Chapter 3

He looked at me, eyes red.

"Alice, I saw everything." His voice was choked. "Those children... they're so pitiful. Haven't we always been supporting them? Why did we suddenly..."

I opened the car door and got in.

Andrew turned his head: "Didn't we say before that we don't expect them to repay us, we just hope they'll be well..."

"I changed the bank card password," I said.

He froze.

"What?"

"Those two bank cards at home—I changed the passwords." I looked straight ahead. "If you want to withdraw money, you have to ask me."

"Alice, you—"

I sighed:

"Andrew, I had a very realistic dream. So realistic that I believe it will definitely happen."

"In the dream, you died, and I got cancer. I lay in the hospital for over a year, and not one of those 101 children came to see me. When I stopped the support payments, they called to pressure me, telling me to hurry up and get better so I could go out and earn money. They even said on TV that I had ulterior motives. In the end, I died alone at home on New Year's Eve. All by myself."

He was stunned.

"Andrew," I said wearily, "in this life, let's love ourselves first."

He stared at me with his mouth open, looking confused, unable to speak for a long time.

Outside the window, a huge advertising screen was playing the news—

"Well-known philanthropist Alice abandons 101 underprivileged children. Children kneel in the street begging her to come back..."

Many people on the street were looking up at the news. Someone shouted:

"Alice, may you die a terrible death!"

Immediately, a chorus of voices echoed the sentiment.

I let out a cold laugh.

The online harassment spread like wildfire.

For several days straight, downstairs was packed with people.

"Alice! Get out here!"

"Bastard!"

"What kind of philanthropist? Just a fraud!"

Someone threw eggs at my window, the yolk dripping down the glass.

Someone spray-painted my door with red paint: "Fake charity worker, real vampire."

Others held up banners: "Punish this unscrupulous businesswoman, give the children justice!"

I looked down through a crack in the curtains and saw Martha still standing at the front of the crowd, tears streaming down her face as she gave interviews.

"We never wanted her to give us a lot of money. We just want to know why she suddenly doesn't want us anymore."

Next to her, a boy cried heartbreakingly: "She bought ten houses but makes us drop out to work! My sister is only in middle school, and she has to work in a factory now!"

The crowd exploded.

"Call the police! Arrest her!"

"People like this should be socially destroyed!"

"Smash up her house!"

Without warning, a fairly large rock smashed through my window, glass shards nearly hitting my eyes.

Andrew stood in front of me, his face pale: "Alice, let's call the police."

I shook my head.

What good would calling the police do? They were just a group of "poor," "helpless," "betrayed" children.

The next day, things got worse.

Someone posted my home address online, along with the location of Andrew's building materials store.

By the time I got there, I heard someone in the crowd shout: "Smash it!"

Before the words had faded, a baseball bat had already shattered the glass door.

The crowd surged in like a tide. Shelves toppled, tiles broke, the cash register was flipped over.

Someone even set fire to the advertising sign at the entrance, black smoke billowing.

Honest Andrew rushed in with red eyes trying to stop them, but was pushed to the ground.

People spat on him, kicked him with their feet.

In that moment, blood rushed to my head.

But I didn't rush forward. Instead, I took a step back, retreating to the edge of the crowd, and opened a livestream on my phone.