Eventually, under financial pressure, Vivian started job hunting.
But after two decades of doing nothing, no one wanted to hire her.
In the end, she managed to land a dishwashing job at a local restaurant.
Of course, all her pent–up resentment? She unloaded it on the boys.
Every night after work, I’d hear it. Screaming. Slapping. Crying.
It got so bad that even the neighbors started complaining in the community chat group.
“Hey, 402, stop beating your kids all the time. Are you even human?”
“Your yelling scares my toddler. Try some parenting instead of assault.”
“I’ve seen those kids. One’s in a wheelchair. The other’s clearly disabled. No wonder–they’ve probably been beaten half to death.”
“And where did they even come from? No one knew she had kids before.”
Once the group started talking, rumors flew.
I scrolled through the messages with a smile.
And then–Vivian finally snapped.
“I’ll beat my kids however I want. Mind your damn business!”
So much for the sweet, gentle white moonlight.
At night, when she was at work, Ryan and the maid were all over each other in the apartment. Not a care in the world–not even for the boys.
I decided to turn up the heat.
I installed a discreet security camera outside my door.
Whenever Vivian wasn’t home, recorded Ryan and the maid going in and out–sometimes cuddling, sometimes making out.
The neighbors saw too. But no one said anything.
Formerly friendly neighbors began ghosting Vivian after the abuse scandals.
25 45%
Chapter 7
Then, I compiled a “highlight reel” of Ryan cheating with time stamps and close–ups, All edited for maximum effect.
I uploaded it to the neighborhood group chat with an anonymous account.
The group chat exploded.
“WTF! This dude is shameless!”
“Not gonna lie, I’d cheat too if my wife beat kids like that.”
“Abusive mom, cheating dad, doomed kids… this family’s cursed.”
Then I dropped another bomb.
“FYI–Vivian was a mistress to begin with.”
The group went wild.
I followed up with a full video from the boys‘ birthday party. I had hired a videographer for the event, so everything–from Ryan and Vivian’s entrance to the DNA reveal–was captured.
I pixelated my face and my sons‘ for privacy.
Then I posted it.
“No way… they faked their deaths?! Let the wife raise their kids?!”
“They thought they were walking away with two Ivy League sons… turned out to be disabled twins!”
“That original wife? A queen. Played them all.”
For once, Vivian didn’t reply.
No screaming.
No cursing.
Just silence.
Sometimes silence… is the loudest scream of all.
