Chapter 1My Husband and My Step-Son Hate Me, But They Regret After I Leave Them

It was the anniversary of my adoptive mother, Maggie Patterson's death. I, Alexa Truman, put on a long black dress. Clifford Warren, who was just seven years old at the time, came running towards me. In his hand was a pair of sharp scissors. Swiftly, he cut through the hem of my dress. Then, he emptied an entire bucket of paint over me.

"Today is my mother's birthday! How could you wear such an unlucky thing? Don't you remember she hated the color black?" Clifford's words were like daggers. Right then, I understood. In this family, both the father and the son held the most special place in their hearts only for that departed woman.

The paint caused an allergic reaction, and rashes broke out all over my skin. The cuts on my legs stung painfully. Looking at the child I had raised with such care standing before me, I just felt completely drained. "Alright, as you wish. I'll leave this place soon," I said.

The pungent smell of the paint wafted towards me. My entire body was sticky, and the sensation made me wrinkle my nose in distaste.

Clifford sneered and jeered, "You deserve it. It'd be even better if your face got messed up. You're so sly. Did you think that by looking like my mom and having others say you resemble me, you could take my mom's place? Never in a million years!"

His eyes flared red with fury as if he'd been deeply affronted.

I'd witnessed this kind of scene far too many times.

Whenever someone commented that Clifford's face didn't resemble his long-deceased mother but was increasingly looking like mine, he would fly into a rage.

In the past, each time I saw him like this, I would console him, saying that he was a member of the Warren family and that the similarity between us was just a coincidence from living together for so long.

But today, I truly had no energy left. I was just utterly exhausted.

I furrowed my brows slightly and said, "I didn't have plastic surgery. You look at your mom's photo every night before going to sleep. You know better than anyone whether she looks like me or not. If you don't believe me, we can find a doctor to check. Do you really want to hear the truth?"

Clifford was taken aback at first, and then his face flushed red. He gave me a fierce glare, turned around, and dashed out.

With a sigh, I made my way back to my room and discovered that the maid had already prepared bathwater in the bathtub for me.

Unexpectedly, as soon as I stepped into the bathtub, the cut on my leg began to throb sharply, and the skin in other areas also started to burn with pain.

I quickly tried to climb out, but I lost my footing and tumbled to the ground. My knee was immediately bruised.

Clifford bounded into the room with a sneering expression on his face and taunted, "Stupid! Does it feel good to bathe in salt water and chili juice? This is my way of being kind to you. Aren't you touched? You should pay for enjoying what belongs to my mom!"

He gave me a scornful look. Before leaving, he even shooed the maid away and forbade anyone from helping me.

I lay on the ground in a sorry state, watching the ground gradually being stained red with blood, and remained silent for a long time.

When my eggs were taken away back then, I also bled a great deal.

Later, that egg was combined with the sperm of Vincent Warren, the president of the Warren Group, to create a test-tube baby, which was then implanted into the uterus of his then-wife, Bianca Truman.

Then the child who carried part of my genes was born. It was a boy named Clifford Warren.

He was the son of the Warren family, the son of Bianca, and Clifford, who loathed me intensely.

After washing my body, I walked out of the bathroom and saw Vincent sitting on the sofa, waiting for me.

Clifford resembled me a bit in appearance, and his innate noble and haughty demeanor was inherited from the man in front of me.

He glanced at the rashes on my body and said indifferently, "Clifford was indeed a bit too extreme. I brought you some anti-allergy medicine. Take it. Don't spoil the mood at the party tonight."

Although his ex-wife had been dead for many years, on her birthday, Vincent still hosted a grand party at home and wouldn't allow anyone to forget the woman he had once loved so deeply.

Over the years, I, who had been living warily in the Warren family, had always been accustomed to following his orders.

Just after swallowing the pill, several servants came up and, without a word, pinned me down on the sofa, restraining my hands and feet.

Two masked individuals held seasoning bottles and syringes, smeared them on the wound, and directly inserted them deep into the skin. The pain instantly coursed through my entire body, and I winced in agony.

Vincent looked down at me and said, "Although Clifford was indeed a bit mischievous this time, you also shouldn't have worn the color Bianca disliked on the anniversary of her death. I remember stating that there's no place in this house for anything that upsets Bianca. Those who make mistakes must face the consequences."

After about an hour, the area where I was originally injured transformed into a vivid and extremely beautiful rose tattoo, with blood beads that hadn't fully dried at the center of the petals.

That was the flower species and color combination that Bianca had adored the most during her lifetime.

And she had had the exact same tattoo on her leg as well.