So this was it... She had meticulously orchestrated a near-flawless scheme.
Three years ago, my husband and she had kindled an illicit affair, which soon culminated in him filing for divorce. Little did I know, this was merely the prelude to an intricate and sinister conspiracy.
My husband and I had once been colleagues, and during his tenure, he stumbled upon a loophole in the company's system—one that could be exploited to generate vast sums of money from the accounts of the deceased.
Initially tempted, he had entertained the thought. After all, it wasn't particularly challenging to siphon off millions through this method. Yet, weighed down by the potential consequences—prison and a ruined life—he ultimately abandoned the idea.
But fate, it seemed, had other plans. During one of their secret rendezvous in a hotel, he casually mentioned the loophole to her, never anticipating the fire it would ignite in her mind.
"Why dirty our hands?" she had said, her tone light but her intent sharp. "Isn't there a ready-made 'tool' we can use?"
And with that single remark, a diabolical plan was born.
Shortly afterward, my husband filed for divorce, initiating a grueling legal battle that dragged on for months. Desperate to secure custody of my daughter, I eventually conceded everything and left the marriage with nothing but the clothes on my back.
Post-divorce life was a relentless struggle. Destitute and broken, I found myself crammed into a dingy, windowless apartment, working myself to the bone just to give my daughter a semblance of stability. The need to escape this crushing reality—to earn money at any cost—consumed me, growing into an uncontrollable obsession.
And it was then, at my weakest, that Qin Yao made her calculated entrance.
She infiltrated my workplace, skillfully weaving her way into my life, subtly stoking the embers of my desperation for wealth. Slowly, she began to share whispers of the forbidden—the method to exploit the loophole and make money from the dead.
Through her, my path to ruin was set. She and my husband stayed safely in the shadows, their hands unsullied. If the scheme were ever exposed, there would be no evidence to implicate her. Who would suspect her? And how could anyone prove her involvement in this intricate web?
To them, I was nothing more than a temporary keeper of their fortune. When I had amassed enough, the time would come for them to reap their harvest.
Their plan culminated here—luring me to this desolate place to ensure my demise, erasing any loose ends. With my death, the digital currency passwords would fall into their hands, and they could drain every last penny.
Even if the company eventually uncovered the fraud and reported it, who would link it back to them? I, a "dead woman," would bear all the blame, while they would live unscathed, reveling in luxury.
They could even feign heartbreak for the cameras, hypocritically urging me—this absent scapegoat—to return and face justice.
"At the end of the day," she said, her voice icy and devoid of pity, "you were nothing more than a tree we cultivated to bear golden fruit. And now, it's harvest time."
Her words struck with precision, each one meticulously chosen to showcase the perfection of her plan. All that remained was for me and my daughter to perish, paving the way for their untainted triumph.
As she spoke, her laughter bubbled up—a sound as sharp as shattered glass, cutting through the darkness.