I Married His Uncle

Just after midnight, my phone lit up—Raymond Shawn said my birthday gift was waiting at the front door. I ran over barefoot, the wine-red velvet gift box soft like those precious little things he used to give me when he first chased me. As I untied the ribbon, my fingertips were still tingling with anticipation: it was my twenty-fifth birthday, and our wedding was just three days away. But when I saw clearly what was inside, my breath caught: a pair of lace panties stained with filth, and a hotel sheet marked with a dark bloodstain. My stomach turned over violently, and I raised my hand, flipping the coffee table. The bone china cup shattered into pieces, shards flying onto my ankle, sending a dull ache through me. I looked up to see Raymond Shawn leaning against the doorframe, wearing a helpless smile, as if my losing control just now was nothing more than a child throwing a tantrum. "Baby girl, you don't understand—don't take it to heart." He reached out to touch my hair, but I turned my head away. A flash of displeasure crossed his eyes. "The wedding's in three days. After that, I'll let her go—I won't cause any more trouble." My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a message from Calvin Shawn: "Don't marry him." Staring at those words, my racing heart suddenly stopped. Looking back at Raymond Shawn, I curled my lips into a smile: "Fine, I don't care." He raised an eyebrow in surprise, stepped on the broken porcelain as he walked out, and his voice was sickeningly soft when he made the call: "No more next time, okay?" I watched his back disappear and bent down to pick up the sheets and underwear. My fingertips brushed the bloodstain, my stomach clenched painfully, but I still spread them out on the floor and took close-up shots of the filth and blood. I opened my social media, captioned the post, "Thanks to my fiance for the birthday gift," selected the "media" and "business" groups, and hit send. In less than thirty seconds, hurried footsteps echoed outside the window. Raymond Shawn's hand, holding the cigarette, froze mid-air; his face turned pale instantly as he stormed in and smashed my phone. The screen shattered like a spider web. He yelled, "Wendy Lincoln, what do you think you're doing?" "Exactly what it looks like." I crouched down to pick up the pieces. "This is a gift carefully prepared by your mistress. It deserves to be seen by everyone." "Wendy Lincoln, don't be so reckless." He frowned, clearly irritated. "If it weren't for me back then, you'd have been ruined a long time ago. You should be grateful." The salty, bitter taste filled the air as I raised my hand and slapped him. With a sharp smack, Raymond Shawn covered his face, stunned. "I do owe you for your kindness," I stared into his eyes, speaking slowly and clearly, "But three years ago, I donated half my liver to save your life. That debt was paid off long ago." His chest rose and fell violently; it took a long moment for him to calm down. Then he reached out to brush my hair aside: "Wendy, Shawn Group is raising funds. We can't ruin our reputation... Tomorrow's press conference—you need to go and explain." The cedarwood scent that once made my heart race now only made me feel sick. I stepped back to avoid him and grabbed my bag: "I'm not going." As I walked out, I heard his soft laugh—he probably still thought I'd give in like before. For three years, I'd endured his cheating and his cold indifference. But this time, it's different. Downstairs, Raymond Shawn's driver was holding the trunk key when he heard Raymond's voice from upstairs: "Don't throw it away—fold it neatly and put it in the trunk." My footsteps froze, and suddenly, I couldn't help but laugh. Raymond Shawn is obsessive about cleanliness. I once tried to put my freshly dry-cleaned heels in his trunk, and he politely refused. Turns out the one cheating treasures these dirty things the most. The next afternoon, I arrived at the hotel entrance, and Raymond Shawn was already waiting in the parking lot. Dressed sharp in a tailored suit, looking every bit the part, he hurried over and grabbed my wrist, his grip nearly crushing my bones: "Wendy, no messing around today. This is Shawn Group's chance—and it's mine too." I know what he's anxious about—his uncle, Calvin Shawn, is about to step down, and this press conference is his crucial moment. Three years ago, that liver transplant—I saved not only Raymond Shawn but Calvin Shawn as well. At that time, Calvin Shawn had acute liver failure, Raymond Shawn was diagnosed with liver cirrhosis, and I just happened to be a perfect match for both. The Shawn Family spent a fortune on my surgery, and right after, Raymond started pursuing me, saying he wanted to marry me. Back then, I actually believed him.