Chapter 134
Why does this webpage's layout and color scheme look so familiar?
I walked over as if possessed, and gently touched the mouse.
The sleeping screen immediately lit up, clearly displaying the webpage content.
Was I seeing things?
It was actually a company website prototype I had secretly designed and built in my spare time when I worked in the Smith Group's marketing department.
Back then, the Smith Group's website was still an outdated version from many years ago, with terrible user experience.
Out of interest and self-taught skills, I created a brand new website that better matched modern aesthetics and interaction logic, including responsive design, a backend management framework, and some basic animation effects.
I excitedly showed it to my supervisor at the time. The supervisor thought it was pretty good, but after it was reported up the chain and finally reached George, it was directly rejected. The official reason was, "The style doesn't match the group's positioning, the technical architecture isn't mature enough, not considering it for now."
I knew the deeper reason was that in George's eyes, what I made was probably like a child's toy from playing house—completely unpresentable and not worth investing any resources in.
He'd rather spend big money hiring top design companies from outside than use something made by his wife.
Later, as my situation at the Smith Group became increasingly difficult, I forgot about this half-finished website, and the source code got lost somewhere.
I never expected that today, here on George's private computer, I would see it again.
Why was he keeping this useless thing that he had rejected?
I frowned, a strange feeling passing through my mind, but I quickly let it go.
Probably he accidentally found it while cleaning old files sometime.
Or maybe he kept it purely as a failed case study, occasionally taking it out to admire and remind himself how wise his decision not to adopt it was.
Either way, it had nothing to do with me anymore.
I looked away from the webpage that pricked at my heart.
Picking up the gift box with the dress, I turned off the closet light, gently closed the door, and left this space that made me feel uncomfortable all over.
Holding the recovered dress, I walked briskly back to the hallway where the guest room was.
Passing by Jack's room, I heard faint, intermittent crying from inside.
My steps paused slightly.
He probably woke up scared from a nightmare.
This thought flashed through my mind, but my steps didn't stop.
I didn't want to deal with it.
I remembered clearly this child's malice toward me and his bullying of Milly.
Let him cry—what did it have to do with me?
I continued walking forward.
But the crying didn't stop. Instead, it became clearer and more pitiful, like a small beast trapped in a snare, particularly piercing in the silent night.
I frowned, feeling somewhat irritated.
What if this commotion woke up Milly?
I still didn't want to get involved. I told myself he'd naturally fall asleep when tired of crying—all kids are like this.
But the helplessness and fear in that crying was like a tiny thorn, lightly pricking my already hardened heart.
I remembered a similar night in my previous life.
Jack had some nightmare and was crying loudly in his room.
I was cleaning up in the living room at the time. Hearing the crying, I felt both distressed and anxious, and immediately ran over to open the door.
Under the lights, he was sitting on the bed just like this, eyes full of tears. As soon as he saw me, he pouted and called out tearfully, "Mommy... Mommy, I'm scared..."
Back then, my heart melted instantly. I forgot all my grievances and just felt sorry for the child.
I immediately rushed over, held him tightly in my arms, coaxed him gently, patted his back, wiped his tears, hummed songs to him, and told him over and over that Mommy was here, don't be afraid.
That night, I barely slept, just holding him like that until he fell deeply asleep again.
The next day, I caught a high fever from the cold and exhaustion, and was sick for several days.
And Jack?
When he woke up, he probably only remembered having a scary dream. He completely forgot that I had held and comforted him all night, and still ordered me around as before, still full of hostility toward Milly.
In my previous life, I gave my genuine heart and got nothing but taken-for-granted neglect and escalating harm in return.
In this life, I absolutely cannot repeat the same mistake.
I stood outside Jack's door, my hand on the doorknob, struggling intensely inside.
Reason told me not to care, to leave quickly.
But perhaps the crying was really too disturbing for me to leave in peace.
In the end, I still gently turned the doorknob and switched on the overhead light.
The sudden brightness made the small curled-up figure on the bed shudder violently.
Jack was startled awake. He slowly opened his eyes, tears still hanging on his lashes, his small face covered with undried tear tracks.
He looked toward the door in confusion. Seeing it was me, his big eyes so similar to George's instantly welled up with more tears, mixed with dependence, grievance, and a trace of fear.
He sniffled and called out unexpectedly obediently and softly, "Mommy..."
This call was so similar to that night in my previous life.
My heart suddenly ached, and I almost involuntarily walked over to hold him in my arms like in my previous life.
That foolish Grace from my previous life, who never learned her lesson, seemed about to take over again.
I stood in place, my fingers tightening slightly, restraining that inappropriate impulse.
However, just as I was struggling internally, hesitating whether to comfort him a little, Jack on the bed suddenly raised his small hand, pointing straight at me.
The dependence and grievance on his face instantly disappeared, replaced by a familiar satisfaction mixed with resentment and revenge.
Looking at me, he said in a clear voice full of malice, word by word, "My mommy said it's you—you're the one who made it so my daddy and mommy can't be together."
"You're the bad woman who stole my mommy's place. You deserve to be hated by Daddy."
"You and your little bastard daughter should both get out of our house."
"Bad woman! It's all because of you! It's because you won't leave that my mommy can't come back!"
Jack's shrill voice, like poisoned needles, viciously pierced my heart.
My outstretched hand froze in mid-air, then slowly withdrew.
No anger, no sadness, not even disappointment—just a cold mockery rising from the deepest part of my heart, forming an extremely faint, extremely cold curve at the corner of my lips.
So that's how it is.
In my previous life that night, I was seriously ill with a high fever, dizzy and confused, when I heard Jack crying for mommy again.
I was so feverish and disoriented, struggling to get up to check on him, only to see him being held by Sarah, nestled intimately in Sarah's arms, calling her mommy.
I thought I was delirious from the fever, hallucinating, or dreaming.
The intense dizziness and shock made everything go black, and I completely passed out.
Now, looking at Jack's small face full of malice before me, that scene from my previous life that I had overlooked became instantly clear and real.
So even back then, Jack had already decided that Sarah was his mommy.
How chilling.
Sarah not only stole my husband and destroyed my marriage, but had already, long ago, gotten her son to call her mommy.
And George knew all of this, acquiesced to it, even indulged it.
Looking at this thoroughly corrupted Jack before me, the last trace of maternal love in my heart completely vanished, leaving only thorough indifference and detachment.
I looked at him, my voice calm and flat, "If you don't want to sleep right now, I can have you stand in the hallway outside for a few hours. When you've cleared your head, you can come back to sleep."
Jack was frightened by the cold threat in my words.
He seemed not to have expected this reaction from me—neither defending myself nor feeling sad, but directly giving him a punishment option.
He instinctively shrank back, wrapping himself tightly in the blanket, only showing a pair of eyes full of fear and defiance glaring at me.