Chapter 8

In the pitch-black room, Yara lay staring blankly at the ceiling.

Scenes from the past few years flashed before her eyes like a movie reel.

She had long since lost the concept of having a father.

And now, she had no intention of keeping her husband either.

…

That night, Yara slept exceptionally well.

The next morning, sunlight was streaming through the windows by the time she finally got up. After taking her time washing up, she headed downstairs.

The first thing she heard was Elena wailing hysterically:

"Who told you to come here? Why are you digging up my chamomile plants? I still need them for my tea!"

At the villa’s front gate, a group of workers was busily digging up the lush chamomile plants, pulling them out by the roots with practiced efficiency.

Elena screamed, but the workers didn’t so much as glance her way, acting as though they couldn’t hear her.

Yara strolled into the living room, crossed her legs, and settled onto the sofa. Taking a sip of the freshly brewed tea that the housekeeper had just brought her, she said calmly, "I told them to."

Elena froze, then stormed over, her fury barely contained. "Yara! What gives you the right? That’s my chamomile plants!"

Leaning comfortably against the sofa, Yara glanced up at her and smiled faintly. "What gives me the right? Nothing, really. I just find your chamomile plants an eyesore."

Elena stood there, stunned for a good half minute before bursting into louder sobs. "Yara, you’re doing this on purpose! You’re just trying to make my life miserable!"

Yara nodded, her tone light and mocking. "You’re absolutely right, Elena. I am trying to make your life miserable."

Elena froze again, her face twisting with rage. "Yara! You’re just a criminal. How dare you act so arrogant? Did prison teach you nothing? Do you want to end up back there?"

The faint smile on Yara’s face vanished. She stood up, her expression cold and unreadable as she stared Elena down.

"Elena, prison isn’t exactly a pleasant experience. So, unless you want to find yourself in one for defamation, you’d better watch your mouth."

Elena’s sobs caught in her throat. She stared at Yara, wide-eyed, as though looking at a stranger.

For the first time, Elena felt like Yara was a completely different person—someone she never knew.

The Yara standing before them now was nothing like the woman who used to swallow her pride and endure everything in silence.

Her entire demeanor exuded sharpness, a quiet intensity that was almost intimidating.

Yara saw the confusion and fear in Elena’s eyes and responded with a faint smile.

Starting today, she would never compromise herself again.

Her past concessions had stemmed from care—caring about her father, caring about Westley, and avoiding conflict with Elena.

But now, she cared about none of it.

And they could forget about controlling her ever again.

As the two of them stood locked in silence, a deep voice came from behind. “Elena, why are you crying?”

There was no need to turn around; Yara knew it was Robert.

Elena immediately threw herself into their father’s arms. “Dad, Yara had my chamomile plants torn out! Those were the ones you worked so hard to grow for me!”

Robert’s heart ached for his younger daughter. “Don’t cry, Elena. The chamomile plants can be replanted. Don’t worry, I will make sure justice is served for you!”

He lifted his head and turned to Yara, launching into a tirade.

"Yara, you’ve been picking on your sister again while I wasn’t here! You’ll apologize to her right now! Then go outside and replant every single chamomile plant, or don’t blame me for taking harsher measures!"

Yara watched as the two put on their little “father-daughter” show in front of her.

Then she watched her father’s expression turn cold toward her with a speed that could rival flipping a page in a book.

The irony of it all was almost laughable.

Her voice was lazy and unhurried as she said, “Dad, I’m not apologizing. As for replanting the chamomile…”

She deliberately paused, letting the suspense linger.

Both Robert and Elena perked up their ears, waiting for her answer.

Yara suddenly laughed, her tone returning to its usual nonchalance. "It’s not impossible. As long as you replant my mother’s peach tree, I’ll replant Elena’s chamomile."

Robert’s frown deepened. "What kind of joke is this? That peach tree was thrown out ages ago. How am I supposed to get it back?"

The smile on Yara’s lips froze.

That tree was planted by her mother when Yara was five years old.

Yara had always been frail as a child, constantly plagued by minor illnesses.

Her mother, believing peach trees warded off evil spirits, planted it with care and devotion, praying for her daughter’s lifelong safety.

A wife’s heartfelt gesture and a mother’s love for her child—yet to Robert, it was nothing more than trash to be carelessly discarded.

Yara’s hand, hanging at her side, slowly curled into a fist.