle it myself. It's the middle of the night, and I don't have a man to rely on..."

"If you don't have a man, you can hire a cleaning service, call the building manager, or call 911 if it's a real emergency."

I cut her off, my eyes falling on the high-heeled, furry slippers on her feet.

"But Chloe, it's past 11 PM. Knocking on a married neighbor's door in that outfit while holding a baby... that's not a very good habit."

"You—"

Before she could argue, I walked right past her toward the front door.

Halfway there, I stopped, pointing at a pair of size 10 men's leather shoes sitting by her shoe rack.

"You bought the wrong size," I said without turning back. "Ethan wears a size 9. If you've got your eyes on my husband, you should at least get his shoe size right."

The moment I slammed her door shut, I could clearly hear the sharp sound of her high-heeled slippers violently stomping the floor inside.

When I got back home, Ethan was sitting on the couch researching some documents.

Seeing me walk in, he immediately handed me a glass of warm water.

"Handled?" he asked.

"Just a homewrecking bitch trying her luck," I said, taking a sip. "Watch your step when you leave for work. Don't let her get close to you."

Ethan sneered, sliding his tablet over to me. "No need to wait for later. She's already starting her drama right now."

I looked down. It was the neighborhood's Snapchat group.

Just a minute ago, Chloe had posted a message.

02

The message in the Snapchat group was dripping with victimhood.

"Thank you to the new neighbor, Mrs. Vance, for coming over in the middle of the night to help me. Even though her massage was a bit too rough and my chest is still hurting, I'm really grateful. I think Mrs. Vance might have misunderstood me, though. She said some really hurtful things... It's just so hard raising a baby alone. If I wasn't desperate, I would never bother anyone. I'm so sorry for disturbing everyone's rest."

Less than thirty seconds after she posted this, those lurking married men in the neighborhood jumped out like sharks smelling blood.

Apartment 302, Marcus: "Chloe, don't take it to heart. Young people these days are just hot-headed and lack empathy."

Apartment 501, Brad: "Exactly. We're all neighbors. What's wrong with helping out? She's a single mother in pain. How could someone say such nasty things just because she knocked on a door?"

Apartment 604, Kevin: "Chloe, next time you need help, just shout in the group. We'll come over. You don't need to take attitude from certain people."

Looking at this row of "righteous" comments, I was practically laughing from anger.

They were basically calling me cold-hearted to my face.

Ethan grabbed his phone, his fingers flying across the screen, ready to fire back. But I pressed my hand over his.

"Don't waste your breath."

"Arguing in the group chat is exactly what she wants. It'll only make her look more like the 'victim.' Just wait. Tomorrow, I'll make her dig her own grave."

The next day was the weekend.

I got up early, changed into my workout gear, and went downstairs to jog in the community garden.

As I approached the gazebo, I saw Chloe sitting on a bench.

Today, she had changed into a floral sundress, her long hair draped over her shoulders. She was gently dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

A few older women and two middle-aged men were gathered around her, talking heatedly with indignant expressions.

I slowed my pace and walked over.

"Morning, everyone," I greeted them with a smile, sitting down in an empty spot nearby.

The air instantly went dead silent.

The men who had been talking loudly a second ago immediately averted their gaze, pretending to look at the sky and the trees.

Chloe shrunk back slightly, acting terrified. "Morning, Mrs. Vance."

"Morning, Chloe."

I wiped my sweat, keeping my tone casual. "Is your chest feeling any better? I actually double-checked, and the technique I used is completely safe for nursing mothers. If it's still hurting, you might want to see a doctor. It could be mastitis."

Chloe's expression stiffened. "It's fine. It felt much better when I woke up this morning. Thank you for your concern, Mrs. Vance."

"Of course," I nodded, then turned to Marcus from Apartment 302, who had been the loudest critic online. "Marcus, I heard you're always looking out for Chloe. Since she was in so much pain last night, why didn't she knock on your door instead?"

Marcus's wife happened to be walking back from grocery shopping nearby. Hearing this, her face instantly darkened.

Marcus stammered, "I—I was asleep!"

"Oh, I see," I said, pretending to realize something. "By the way, last night, I noticed a pair of size 10 men's shoes in Chloe's entryway. Did you lend them to her, Marcus?"

"Well, it makes sense. A single mother needs a pair of men's shoes by the door to keep intruders away."

The moment I said this, the eyes of several women nearby turned incredibly sharp.

Chloe panicked and stood up abruptly. "Mrs. Vance! Watch your mouth! Those shoes belonged to my late husband. I couldn't bear to throw them away, so I kept them as a keepsake. Is there a problem with that?"

"Of course not." I pulled my phone from my pocket and pulled up a photo.

I had taken it on my way into her apartment last night.

I zoomed in on the photo and thrust it right in front of her face.

"But I heard your husband died in a car accident a year ago? This pair of Ferragamo men's loafers is from their brand-new fall collection released just last month. And they happen to match the women's slippers you're wearing today. Buying both pairs together costs over twelve hundred dollars."

I watched her face turn completely pale as I said, word by word, "Wow, Chloe, you and your late husband must have a love that transcends death. He's been gone for a year, yet you're still buying matching couple's shoes with him?"

03

There was a deathly silence.

Everyone's eyes locked onto my phone screen, and then they all slowly turned to look at Chloe's feet.

Chloe's face went completely white. She tried to hide her feet, but there was nowhere to tuck them.

The identical buckles. Without a doubt, they were matching couple's shoes.

The men who had just been defending Chloe now looked incredibly uncomfortable.

In particular, Brad from Apartment 501 subconsciously tucked his feet backward.

How convenient. Brad happened to wear a size 10.

Brad's wife, Tiffany, who was notorious for her explosive temper, slammed her grocery bag onto the ground. She pointed right at Brad's nose and screamed, "Brad! You took twelve hundred dollars out of our joint account last month and said it was for your mother's medicine! You spent it on shoes for this bitch?!"

"Honey, let me explain! I didn't buy those shoes!" Brad sweated profusely, trying to defend himself.

"If you didn't buy them, why are you hiding your feet? Matching shoes? I didn't know you had such a romantic streak!"

Tiffany didn't give him a second to breathe. She lunged forward and slapped him across the face.

The scene immediately descended into chaos.

Chloe was completely caught off guard by this sudden turn of events.

She tried to grab Tiffany's hand. "Tiffany, please don't misunderstand, it really wasn't Brad..."

"Get away from me! You husband-stealing whore!"

Tiffany shoved her hard.

Chloe fell onto the grass, clutching her ankle. Her eyes welled up, and fat tears started rolling down her cheeks.

Before, this pitiful act would have had men rushing to help her up.

But now, under the murderous glares of their own wives, not a single man dared to move.

I watched the drama unfold coldly, said nothing more, and turned around to continue my jog.

For the next few days, the building was exceptionally quiet.

Chloe didn't post a single thing in the group chat, and the male neighbors went completely silent.

Every night, the sound of breaking plates echoed from Brad's apartment. Marcus's wife simply packed up, took the kids, and went to stay at her parents' house out of state, showing no signs of coming back anytime soon.

But I knew Chloe wouldn't just take this lying down.

A woman like her, who was used to wrapping men around her finger, couldn't stand losing her reputation. What she hated most was losing control of the narrative.

She was waiting for an opportunity. An opportunity to completely flip the script and crush me.

On Wednesday night, Ethan was in the study hosting a video conference, while I was in the living room organizing a PR proposal for a client.

Suddenly, a frantic knocking came from the door, accompanied by the crying voice of Chloe's five-year-old son, Leo.

"Ethan! Open the door! My mommy collapsed! Please help her!"

I walked to the door and looked through the peephole.

In the hallway, Leo was wearing thin pajamas, pounding on our door.

Meanwhile, Chloe was lying on the floor a few feet away near the elevator, her face pale and her eyes tightly closed.

Under normal circumstances, seeing a five-year-old child crying like this would make anyone open the door immediately.

But I didn't budge.

Because I clearly saw that Chloe, who was supposedly unconscious on the floor, was clutching her phone tightly in her right hand—and the screen was still lit.

Moreover, the spot she chose to collapse was highly strategic. It perfectly avoided the blind spot of the hallway's security camera.

Most importantly, although Leo was crying, his eyes kept darting back to Chloe, as if waiting for a cue.

She was putting on a tragic show, and she was using her own kid to do it.

"What's going on out there?" Ethan heard the noise and came out of the study.

I put my index finger to my lips, signaling him to be quiet, and then pointed at the peephole.

Ethan took a look, his brows furrowing instantly.

He pulled out his phone, preparing to call 91