"Mom," Clarissa interrupted, looking at her seriously. "You don’t have to treat me like this anymore. We’re family now. I’m not some spoiled rich girl. You don’t have to tiptoe around me."

  Before Clementine could say anything, Clarissa pulled out a bank card and placed it in her hands. "There’s $10,000 in here. Use it as you need. I’ll add another $10,000 every month, and if it’s not enough, just tell me."

  Clementine gasped. "Clarissa… Where did you get this money?"

  Clarissa smiled. "I have some savings. Enough to take care of us from now on. I’ll take care of you."

  Tears welled up in Clementine’s eyes, spilling down her cheeks as she clutched the card, sobbing uncontrollably.

  Clarissa spent a long time comforting her before finally slipping away to take a walk.

  The air was cool as dusk settled over the street. Fresh out of the bath, her waist-length hair was still slightly damp, and she wore a flowing, moon-white gauze dress. The evening breeze lifted the fabric, making it flutter like the wings of a butterfly.

  She looked ethereal, like a fairy descending from the heavens.

  People turned to stare as she passed, momentarily mesmerized.

  Clarissa could feel their gazes, and she found that… she liked it.

  Being beautiful is nice, she thought. It made life easier—people were kinder, more accommodating.

  In her past life, she’d been plain-looking, struggling just to make ends meet. Every night after overtime, she’d come home exhausted, barely able to stand. There had never been time for something as luxurious as a leisurely evening stroll.

  But now… she had this body, this face, this life.

  She wasn’t going to waste it.

  "Hey! Atticus, you’re blocking my way!"

  "Why are you staring at me, you bastard? You wanna hit me?"

  "Everyone, come look! The genius kid who skipped three grades is actually the son of a murderer!"

  "Look! This murderer’s son is trying to hit me!"

  "The son of a murderer will definitely turn into a criminal! Be careful, he might just kill you next!"

  "Haha, I’m not scared. I could knock this little dwarf out with one punch! Bastard! What are you looking at? Keep staring, and I’ll beat the shit out of you!"

  "Get the hell out of here!" Atticus' voice was cold, his words laced with barely contained anger.

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  "You think you can tell me to get out? Hold him down!"

  Clarissa’s eyes narrowed as she took in the scene. A group of boys were surrounding Atticus. The leader of the pack was tall, over two heads taller than Atticus, and the rest of them ranged in age from 13 to 16.

  At that age, they had boundless energy and no real sense of right or wrong. Atticus was small, too thin, and despite putting up a fight, he was eventually pinned to the cement ground. The concrete was rough, and the area in front of him was a construction site, dirty with sand and mud. His white T-shirt was soon stained with the filth.

  The group punched and kicked him relentlessly. The leader of the pack, after getting a hit from Atticus, had his face turn red with anger. He sneered, mimicking his mother's voice in a mocking tone.

  "Teach him a lesson! Take off his pants, make him naked! Damn bastard! Little beast!"

  "Is that really okay?" one of the younger boys hesitantly asked.

  "It’s fine," the leader scoffed. "His parents are dead. My mom said he’s a jinx, a little bastard who killed his own parents. You gotta spit on him to get rid of the bad luck. Otherwise, we’ll all be cursed! Jinx!"

  The others followed suit, spitting at Atticus, shouting things like jinx and little bastard.

  Once, Atticus had been popular—good grades, a handsome face, and surrounded by friends. But overnight, he had become the son of a murderer, the target of everyone in town. It was as if anyone could come and trample on him and his family.

  His fingers dug into the muddy ground, his body pressed into the dirt. In just one night, he went from a model student to the son of a murderer. Now, he was being humiliated in the mud…

  His head, hands, and feet were pinned to the ground. The leader was bending over, trying to pull Atticus' pants off.

  Humiliation, overwhelming humiliation, flooded him. And for the first time in his life, he wanted them all to die.

  Why? Why were they doing this to him?

  These people... I wish they would all just die.

  "Who the hell are you to bully someone like this?"

  A sweet, sharp voice rang out, startling the group of boys. They turned around to see an unbelievably beautiful girl walking toward them.

  "Let him go. Or I’ll call security on you," Clarissa said coldly, her eyes hard.

  Seeing that they were caught, the boys immediately scattered like rats, some of them still shouting at Atticus as they fled. "You’re lucky this time!"

  Once they were gone, Clarissa rushed over to Atticus, kneeling down to get a better look at him. "Are you alright?"

  She hadn’t intended to get involved, but she couldn’t just stand there while they treated him like that.

  Looking at the thin, bruised boy in front of her, Clarissa couldn’t reconcile this image with the cruel, heartless villain from the book.

  She hesitated for a moment, then extended her hand. "Come on, get up."

  Atticus lifted his head slightly, his dark eyes locking onto her hands.

  It was the girl from earlier today.

  He recognized her by her voice, and now, looking at her hands, he could tell they were as graceful and pristine as he remembered. Smooth, white, spotless. And then there was him…

  Atticus slowly stood up from the muddy ground, wordlessly wiping his face with his sleeve. His eyes shifted down, and it was as if something caught his attention. His pupils contracted, and before Clarissa could react, he spun around and took off running.

  "Hey!" she called out, instinctively wanting to chase after him, but he was already gone—quick as a shadow, disappearing into the night.

  She sighed softly, watching him vanish, and then her foot caught on something. Clarissa looked down, and her gaze landed on a boiled ear of corn. The plastic bag around it was filthy, dirt covering every inch, and she must’ve stepped on it just now. She reached down and realized it was still warm.

  He must have seen her step on it and ran away in embarrassment.

  Her heart heavy, she made her way back home, her mind replaying his figure and the look of sheer despair and hate in his eyes.

  Had he planned to eat that corn? It was so dirty now. He probably hadn’t eaten yet.....

  When she entered the house, the mouthwatering aroma of food greeted her.

  "Mom, what’s cooking? It smells amazing."