I found a GPS tracker hidden under my car by my husband. He thought his plan was flawless, but it chilled me to the bone. My sister-in-law was trying to get pregnant, desperately seeking medical advice every day. I smiled kindly and handed her my car keys: "This car has a safety blessing. You'll feel more at ease driving it to your checkups." She thanked me profusely, completely unaware that danger was already quietly hitting the road. Until the sound of police sirens pierced the air the next day. My mother-in-law's wails were heart-wrenching. Only then did he understand my ruthlessness. 1 The afternoon sun was a bit glaring, and the fan-shaped mist from the pressure washer refracted a fleeting rainbow. I was bent over, washing the car with a soft sponge. It was a white SUV, bought with the bonus from my very first project. Ethan didn't like this car. He thought its lines weren't sharp enough, that it didn't match his status as an investment manager. But I liked it. I liked its rounded lines and spacious interior, like a mobile fortress that could whisk me away at any moment. The water flushed through the tire treads, washing away the mud and sand. My fingertips accidentally brushed against an edge on the car's undercarriage. There was something stuck there that didn't belong to the car itself. It was a small, rough, magnetic block. My movements halted for a second, my heart feeling like it had been violently seized by an invisible hand. I didn't rip it off immediately. I stood up and turned off the pressure washer. It was dead silent around me, save for the rhythmic dripping of water sliding off the car body. I took out my phone, adjusted the angle, and snapped a picture of that little black block. The photo clearly showed its outline, and a faintly blinking indicator light. Back home, I locked myself in the study and uploaded the photo to my computer. Zoom in, search. Every word of the results that popped up on the screen felt like a cold chisel, carving a bloody hole in my heart. High-precision GPS tracker, ultra-long standby, silent operation. So that was it. No wonder last week, when I suddenly changed the meeting location with a client, Ethan's call came "coincidentally" right as I walked into the new cafe. No wonder he always managed to send a considerate "Don't rush, drive safe" text exactly when I was feeling frustrated in traffic. I used to be touched by this telepathic connection. Thinking about it now, I only felt a churning nausea in my stomach. I leaned back in my chair, closed my eyes, and tried to steady my breathing. Besides the tracker, there was something else. That smell. For the past month, a faint, sickly-sweet scent would constantly drift from the car's AC vents. I thought it was time to change the cabin air filter and even mentioned it to Ethan. What was his answer then? He said the new car freshener was just a bit too strong and the smell would dissipate in a few days. And then there was my own body. An inexplicable exhaustion that an eight-hour sleep couldn't relieve. Recurring skin allergies on my arms and calves that itched to the bone. I thought it was just the changing seasons, or maybe the stress from work. Now, all these clues were slithering out of dark corners like venomous snakes, wrapping around me, flicking their tongues. I didn't touch anything. I shut down the computer and saved the photos on my phone into an encrypted folder. I prepared dinner as usual: washing rice, washing vegetables, chopping meat. The blade hitting the cutting board made a crisp sound—rhythmic, and cold. The lock turned, and Ethan was home. He was wearing a perfectly tailored suit, his hair meticulously styled, a gentle and refined smile on his face. He walked over and habitually hugged me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder. "Tired today?" he asked. I could smell the mix of tobacco and cologne on him, a scent I used to be obsessed with, but now it only made me want to throw up. I shook my head, my voice as calm as stagnant water: "Not tired." "By the way," I turned my head, looking into his eyes, trying to make my expression look natural. "Is it time for the car to be serviced? I keep feeling like there's something wrong with the AC lately." His eyes flickered—very fast, almost imperceptibly. "Really? I just had someone check it a while ago. It might just be a dirty filter. I'll take it to the dealership this weekend to have a look." His answer was airtight, the smile on his face flawless. Halfway through dinner, my mother-in-law, Susan, called right on schedule. Ethan put her on speaker. "Chloe, did you go see the doctor or not? You've been married for three years, and your belly hasn't shown any signs. Are you deliberately trying to end the Vance family line?" The shrill, mean voice drilled out of the receiver, piercing my eardrums like steel needles. "Our Ethan has a great career and good looks. Marrying you was the worst luck of his life! A hen that can't lay eggs, what are you taking up space for!" My hand gripping the chopsticks tightened slightly, my knuckles turning white. Ethan immediately frowned and said to the phone, "Mom, what nonsense are you talking about! Chloe is under a lot of pressure too. We're trying." "Trying? Trying for three years and not even a fart to show for it! Let me tell you, Ethan, I don't care. If there's no news by the end of this year, you two are getting a divorce! I don't want to die and be too ashamed to face your father!" The call was forcefully hung up by Susan. The dining room fell dead silent. Ethan sighed, placed a piece of ribs in my bowl, and spoke in a tone as gentle as coaxing a child. "Chloe, don't listen to my mom. She's just anxious to have a grandchild, she doesn't mean any harm." "Look at my sister, Lily. To get pregnant, she's seeing doctors, getting checkups, working so hard. Let's step it up too, okay?" Every sentence was a comfort, yet every sentence was applying pressure. Looking at his hypocritical face, and that fleeting gleam of calculation in his eyes, the temperature in my heart dropped inch by inch until it was frozen solid. This man I had loved for five years, this husband I had shared a bed with for three years, was personally weaving a massive web for me. And I was the prey about to be devoured. No. I won't let him get his way. Late at night, Ethan was fast asleep, his breathing steady and long. I quietly got out of bed, walked to the living room, and picked up his phone. The password was our wedding anniversary—how ironic. I opened his WeChat, my fingers trembling slightly from nerves. I clicked on a contact with no profile picture, saved as "S." There wasn't much chat history, but every sentence was shocking. "Has she been suspicious lately?" "No, she's very naive." "How are the effects of the stuff?" "Should be soon. She's always complaining about being tired lately." Right then, a new message popped up at the top of the screen, from "S." "How are things going? Once she definitely can't have kids, you'll have an excuse for your mom, and we can be together sooner." I covered my mouth tightly to stop the sob from escaping. So, my physical discomfort, my mother-in-law's pressure, his gentle traps—everything was a meticulously planned conspiracy. What he wanted wasn't just for me to not be able to have children. He wanted me to be "proven" infertile. A bone-chilling cold rose from the soles of my feet, instantly spreading through my limbs and bones, freezing me into a sculpture devoid of warmth. Anger and hatred churned in my chest like magma, scorching every inch of my rationality. Very well. Ethan. If you want to play, I'll play with you to the bitter end. 2 The next day, I called my company and asked for a sick leave with a hoarse voice. The excuse was a severe cold and physical discomfort. Hanging up, I dug out gloves and a mask from the storage room, arming myself securely. I needed to confirm again. Opening the car door, that sickly-sweet scent was even more distinct than yesterday. I didn't start the car. Instead, I directly dismantled the glove box on the passenger side, revealing the cabin air filter compartment inside. The process was more complicated than I imagined, but as an architectural designer, I have a natural sensitivity to mechanical structures. I carefully pulled out the filter. In the deepest part of the filter, near the air vent, I found something. It wasn't a normal car freshener. It was cleverly disguised as a black plastic part, tightly wedged in a structural crevice. Attached to it was a tiny flexible tube leading to a modified miniature device that could slowly release liquid. My heart beat wildly, almost leaping out of my throat. Using tweezers, I extremely carefully removed the entire device intact. Then, I placed the device in a sealed bag and cut off a small piece of the filter soaked in the liquid as a sample. Having done all this, I called Sarah. Sarah is my best friend from college and also a top-tier lawyer at the city's premier law firm. When the call connected, I only said one sentence: "Sarah, I'm in trouble." Sarah immediately heard the wrongness in my voice. "Where are you? Don't move, I'll be right there!" Half an hour later, Sarah rushed to my house. I placed the tracker and that strange device in front of her. After hearing my account, fury erupted on her usually calm and composed face. "That animal, Ethan! This is chronic poisoning! This is a crime!" She immediately helped me contact a highly professional and confidential private testing agency. They promised to have the results in 24 hours at the earliest. During the long, agonizing wait for the results, I didn't let myself stay idle. I opened my laptop and began organizing all the assets under my and Ethan's names. Married for three years, we had jointly invested in quite a few projects, mostly led by him. I checked them one by one, my heart sinking lower and lower. There were three wealth management products totaling over seven figures that should have been under our joint account, but were now missing. I checked the transaction records. They had been unilaterally transferred by Ethan a month ago to an account completely unknown to me. Sarah called, her voice grave. "Chloe, I just consulted with a colleague, and we have a terrifying theory." "Ethan's goal is likely a combo move." "Step one: use drugs to ruin your body, making you 'infertile'. Step two: use the tracker to monitor your whereabouts and fabricate 'evidence' of your indiscretion." "Finally, during the divorce, he'll leave you with nothing due to your 'physical issues' and 'marital fault'." My brain buzzed. I remembered now. Just two months ago, Ethan had subtly tried to get me to sign a property agreement. He said it was just in case—if our feelings ever changed, we could part amicably without hurting each other. I had only thought it was weird at the time and kept putting off signing it. Looking at it now, it was a trap he had laid long ago. I hung up, immediately put on my coat, and went to the bank. The bank statements spat out by the ATM were as long as a eulogy. They clearly recorded the path and time of every single asset transfer Ethan had made. Irrefutable evidence. Holding that stack of cold paper, I walked on the streets at dusk, the city's neon lights blurring my vision. My phone vibrated. It was a WeChat message from my sister-in-law, Lily. "Sister-in-law, trying to get pregnant is too hard. I'm going to the city's best fertility center tomorrow for a comprehensive checkup. Hoping for a good result." Followed by a praying hands emoji. I looked at that line of text, looking at that glaring emoji. A bold, meticulous, and perhaps even crazy plan slowly broke ground on my frozen heart. Ethan, didn't you want to watch a good show? Then I'll let you see with your own eyes how you personally pushed your precious sister into the abyss. 3 The call from the testing agency came earlier than expected. The results were out. A chemical substance named "phthalate" was detected in the filter sample. This is an environmental hormone. Long-term, low-dose exposure severely disrupts the human endocrine system, causing irreversible damage to female reproductive health. Simply put, it can cause infertility. I gripped my phone, my fingertips freezing cold, drained of all color. The last bit of fantasy about our five-year relationship completely turned to ash along with that cold chemical term. I calmly deleted all call logs and contact information with the testing agency. Then, I took photos of the test report, uploaded them to the cloud, and set up multiple encryptions. Having done all this, I put on my gloves and took out that deadly "freshener" device. I installed it back into its original position in the car, untouched. Except, before installing it, I used a fine needle to quietly widen the small hole that released the liquid. This meant its evaporation rate would be several times faster than before. That evening, Ethan suggested we go back to his parents' house for dinner. A trap I had long anticipated. At the dinner table, my mother-in-law, Susan, started her performance again. One minute she's talking about how the neighbor's daughter-in-law had a chubby baby boy, the next she's talking about someone's daughter who got pregnant right after getting married, saying she was born to be a good breeder. Every sentence was like a soft knife, stabbing at my heart again and again. Ethan, meanwhile, played his role of the twenty-four-filial-exemplar good husband. He "considerately" served me food, gently told me to eat more, and used his eyes to signal me not to mind his mother. That acting—it's a waste he hasn't won an Oscar. "Bro, Sister-in-law," Lily put down her chopsticks, looking worried. "I'm going to the hospital tomorrow. The road to the city fertility center is too hard to navigate, and it's impossible to get a cab during the morning rush hour." The opportunity had arrived. I looked up, a remarkably gentle and kind smile blooming on my face. "Lily, why didn't you say earlier that you needed a car?" I took my car keys out of my bag, placed them on the table, and pushed them toward her. "Take my car." In an instant, everyone at the table froze. Surprise showed on the faces of both Ethan and Susan. I ignored them, just looking at Lily, my tone as sincere as could be. "My car just got serviced, it runs smooth. Plus, I heard this license plate number is super lucky; it brings good fortune." I paused, adding with a smile. "Take it to your checkup. Maybe with the 'good pregnancy' blessing, you'll succeed on the first try." I enunciated the words "good pregnancy" very clearly. (Translator's Note: In Chinese, "good fortune" and "good pregnancy" sound identical.) The doubts on my mother-in-law's face vanished instantly. She eagerly urged Lily: "Your sister-in-law said so, what are you waiting for? Hurry up and thank her!" Ethan chimed in: "Yeah, Lily, your sister-in-law is just looking out for you." He looked at me, a hint of probing in his eyes, but mostly satisfaction at my "putting the big picture first." He probably thought I had been successfully brainwashed by him and his mother, and was trying hard to please their family. Lily was overjoyed, accepting the car keys with endless gratitude, clutching them tightly in her hand. "Thank you, Sister-in-law! You're so good to me!" I smiled, looking at her face full of gratitude. Looking at the relieved expressions of Ethan and Susan behind her. There wasn't a single ripple in my heart, only a bottomless, cold abyss. Go ahead. Drive this lucky car loaded with my husband's "love" and your whole family's "hopes." Go meet your judgment. 4 The morning Lily drove to the hospital, the sky was a dreary gray. I used an unregistered SIM card I bought on the street yesterday to send a text message to someone. The recipient was Lily's attending physician, Dr. Chen. I got his contact info from a registration slip Lily had accidentally posted on her Moments before. I revised the text message over a dozen times, carefully considering every single word. "Hello Dr. Chen, apologies for the intrusion. You have a patient surnamed Vance coming in today for fertility planning. She may have been unknowingly exposed to phthalate chemicals long-term. I suggest you pay attention to related indicators during the exam and check her belongings for contamination sources. This is purely for her health, please." After sending the text, I immediately removed the SIM card, cut it into pieces with scissors, and flushed it down the toilet. I completely removed myself from this matter. Having done all this, I turned on my computer. I categorized and organized the chat logs of Ethan's affair, the bank statements of the transferred family assets, and the photo of the GPS tracker. Then, I packaged and encrypted all the files and sent them to Sarah. Sarah replied almost instantly. "Everything is ready, just waiting for your signal." I closed the laptop, walked to the window, and made myself a cup of coffee. The aroma of coffee filled the room, but my mood was exceptionally calm. I ran through all the possible scenarios that might unfold next, and my corresponding countermeasures, over and over in my head. I even had the mood to open my design software and start modifying a museum design project I had shelved for a long time. Lines flowed from my fingertips, constructing a space full of light and hope. Ironically, in reality, I was personally destroying another hypocritical palace. Around noon, Ethan called. "What are you doing at home? Feeling any better?" His tone carried an imperceptible probe. "Much better, just resting." My voice sounded a bit languid, like a wife truly resting sick at home. I even "caringly" asked, "Did Lily's checkup go smoothly?" Ethan was silent for two seconds on the other end of the line. "Should be soon, she hasn't called me yet." His voice betrayed a trace of nervousness even he hadn't noticed. I smiled. What was he nervous about? Of course he was nervous. He desperately needed a report of his sister successfully getting pregnant to contrast my "incompetence." He was also afraid his tampering would be discovered. But he would never have thought that the one to uncover all this would be his most beloved sister. He would never have thought that the protagonist of the stage he meticulously set was no longer me. But himself.
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