After leaving Ethan's house, I went to the hospital to get my injuries examined.
I was determined to seek justice for my mother's death.
By the time I left the hospital, daylight had broken.
I called the butler, asking him to pack up my mother's belongings and send them to me.
I then consulted a lawyer, who told me the chances of winning this case were slim.
Ethan, Mia, and Tom weren't ordinary people. Their family connections spanned various fields, and they had the best legal team. Suing them was futile.
Moreover, this was essentially an accident – no one intended for anyone to die. At most, it would be ruled a workplace injury with some monetary compensation, which they could easily afford.
I refused to accept this.
After graduation, I became a journalist at a newspaper.
Last year, I reported on a cooking oil safety scandal' that gained widespread attention, and I had built up a following on my personal account.
I wrote an article, tearfully denouncing their crimes.
On the day of my mother's accident, I had already copied the surveillance footage from the villa.
I watched it over and over, my heart aching so much I could barely write. When I finished, my face was streaked with tears.
Within an hour of posting, it had over 10, 000 views.
Public opinion was my last chance.
But in less than half a day, the post mysteriously disappeared. I stubbornly reposted it, only for it to be deleted again in three minutes.
When I tried to log in again, it showed my account password was incorrect.
I tried countless methods, but couldn't regain access to my account.
I knew someone must be pulling strings behind the scenes. It wasn't hard to guess who.
Just then, my phone rang. It was Ethan.