Moon Rises, Sun Sets, the Lost Path No Cross

My husbands young secretary destroyed a painting Id worked on for two years.

As punishment, she became my personal maid for three days, cleaning my entire gallery.

Anson, my husband, said nothing at first, acting like nothing happened.

Three months later, his company went bankrupt and he was jailed. To pay off millions in debt, I took three jobs a day, working nonstop. For three years, I lived in constant fear, even being attacked by debt collectors. I even took a job spending a night in a haunted house for 0-000.

One night, while waitressing, I overheard Ansonsupposedly in prisonthrowing a lavish birthday party for his secretary.

A friend asked, Arent you worried? Youre spending millions on Jenny, while your wife risks her life in a haunted house for 0-000?

Anson smirked. This is payback for Seraphina making Jenny a maid. These three years are her punishment. Once its over, Ill make a comeback, and shell still be my wife, Mrs. Blackwood.

I froze in the cold wind, numb.

So, this hell it was all a game, a punishment you planned.

Fine. If thats how you want to play

Ill return the favor, double.

A bone-deep chill consumed me, but I was frozen in place, forced to listen to the voice of Anson's friend, Mark.

"Anson, she's still your wife. She was an heiress, raised with a silver spoon. Isn't this a bit too harsh?"

"I saw Seraphina the other day," Mark continued. "She looked like a ghost. Skin and bones. I think she's at her breaking point."

Anson's voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "We agreed on three years. Not a day less."

"Besides, there's only a month left. Shes made it this far, whats a few more weeks?"

Mark hesitated. "But she came to me a while back, begging to borrow just a few hundred dollars."

"The proud Seraphina Frost, heiress to the Frost fortune I've never seen her so broken."

Anson's tone sharpened. "You didn't give her anything, did you?"

"Of course not! You made it clear, anyone who helps her is no friend of yours. I wouldn't dare."

Through another puff of smoke, Anson let out a self-satisfied laugh.

"Smart man."

"Seraphina has always been a spoiled, arrogant brat. Jenny just accidentally smudged her painting, and she reacted like a tyrant, forcing her into servitude for three days."

"A personality flaw like that needed to be corrected. And you see? Three years of hardship did the trick, didn't it?"

His voice was thick with pride, as if he were a master sculptor who had chiseled me into a perfect, submissive wife.

Mark sighed, letting the rest of his words die on his tongue.

He didn't tell Anson the whole story.

He didn't mention that I had knelt before him that day.

That I had even begun to unbutton my blouse.

"Just five hundred dollars," I had pleaded, my voice cracking. "Please."

"Anson is sick in prison. He needs money for medical care. I'm just five hundred short."

The men in the room had exchanged glances, then burst into roaring laughter.

"Is this the same Seraphina Frost we knew?"

"The high and mighty heiress who wouldn't touch a pair of shoes under a thousand dollars, now selling her body for five hundred?"

I absorbed their ridicule in silence, my face a blank mask.

What expression was I supposed to wear? Pride? Dignity? Reality had trampled those things into dust long ago.

"Just name your price," I whispered, choking back a sob. "Whatever you want me to do, I'll do it."

Their laughter grew louder, more vicious.

Finally, a man who had been quiet the whole time, sitting on the sofa wreathed in smoke, spoke up.

"Just go."

"You could kneel here and bang your head on the floor a hundred times, and we still wouldn't help you."

Because Anson had given them explicit instructions beforehand.

A punishment was a punishment.

For three years, they were to show no mercy, offer no help. That was the only way to properly avenge his precious secretary, Jenny.

So how did I get that five hundred dollars in the end?

I went to a clinic and sold my plasma.

When I took the money to the prison, they told me Anson had already been released for medical treatment. I frantically found one of his friends, pressing the cash into his hands.

"Please, you have to get this to Anson," I begged, nearly falling to my knees. "He can't get any sicker."

At that very moment, Anson was at Disneyland with Jenny, snapping photos and laughing. He took the five hundred dollars Id bled for, crumpled it like a receipt, and tossed it at a park employee.

"Don't know where this came from," he'd said with a sneer. "That dirty money is bad luck."

Just like my heart. Trampled under his feet without a second thought.

Now, here he was, using a priceless antique vase worth millions as a mere decoration for Jenny's birthday party. Every detail was meticulously planned, extravagantly perfect.

But I couldn't watch anymore.

A primal urge to storm in, to claw at his face, surged through me. I wanted to scream in his face, to demand why he had lied to me for three years. Was it all because I made Jenny play maid for three days?

I wanted to rip open my clothes and show him every scar, every bruise, every mark of the suffering I'd endured for him.

But in the end, I did nothing.

I simply watched Anson, the man who was supposed to be released from prison in three days, standing there in a bespoke suit that cost more than Id earned in three years. He looked like a king, pulling his little princess, Jenny, into his arms and whispering "Happy Birthday" with a doting smile.

Then, my face devoid of all emotion, I turned and walked back to my basement apartment.

It was a damp, lightless hole, my home for the past three years. The bathroom was right by the door, and the walls were a creeping canvas of black mold that pulsed with the sour stench of decay. I remember when I first moved in, the smell alone made me vomit daily.

For the first twenty-five years of my life, I was Seraphina Frost, the pampered heiress who had never known a day of hardship. I was also an internationally acclaimed artist, my shelves heavy with awards. At the peak of my fame, Anson Blackwood, the heir to the Blackwood empire, proposed. After we married, he treated me like a queen.

Effortlessly, I had become the woman every other woman envied. The media called me "The Woman Who Has It All."

Until Anson hired a timid, sweet-looking secretary named Jenny.

She was the daughter of our housekeeper, yet she seemed determined to compete with me in every way. If her clothes weren't as luxurious as mine, she'd sneer that I was just a spoiled trophy wife. If her accomplishments paled in comparison to mine, she'd whisper behind my back that I owed everything to my father or my husband.

She even schemed her way into becoming Anson's secretary, filling his head with lies about mehow I bullied her mother, how I destroyed her clothes, how I forced her to kneel and act like a servant.

I believed the truth would speak for itself, so I never paid her any mind.

But then came the day I finally completed the painting I had poured two years of my life into. I stepped out for just a moment to get it framed, and when I returned, the canvas was drenched in black ink.

Jenny stood there, holding the empty ink bottle, a triumphant smirk on her face.

"Took you two whole years, didn't it?" she gloated. "Let's see you show off in front of Anson now that this is gone."

Rage, white-hot and absolute, consumed me. I slapped her across the face, the sound echoing in the studio.

"You love spreading rumors about me making you a maid, don't you?" I seethed. "Fine. For the next three days, you'll be a real maid. You're going to scrub my entire gallery until it shines."

At that exact moment, the door flew open.

Anson stormed in, his brow furrowed, and immediately pulled Jenny behind him.

"Seraphina, can't you for once control your damn temper?"

"Jenny has been trying so hard. So she doesn't come from money, is that any reason for you to constantly pick on her?"

My chest heaved, struggling for air. "Anson, you don't understand, she's the one who"

Before I could finish, Jenny buried her face in Anson's chest, her voice a pathetic whimper. "It's all my fault, Anson! I was just trying to help Sera tidy her studio, and I accidentally spilled the ink. She got so mad she said she'd sell me to the streets, that my mother was trash who gave birth to trash!"

"I can't take it anymore," she sobbed. "I can take the insults, but why did she have to attack my mother?"

Her performance was flawless, a heartbreaking picture of victimhood.

Anson didn't ask a single question, didn't bother to investigate. He just believed her.

His gaze on me turned to ice. "Seraphina, what have you become? I'm so disappointed in you."

I was beyond furious.

Even with Anson pleading on her behalf, I stood my ground. Jenny served her three days as a maid.

When it was over, Anson acted like nothing had happened. He just sighed softly.

"Sera, your temper... when are you going to learn to control it? It was just a painting."

"Alright, you've let off your steam. Let's just put this behind us."

I was naive enough to believe him. I thought it was really over.

A few days later, news broke that Anson's company had collapsed. Soon after, he was imprisoned, leaving me to deal with the mountain of debt.

At first, I wasn't scared. If the Blackwoods were bankrupt, I still had my parents. I called them immediately, but their numbers were disconnected.

Panic set in.

I rushed back to my family home, only to be told by our butler that upon hearing about Anson's troubles, my parents had rushed to return home, but were caught in a landslide on the way. Both were presumed dead.

Overnight, my world fell apart.

With no husband or parents to rely on, I sold off my properties and moved into the damp basement. I lived in constant terror of the debt collectors. They found me, of course. A group of them stormed my apartment, armed with bats and pipes.

They broke two of my ribs. They shattered my right wrist.

I could never hold a paintbrush again.

It took me three years to accept my fate.

To give up on everything I was, just to survive.

But now, I find out it was all a lie.

With his "punishment," Anson had peeled away every layer of my being, remolding me into someone else entirely.

Just then, my phone buzzed.

A message from Anson.

"Sera, I'm getting out in three days. Don't forget to pick me up."

My fingers tightened around the phone, a dull ache spreading through my chest. Even now, Anson was still playing his part. He was at that very moment standing at Jenny's birthday party, holding her, celebrating with a huge cake and lavish decorations, yet he was still feeding me lies, treating me like a fool.

I stared at the words until they blurred, then blinked away the tears until they came back into focus.

I typed back a simple reply:

"Okay. I'll be there in three days."

Three days later, I didn't expose his charade. I went to the prison gates to pick him up.

From a distance, I saw him shuffling out, dressed in ragged clothes. He was faking the look of a man who'd been broken by poverty, even sporting a fake, gruesome scar on his cheek, courtesy of some clever makeup.

When he saw me, he limped forward, his face a mask of overwrought emotion.

"Sera!"

He threw his arms around me, his voice thick with fake tears. "I spent my time in there repenting, Sera. They said my behavior was excellent, so they let me out early."

"I'm so sorry for everything you've been through."

He sounded so sincere, so deeply remorseful, as if he had truly suffered behind bars for three years.

But I gently pushed him away. "It's good that you're out."

Anson froze, sensing my detachment. Then, his eyes fell on my hand, and he grabbed my wrist.

"Sera, what happened to your wrist?"

His alarm seemed genuine, which I found almost comical.

What are you pretending for, Anson? It was your men, the ones you sent disguised as debt collectors, who did this to me. Why act innocent now?

A wave of exhaustion washed over me. Perhaps I was just too tired to confront the mountain of lies.

"It's nothing. I fell." I pulled my hand back. "The doctor said it'll heal with time."

Anson let out a visible sigh of relief. "Oh, thank God."

He took my hand again, his expression softening as he laced his fingers through mine.

"It's your right wrist, too. If it were serious, it would affect your painting. You'd be crying your eyes out."

His tone was deliberately gentle, a mockery of the way he used to dote on me. Each word was a needle in my heart.

I once had a gift. My art was my life. International awards, critical acclaim everyone said I had a brilliant future.

But for him, to get him out of that prison he was never in, I took on risky medical trials for cash. I let his thugs beat me. I let them shatter the bones in my wrist.

Now, I couldn't even hold a brush.

And it was all for a game. A "punishment" he had designed. How utterly laughable.

The entire ride home, I was silent. Anson, sensing my mood, chattered nervously, feeding me a long, rambling story. It was obvious he'd rehearsed it, lines pulled from the internet about prison life, all to make his three-year vacation sound believable.

I listened with half an ear. When he finally paused for breath, I asked quietly, "Anson."

"Have I ever done anything wrong?"

He flinched, his eyes instantly turning red-rimmed as he looked at me. "Sera, what's wrong? Why would you ask that?"

I suddenly remembered my last "visit" to the prison. I had saved up for weeks to buy meat, a luxury for me, and cooked his favorite dish to bring to him. I remembered how he'd wrinkled his nose and refused to eat it. Of course he did. He probably thought the meat was cheap and disgusting.

I thought he was suffering, wasting away in a cell. In reality, he was globe-trotting with his little secretary, dining on gourmet food and imported delicacies. How could he possibly eat the scraps I brought him? That prison visit was just another scene in his play, a performance that cost him a hundred and twenty dollars to stage.

I felt like the world's biggest fool, a plaything they had been amusing themselves with for three years.

Seeing my tears, Anson panicked, fumbling to wipe them away. "Sera, why are you crying? Did someone hurt you?"

I looked him straight in the eye. "If someone hurt me, what would you do?"

"Would you still keep your promise? The one where you swore you'd protect me with your life?"

He grabbed a tissue, dabbing clumsily at my cheeks, his movements frantic.

He answered without a moment's hesitation. "Anything, Sera. I'd do anything for you. Just say the word."

I held his gaze, searching those sincere-looking eyes.

"Really?"

"I want you to kill Jenny."

Anson's head snapped up, his face a mask of shock. "What did you say?"

A flicker of panic crossed his features. "Are you misunderstanding something?" He was so terrified I'd discovered his secret that his whole body tensed.

"After the company went bankrupt, Jenny resigned and moved abroad. I haven't had any contact with her."

"Did she come back and bother you while I was away? If she did, I swear I'll make her pay!"

I reached out and touched his arm, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. "I'm just kidding."

"Killing someone is illegal."

"You just got out of prison. I wouldn't want you to go back in, would I?" I added softly. "I was just teasing."

I turned away, busying myself with something in my purse so he wouldn't see the expression on my face.

He thought it was just a joke. He relaxed, letting out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

"Sera, I'm so sorry."

"You've suffered so much these past three years."

I didn't look back at him, but a cold thought echoed in my mind.

Don't worry.

Your real punishment is just beginning.