Chapter 240
"It's not about the price..." the agent hedged. "It's like this—as soon as we put the listing out, someone came to inquire, but somehow word got out that your property isn't quite... clean."
"Not clean? What do you mean? I just finished renovating not long ago, all the furniture is new."
"Not that kind of clean..." the agent's voice dropped lower, awkward. "They're saying someone died in that house, that it's cursed. The rumor spread really fast, and now basically no clients dare to ask about it."
"Ms. Brown, do you think you've offended someone? This is clearly someone deliberately sabotaging you."
My fingers gripped the phone tighter, my fingertips ice cold.
Someone died?
Cursed?
That property was a birthday gift from George—a newly renovated apartment. From getting the keys to moving in after renovation, I oversaw everything personally. Not even a cockroach died there, where would a dead person come from?
Someone was spreading lies.
Deliberately spreading this kind of vicious rumor that's hard to disprove, with the sole purpose of making sure this property stayed stuck on my hands, unsellable.
Seeing my silence, the agent continued, "Several clients who came to view the property all heard this story. One even went to ask the property management specifically. Of course they said it wasn't true, but when enough people talk about it, everyone starts to worry."
I could already guess who was behind these malicious rumors.
Just yesterday I decided to sell the house to raise money, and today this happens.
The timing so precise, the tactics so dirty—besides that woman determined to grind me into the dirt, who else could it be?
George might not stoop to such tricks, but what about his followers?
Terry with that mouth of hers, never missing a chance to spread rumors.
Sarah hiding in the shadows, fanning the flames.
They wanted to make sure I couldn't move an inch in this circle, to turn every bit of divorce settlement I got into a hot potato.
My chest felt like it was stuffed with ice-soaked cotton—cold and suffocating, leaving me barely able to breathe.
These people really didn't want to leave me any way out.
I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again, only coldness remained.
"I understand. Let's hold off on selling the house. Thank you for your trouble."
I hung up, and before I could suppress this anger, my phone rang urgently again.
The caller ID showed the Principal's number.
My heart sank with a bad feeling.
Milly was usually well-behaved, the Principal rarely contacted me directly.
My heart jumped as I answered immediately.
"Principal?"
"Ms. Brown, could you come to the kindergarten now?" The Principal's voice was somewhat stern. "Milly and Jack had a rather serious conflict. Milly hit Jack, and you need to come handle this."
Milly hit Jack?
My first reaction was that it was impossible.
Though Milly's personality wasn't as soft as mine was as a child, she definitely wasn't the type to start trouble or hit people.
Jack, on the other hand, was spoiled rotten, and used to deliberately grab Milly's toys and push her around.
"Principal, is Milly hurt?" I grabbed my coat and bag, heading out while asking urgently.
There was a pause on the other end, as if they hadn't expected me to ask about Milly first.
"Milly has some scratches on her hand, otherwise she's fine. It's mainly Jack—he has marks on his face, his clothes are torn, and he's crying quite hard."
Hearing Milly was hurt, my heart clenched painfully.
But hearing she was otherwise okay, my worry strangely settled somewhat, even giving rise to an indescribable coldness.
"Good that nothing serious happened." My voice turned cold. "I'll be right there."
After hanging up, I grabbed my bag and rushed out.
Emily called after me, "What's going on?"
"Kindergarten!" I didn't look back.
Driving to the kindergarten, my mind was in chaos.
Milly couldn't have started a fight. She'd been good since childhood, the type who wouldn't fight back even when bullied.
In my past life, she suffered so much mistreatment in the Smith family, always just hiding to cry alone, never hitting anyone.
How could she possibly hit Jack?
But the Principal said Jack was the one hurt.
Something suddenly occurred to me, stirring up feelings I couldn't quite describe.
Either way, as long as Milly wasn't hurt.
At the kindergarten, I practically ran into the Principal's office.
The first thing I saw was Milly.
She stood in the corner, her small body tense, like a frightened little beast trying to stay calm.
On the back of her left hand was an obvious red mark, skin broken, seeping tiny drops of blood.
The pretty pigtails I'd done for her that morning had come loose in places, her smooth hair somewhat disheveled.
One sleeve of her pink jacket was pulled with threads showing, and there was dust on it.
Jack, meanwhile, was being held by a teacher, sitting in a chair nearby.
On his delicate cheek was a thin scratch mark, already scabbed over lightly. His designer jacket was dirty in one spot, his face streaked with tears, eyes red, still sniffling.
Both children looked up almost simultaneously when I entered.
Milly's eyes lit up instantly, but quickly misted over. Her lips trembled, wanting to cry but holding back.
Jack also looked at me, those eyes so similar to George's filled with hope and dependence. His mouth moved, silently calling "Mommy."
Then realizing something, his gaze quickly dimmed, turning into deep disappointment and hurt.
My steps didn't pause for a moment as I walked straight toward Milly in the corner.
Crouching down, I reached out my hand. Without asking what happened first, I gently pulled her into my arms.
Her small body stiffened in my embrace for a moment, then softened, trembling slightly.
Her little hand clutched tightly at my clothes, burying her face in my neck as she cried out in a muffled, tearful voice, "Mommy."
I knew Milly was scared.
Scared I would blame her for fighting, scared I would make her apologize without asking questions.
I tightened my arms, gently patting her back, lowering my head to kiss her soft hair, then lifting her little face to place a gentle kiss on her forehead.
Her body was tensed for a moment, then relaxed, her small face burying into my shoulder as she whispered in a trembling voice, "Mommy."
Her voice was trembling.
"Mommy's not blaming you," I said softly, my tone gentle. "Let Mommy look at your hand first."
I released Milly and cupped her small hand, carefully examining the red marks.
Fortunately they were just scrapes, not serious, but still heartbreaking to see.
I looked up at the Principal and teacher with their complicated expressions, my tone calm, "Please get me the first aid kit, I need to disinfect Milly's wounds first."
As I spoke, I half-held Milly, letting her sit on my lap, taking the iodine swabs and band-aids the teacher handed me.
I lowered my head, carefully cleaning the scratches on the back of her hand, my movements gentle.
Milly flinched from the pain but didn't cry, just stared at me with wide eyes, unblinking.
"If it hurts, you can tell Mommy," I said softly.
She shook her head, her voice small and shaky, "It doesn't hurt."