In New York's elite circle, everyone knew Vivian Vance was a ruthless, legendary defense attorney. She had never lost a single case, and she was too cold-blooded for anyone to dare cross. No one knew she had a sensory soulmate of ten years—the weak, easily bullied young heir of the Sterling family, Asher. If he was slapped, her cheek would burn for hours. If he was kicked, she would hold her side in pain for a week. If he was publicly humiliated and broken, she would literally spit blood at the most elite corporate negotiation table. Everyone mocked Asher as a spineless orphan whom anyone could step on. Only Vivian stood fiercely in front of him. Anyone who touched him paid with their life. "If he chooses to bow his head, that's his business. But if anyone dares force him to bow, I will make their life a living hell." Someone didn't believe the rumors. At a charity gala, he publicly stepped on Asher and forced him to live-stream an apology to the world. A thousand miles away, Vivian watched the live stream. The sheer vicarious agony made her body spasm. She immediately boarded her private jet and flew back overnight. That night, dozens of black Maybachs blocked off half the city. Vivian stepped on the offender's face, her voice bone-chilling: "The foot you used to step on him? You won't be needing it anymore."
I was born with an overactive tear reflex. Whenever I was wronged, my tears would fall before I could even explain. Because of this, people always called me a spineless coward. A guy who did nothing but cry. When I was a kid, my desk mate lost his eraser and accused me of stealing it. Before the teacher could even question me, my eyes were already red and I was shaking. So everyone pointed at me and said, "Look, he's crying. He must be guilty." Later, my dad, Arthur Sterling, was sentenced to life in prison for first-degree murder. Our relatives blocked the door of our cramped, run-down apartment, screaming at my mother, calling her a murderer's wife who raised a little murderer. I clenched my fists, wanting to rush out and explain, wanting to scream that my dad was innocent. But tears flooded my eyes first. My throat felt like it was blocked by a wet sponge, suffocating any sound. They saw my tear-streaked face and grew even more certain. "See? The kid is just like his murderer father. He only knows how to play the victim to get sympathy." For the last ten years, what I hated most was my own eyes that wouldn't stop crying. Until Vivian Vance, the top defense attorney in the city, became my empathic soulmate. When I was falsely accused, the helplessness, fear, and desperation I felt would be magnified a hundred times in her. When I was called "the son of a murderer," she would suddenly suffocate and lose her voice in the middle of a courtroom. When I was forced to bow my head and plead guilty, she couldn't even finish a sentence of her defense, breaking out in cold sweat from the pain. Eventually, the entire legal and elite circle knew that the high-and-mighty, cold-blooded Vivian Vance had one absolute boundary. "He can cry." "But he can never be forced to cry by you." But in the beginning, I didn't know any of this. I only knew that tonight was my last chance to get back my dad's only heirloom. That night, the rain in the city was pouring, as if trying to drown the entire world. On the penthouse floor of the Grand Hyatt, a lavish charity gala was underway, filled with glittering gowns and expensive suits. I stood in the corner, wearing a cheap, rented suit, my eyes locked onto the auction stage. On stage, Julian Thorne stood in a bespoke tuxedo, displaying an old, vintage Omega watch with a smug smile. "This watch belonged to a heinous murderer. Today, we are auctioning it off. All proceeds will go to the victim's family, as a way to atone for that monster's sins." Applause erupted from the crowd. But my heart felt like it was being brutally ripped apart. That was my dad's watch. Ten years ago, my dad was convicted of first-degree murder. Everyone said he killed a passing wealthy businessman for money. But I knew he didn't. That night, he was just passing by a dark alley and kindly saved a man covered in blood. The real killer escaped, but because my dad was covered in blood, he became the scapegoat. That vintage watch was the one he wore that day, and it was the only thing I had left of him. I grit my teeth and raised my crumpled bidding paddle. "Ten thousand dollars!" It was all the savings I had scraped together from working three part-time jobs for three years. The entire room's gaze instantly locked onto me, filled with disgust, mockery, and disdain. Julian looked down at me from the stage, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. "Oh, look, isn't that the murderer's son, Asher? What, trying to buy the watch back with the dirty money your dad stole?" I clenched my fists so hard my nails dug into my palms, drawing blood. "I earned that money myself! My dad didn't kill anyone!" I wanted to scream back, to throw the truth in their faces. But the tears, betraying me as always, welled up in my eyes. My vision blurred. I stood there, trembling violently under their judging stares. Julian sneered and walked slowly toward me. "One hundred thousand," he uttered casually. I stared at him. "Five hundred thousand," he continued to raise the price, looking at me like I was an ant. "Asher, aren't you trying to appeal the case? Didn't you hire Vivian Vance as your lawyer?" Julian leaned in, his voice barely a whisper, yet every word stabbed like a knife. "Do you really think Vivian Vance would offend the Thorne family for a piece of trash like you?" With a sudden flick of his hand, he threw the vintage watch hard onto the floor. *Crack.* The glass shattered, gears and springs scattering everywhere. "Oops, my hand slipped," Julian said, crossing his arms and watching coldly. My mind went blank. I threw myself onto the floor, ignoring the sharp shards of glass, desperately trying to gather the tiny gears. Glass sliced into my fingertips, and blood began to seep out. But Julian suddenly raised his voice. "My ring! My sapphire ring is gone!" His bodyguards immediately stepped forward, grabbing me by the collar and dragging me off the floor. "He was the only one near Mr. Thorne just now! He must have stolen it!" "Search him!" I struggled wildly, my eyes swimming with tears. "I didn't! I didn't steal anything!" "Let go of me! Let me go!" The overwhelming humiliation, injustice, and fear washed over me like a tidal wave. At that exact moment, thousands of miles away at the International Convention Center. A multi-billion-dollar merger negotiation was taking place. Vivian sat at the head of the table in a tailored black blazer dress, looking cold, sharp, and utterly dominant. But the second I was pinned down by the bodyguards and search-and-seized. The hand she used to hold her pen froze. An indescribable, agonizing pain, mixed with a suffocating wave of despair and humiliation, slammed into her body like a tsunami. Her heart felt like it was being crushed by a giant hand, and her breath caught in her throat. "Ms. Vance?" the foreign representative across from her asked, noticing her sudden change. Vivian's face went deathly pale, veins popping on her temples as cold sweat drenched her forehead. She stood up abruptly, trying to speak, but a thick, coppery taste of blood welled up in her throat. The next second, under everyone's horrified gaze. *Cough—* A mouthful of blood sprayed from her lips, staining the billion-dollar contract red. Her assistant, Luke, nearly lost his mind. "Ms. Vance! Call an ambulance!" Vivian gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white. She forced down the remaining blood in her throat, her eyes burning with a terrifying, murderous rage. "Find..." her voice was incredibly hoarse, sounding like sandpaper. "Find out where Asher is! Now!"
The drama at the gala was still going on. The bodyguard roughly tore open my cheap bag, dumping its contents onto the floor. A few crumpled bills, a pack of tissues, and the bloody pieces of the shattered watch. No ring. Julian's face darkened, and he shot a look at the bodyguard. The bodyguard got the hint. He suddenly pointed at my suit pocket. "It's in here!" He reached in and pulled out a glittering sapphire ring. The crowd gasped. "Oh my god, he really did steal it!" "A murderer's son is bound to have sticky fingers!" "Call the cops! Throw him in jail so he can reunite with his father!" Vicious curses rained down on me from all sides. I couldn't defend myself. I shook my head, crying hysterically. "It wasn't me... you planted it on me..." My tears were completely out of control, and my stomach twisted in painful spasms. Julian looked down at me, a victorious smirk on his face. "Asher, people like you are meant to rot in the mud. Appeal the case? In your next life." He lifted his foot and slammed his leather shoe down on the back of my hand, grinding it hard. "Ugh—" I gasped, a white-hot agony shooting up my arm. The pain made me break out in a cold sweat. Just then, a loud *crash* echoed through the room. The heavy double doors of the ballroom were kicked open from the outside. Dozens of men in black suits filed in, instantly taking control of the room. The crowd was forced to part, creating a wide path. Vivian Vance marched in. Her suit was slightly disheveled, a faint trace of blood still at the corner of her lips. Her face was as pale as paper, but her dark eyes held a bone-chilling coldness. She walked straight to me, looking at my hand pinned under his shoe and the blood on the floor. At that moment, I saw her body tremble violently, a flash of extreme agony crossing her eyes. "Get off him." Her voice wasn't loud, but it carried an undeniable, crushing authority. Julian froze, clearly not expecting Vivian to show up. "M-Ms. Vance? What are you doing here? This guy stole my ring, I was just teaching him a lesson—" "I said, get off him." Vivian snapped her gaze to him, her eyes like ice-cold daggers. Julian was forced back a step by her gaze, instinctively lifting his foot. Vivian knelt, completely ignoring the expensive carpet, and gently cupped my blood-covered hand. Her hands were freezing, her fingertips trembling slightly. "Asher," she said, her voice terribly raspy. "Did I not tell you to call me if anything happened?" I looked at her, my feelings of injustice reaching a peak. "Vivian... I didn't steal it... It was my dad's watch..." My eyes were filled with tears, my voice shaking uncontrollably. Vivian's brows knitted tightly, her throat working hard as she swallowed down another wave of shared pain. She suddenly reached out, pulling my head gently against her shoulder. "Stop crying," she whispered in my ear, her voice thick with suppressed agony. "If you keep crying, you're going to kill me with this pain." I froze, momentarily forgetting to cry. Vivian took a deep breath, took off her blazer, and draped it over my shoulders. Then, she slowly stood up, shielding me behind her. She turned to Julian, her eyes returning to a state of absolute, chilling indifference. "Mr. Thorne. Framing, public disturbance, and aggravated assault." "Any of these is enough for me to put you behind bars for a few years." Julian tried to maintain his composure. "Ms. Vance, what is that supposed to mean? He clearly stole my ring. Everyone saw it!" "Oh? Really?" Vivian sneered, turning her head to Luke. Luke immediately stepped forward, opening his tablet and connecting it to the ballroom's massive projector screen. On screen, a crystal-clear surveillance footage began to play. It showed Julian, when I wasn't looking, slipping the sapphire ring into my suit pocket. The room fell dead silent. Julian's face went completely white, his lips trembling. "Th-this... wasn't the camera broken?" Vivian looked down at him as if looking at a corpse. "Mr. Thorne, you probably didn't know that this hotel is a subsidiary of the Vance Group." "To touch my person on my property? You've got some nerve." She leaned in slightly, her voice quiet but ringing clearly in everyone's ears. "Today, you stepped on his hand. Tomorrow, I will make sure the Thorne family is wiped out of New York."
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