Chapter 3

Naturally, Tristan couldn't stand to see the love of his life in tears. Infuriated, he bellowed at me, "Claudia! Didn't you hear what Sally said? She doesn't like what you're wearing. Hurry up and get out of those clothes!"

Glaring at Tristan, I ignored his demands. He was used to being able to order people around, so he couldn't stand the fact that I wasn't doing what he said. He signaled to his friends, who lunged at me and started ripping my clothes off.

While doing so, they even hurled insults at me.

"How dare you try to protest? Just who do you think you are?"

There were too many of them. I couldn't get away. My clothes were torn into pieces, with just a tiny bit of cloth left to cover the most important parts. My face was shoved against the floor as I was pushed around.

The whole time, I glared at Tristan with tears in my eyes, but he simply stood to the side and eyed me in amusement.

"Let go of me!"

I broke free of them and ran toward the door, but before I could even take a few steps, someone smashed something against the back of my head.

I fell to the floor, unmoving.

"Is she dead?"

"She asked for it! It's even better if she's dead. It's her fault for refusing to stop clinging onto Tristan!"

Amid my daze, I heard Tristan say, "She just loves putting on an act. Ignore her. Let's go!"

By the time I regained consciousness, the living room was empty. All that remained was the stench of alcohol and cigarette smoke that lingered in the air.

I touched the back of my head. The blood had dried.

I didn't know how long I'd been lying on the floor. With great difficulty, I crawled back onto my feet and headed toward Mom's bedroom.

Perhaps I was still a little out of it after getting hit in the head, or maybe it was just a force of habit, but when I opened the door, I instinctively called out, "Mom, I'm home…"

Nevertheless, once I saw the empty room, my heart deflated once more.

For a moment, I had forgotten that I no longer had a mother. Out of the three people in the family portrait that hung on the wall, I was the only one still alive.

After I had wiped my tears away, my eyes landed on a bunch of half-knitted sweaters.

Mom was an exceptional knitter. Before Dad started working as the Scott family's driver, Mom relied on her knitting skills to raise me and pay for my education. All our neighbors said she was extremely talented too, and they often sought lessons from her.

She was also generous with Tristan, often giving him the sweaters, beanies, and gloves she made herself.

However, Tristan said it was beneath him to wear such items. He gave away her entire summer's worth of labor to the dog his nephew raised, saying, "In our family, only the dog would use such lousy things."

Mom never knew that Tristan turned his nose up at her creations. Even as her health took a turn for the worse, she continued knitting away.

"While I'm still able, I'm going to make enough to last the next three years…"

Mom was afraid she wouldn't live past this year, and she still wanted to do something for Tristan and me.

Alas, Tristan had never once used anything she made for him. He came up with all kinds of excuses not to do it, claiming the items were either too childish, too unfashionable, or too dowdy.

And yet, when Sally gave him a pink hair tie, he posted over a dozen Instagram stories about it. It never left his wrist either. To this day, he was still wearing it.

Therein lay the difference.

He loved Sally, so everything that came from her was worthy of being cherished.

He hated me, so he hated everything related to me.

I put on one of the unfinished sweaters to immerse myself in Mom's scent.

Just then, someone shoved the door open.