ey ended up displayed on the wall, with Margaret kept waiting for when Charles Jr. might remember them again. Sadly, they all landed in the trash now.
Next, not just the decorations–even the bookshelf underwent drastic changes at Barbara’s insistence.
Late at night, while Margaret was in an international meeting in the second–floor study, Barbara sat in the living room right where she should’ve been, reading to Charles Jr. with gentle care.
Charles walked over to them with milk, took a blueberry from the fruit plate and offered it to Charles’s mouth. Bar- bara looked up, their eyes met, and the gentle smile felt too extravagant for Margaret.
Late at night, the living room lights dimmed at Barbara’s signal. She held Charles in her arms, and Charles squeezed beside her watching TV.
If this weren’t her husband and child, Margaret would have found this scene extremely heartwarming.
Margaret went downstairs to get water, and they didn’t even bother to look at her.
She glanced at her watch. Charles, who always valued health, should be asleep by ten, but now he kept delaying.
Even when drowsiness weighed his eyelids down, he still rested his head on Barbara’s shoulder, chatting with adoring smiles.
Charles‘ son had to be at school by seven tomorrow morning, yet he couldn’t care less.
The most absurd part came when Margaret brought it up, and the boy huffed: “You’re not the one taking me to school. Aunt Barbara knows my schedule better than you.”
What happened next made her realize they weren’t oblivious to her struggles–they simply turned a blind eye to her sacrifices.
“Barbara, looking after Charles‘ son leaves you no time for work. Take this money for now.”
When Barbara first hinted that her job was too far and caused lateness, Charles shoved a black card into her hand: “That job’s grueling and pays poorly. Just quit and rest at home for a while.”
“Aunt Barbara, my dad is right. Nobody can handle both career and home. Come back, Dad will support you.”
The boy stood beside Barbara like a little adult, spouting arguments so sycophantic it made Margaret feel hallucinato-
- ry.
“Barbara, the young master likes you. Just focus on caring for him. For anything else, give us your orders.”
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Chapter 5
Receiving Charles‘ cue, the butler stepped forward to state his position.
Margaret refused to say another word.
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This house she’d lived in for seven years—every single thing depended on her for survival, yet they looked straight through her.
She’d believed that through hard work, granting them prosperity, they’d eventually recognize her worth.
Barbara’s arrival shattered all her illusions.
Charles‘ attitude acted like a barometer, prompting hushed gossip among the staff.
“Mr. Rivera and Miss Smith seem quite close. But this is inappropriate―he doesn’t work, and this household relies entirely on Mrs. Rivera’s income. They’re being awfully bold.”
“What do you know? The Rivera family’s influence is formidable. He only married into the family at the old master’s request a temporary arrangement. Among the wealthy, it’s common for spouses to have their separate lives. Even if this household changes its mistress, it’s none of our concern.”
“Poor Mrs. Rivera… Her husband doesn’t love her, and her child clings to another woman…”
“Quiet!”
Seeing Margaret approach, the head servant hastily cut off the conversation.
But her heart had turned to ash long ago. Such words meant nothing now. She stood silently, calculating what belong- ings she’d take when moving houses.
Until that afternoon when she was in a meeting at the office, her phone vibrated wildly on the desk.
“Madam, the young master got into a fight at school, the ambulance has taken him to the hospital, the master says to
come over.”
When Margaret arrived at the hospital, the child who had been fighting had already been examined.
Charles stood in the corridor, his newly permed hairstyle still intact, looking utterly ridiculous.
Seeing Margaret appear, a chill surged in his eyes, and under everyone’s gaze, he strode up to her and slapped her hard with an open hand.
“Margaret!”
As soon as he spoke, his voice was fierce, as if trying to strangle her with words: “Do you have any conscience at all!”
“What?” Margaret was stunned.
“Your son is getting beaten to death at school, and all you care about is work!” Charles stepped closer again, his icy
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voice almost tearing Margaret apart: “If it weren’t for you, why would the Rivera child fight with others?”
“What does that have to do with me.”
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