Volume One, Chapter 8: Three Times a Day, Three Times for Life

Lin Zhaohua’s eyes instantly widened. She wanted to say something to defend herself, but Jiang Yihuan’s grip only tightened, silencing her completely.

She struggled fiercely, trying to pry Jiang Yihuan’s hands away, her face flushed deep red, veins bulging on her forehead.

Shen Wuyang, initially confused, saw Jiang Yihuan hurting her mother and rushed forward, forcefully pushing Jiang Yihuan away. “Jiang Yihuan, have you lost your mind?”

Jiang Yihuan stumbled back a few steps, swaying slightly before steadying herself. Then, a sudden laugh erupted—unnatural and eerie, more like the wail of a vengeful ghost from the depths of hell, dripping with boundless hatred and madness.

Everyone in the room turned pale from the chilling sound; the servants instinctively began to back away.

Lin Zhaohua, at the center of it all, looked the worst. Clutching her chest, gasping for breath, her whole body started to chill.

She never imagined Jiang Yihuan knew so much.

How on earth did she find out?

But so what if she knew after a phone call? The person was already dead.

Besides, she left no evidence behind; even if Jiang Yihuan reported it, it would be useless.

Straightening her posture, Lin Zhaohua resumed her composed, aristocratic demeanor. “Yihuan, I know you miss your mother, but you can’t just slander people. Your mother suffered from depression and committed suicide. The police have records of it, and your father and I only got together after she passed away.”

Jiang Yihuan slowly lifted her head, wild strands of hair framing her face, madness mingling with a strange, bewitching beauty.

She tucked a lock behind her ear and spoke evenly, “Yes, you and Shen Qiming married less than a hundred days after my mother’s death, and you even brought in a stepdaughter with 99% DNA compatibility to Shen Qiming…”

“Oh—” Jiang Yihuan suddenly covered her mouth, eyes wide with feigned alarm. “Did I say something wrong?”

She turned her gaze to Shen Wuyang, eyes gleaming with a twisted joy. “This Shen family’s eldest daughter, my nominal sister, is actually Shen Qiming’s biological child.”

Shen Wuyang’s face darkened, teeth clenched as she glared at Jiang Yihuan.

The servants nearby were stunned by this revelation, mouths agape, retreating to the kitchen to whisper among themselves.

“The eldest miss is actually the master’s biological daughter?”

“Impossible. When the master revealed her identity at her coming-of-age ceremony, he said she was the stepdaughter.”

“Right, and when the eldest miss changed her surname to Shen, everyone in Rongcheng praised the master for treating his stepdaughter like his own. So she must be his biological daughter after all.”

“But the eldest miss is a year older than the second miss. How does that add up?”

“Simple—an affair during the marriage.”

“Now that you mention it, the eldest miss does resemble the master, especially her nose and eyes.”

“And the second miss said the original wife was forced to death by Mrs. Shen. Is that true?”

“Seems very likely. My goodness, what a tangled web this circle is.”

“We can’t be silenced, right?”

Lin Zhaohua’s expression didn’t waver. Even if there was infidelity, what could it change? Now, Jiang Sheng answered to Shen Qiming.

She was the legitimate chairman’s wife.

Jiang Yihuan was just a defenseless girl—no money, no power. No matter how much she hated her, what trouble could she stir up?

“Yihuan, maybe you’re jet-lagged and not feeling well. Why don’t you head back and rest? I’ll arrange a driver for you.”

Lin Zhaohua prepared to make a call.

But Jiang Yihuan stepped gracefully in front of her again, locking eyes and letting her gaze roam over Lin Zhaohua’s face with malicious delight.

Her smile curved higher, filled with venom. “I am leaving, but before I go, I have a question for you.”

Lin Zhaohua smiled politely. “Go ahead.”

“Where did you get your cosmetic surgery? There’s not a single scar on your face—truly miraculous.”

Lin Zhaohua’s expression darkened instantly, the elegant facade of the noblewoman crumbling.

Jiang Yihuan had been exiled abroad because, at twelve years old, she had slashed Lin Zhaohua’s face three times with a fruit knife, each cut as deep as a ravine.

She had undergone five years of rehabilitation and then traveled overseas for advanced treatment to fully repair her face.

But the material used had side effects: every three months it would ulcerate painfully, requiring re-treatment.

Lin Zhaohua dropped the pretense, revealing her true, malicious nature.

Her gaze fixed fiercely on Jiang Yihuan, a venomous warning like a poisonous serpent in a tropical jungle. “So you really came back to this country with the intention of seeking revenge on that wretched woman?”

A sharp “smack” echoed through the room, silencing the air.

Lin Zhaohua’s head was struck to one side, her once-neatly pinned hair undone, a clear handprint appearing on her cheek.

The servants gasped, covering their mouths, uncertain whether to intervene.

Lin Zhaohua stared at Jiang Yihuan in disbelief. “You dare hit me?”

Jiang Yihuan shrugged nonchalantly. “I already did. What did you think—would I not dare?”

Lin Zhaohua’s eyes burned with fury as she reached out to slap Jiang Yihuan back.

Jiang Yihuan tilted her head, dodging effortlessly, then grabbed Lin Zhaohua’s shoulder, forcefully pushing her down.

Lin Zhaohua’s knees buckled, and with a thud, she fell to the floor.

Jiang Yihuan leaned in close, their faces nearly touching, breaths mingling in the tense space.

A cruel smile curled at Jiang Yihuan’s lips. “Lin Zhaohua, listen carefully. Once a mistress, always a mistress.”

“In front of me, don’t you dare hold your head high and speak again. If you ever insult my mother again, I will make you regret ever living in this world. Understand?”

Her voice was icy to the extreme, her eyes dark and forbidding like cursed spider webs entwined around ancient, desolate bones, penetrating Lin Zhaohua’s very soul.

Lin Zhaohua’s lips trembled; she wanted to protest but was utterly silenced by Jiang Yihuan’s overwhelming presence.

She had originally encouraged Shen Qiming to bring Jiang Yihuan back for marriage, knowing the true nature of Cheng Wang behind the scenes.

She thought Jiang Yihuan wouldn’t survive long married to Cheng Wang.

But she never expected Jiang Yihuan was no longer the pushover she'd once been ten years ago.

This time Jiang Yihuan came back determined to make them all suffer; absolutely, she must find a way to get rid of her.

Lin Zhaohua hid her malice beneath a mask of obedience and knelt humbly, drawing a deep breath and forcing a gentle smile. “Alright, I understand.”

Jiang Yihuan saw through Lin Zhaohua’s scheme and decided to play along.

She stood upright and lightly patted the nonexistent dust off Lin Zhaohua’s shoulder. “Good that you understand.”

Lin Zhaohua rose, steadying herself on the tea table, tidying her disheveled hair, smiling gracefully. “Should I send the driver for you?”

“No need.” Jiang Yihuan picked up her suitcase and walked out.

The servants watching in confusion couldn’t comprehend how the two, moments ago at odds, had suddenly come to a truce.

What they didn’t realize was that beneath this calm surface, dark currents churned.

Like two warships facing off on a tranquil sea—calm on the surface but with cannons silently aimed, waiting for the perfect moment to strike a fatal blow.

Lin Zhaohua’s endurance didn’t mean Shen Wuyang shared her patience.

She could not accept that someone who insulted her and her mother could walk out of the Shen household so arrogantly.

She grabbed the ashtray from the table and lunged at Jiang Yihuan.

“Stop, Wuyang—” Lin Zhaohua shouted, trying to reach out but missing.

Shen Wuyang rushed behind Jiang Yihuan, raising the crystal ashtray high, her heart filled with rage and resentment, ready to strike Jiang Yihuan on the back of the head.