Annika simply couldn't accept it. Her father's deep love for her mother wasn't just a lie—he had actually hated her. Was it possible he’d sought out a woman who resembled her mother just to spite her—to trample on her mother’s memory?
The thought made Annika stumble back in shock.
Delighted by her reaction, Lydia let out a soft, tearful laugh. “Your father… he was such a devoted man. What a pity I’ll never meet anyone like him again.” She spoke with a wistful, almost reverent tone, as if moved by some profound memory.
Then, a sharp slap echoed through the room.
Lydia’s head snapped to the side, and when she slowly turned back, a livid red handprint marred her fair skin. Her eyes widened, a vicious light glinting within them. “You came looking for me out of jealousy, didn't you? Are you jealous for your mother's sake, or for your own? You can’t stand the thought that he betrayed you, betrayed her. Annika, do you want to know what kind of man your sacred, untouchable father really was?”
“Lydia, who the hell do you think you are?” Annika shot back. “You think you’re worthy of my father’s betrayal? Even if anything happened between you, you were just a plaything.”
Lydia’s smile was bitter, yet tinged with triumph. “Have you ever seen a plaything gifted a villa this grand? Or promised a wedding the whole world would talk about? Yes, your father was getting revenge on your ungrateful, promiscuous mother.”
As if that wasn't enough, Lydia’s voice dropped, each word sharpened to a cruel point. “Your mother was already involved with other men before she died. Your father hated her for it.”



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