100 Acts of Penance No Way I'm Free

I ran a 104degree fever while pulling an allnighter to finish the final design draft for Ethan Vance. Then, I clicked on a racing forum he had left open on his computer.

Pinned at the very top was a video of the champion racing across the finish line. It was him. "Damn, Vance is a beast!

He won first place even with a crippled leg!" "That speed... he’s faster than he was five years ago!" "Crippled leg? Please.

He's totally faking it to play that gullible little assistant of his." Five years ago, we were in a car accident.

He was in the passenger seat and injured his leg, supposedly ending his racing career. He blamed me for ruining his life.

He demanded one hundred acts of penance to pay off my "debt." It was all a lie. His leg had healed a long time ago.

This "penance" was nothing but a sick, fiveyearlong game of revenge. This was the 99th time. Fine, Ethan. One hundred times. I won't miss a single one.

Once the game ends, we are even. And I will never see you again. 1:00 AM. With a 104degree fever, I swallowed some Tylenol and buried myself back in the blueprints.

My phone buzzed. Ethan’s name flashed on the screen. "How's the progress?" His voice was as cold as ever. "Almost done.

Just give me one more night," I croaked, trying to sound steady. "One more night? You know the client expects the final draft tomorrow morning." "I'll deliver it on time.

Don't worry." I grit my teeth. "You better. You owe me this." The line went dead after his impatient snap.

For five years, those words had been branded onto my soul. You owe me. Because of that accident, his career was ruined. His legs were supposedly destroyed.

I looked back down at the screen. The concepts were his, but I was the one doing all the heavy lifting and perfecting the details. At least, that was the story he told the world.

Six hours later, the final draft was complete. I rubbed my burning eyes and prepared to shut down the programs.

But my cursor slipped to the taskbar, clicking open an active browser window he'd left open. A racing forum popped up.

The pinned video headline pierced my eyes: Ethan Vance Reigns Supreme Again! The King of the Track Returns! Date posted: Yesterday. My hand froze on the mouse.

My heart skipped a beat. With trembling fingers, I clicked the video. A sleek black race car tore down the track like a bullet.

The driver’s movements were flawless, taking corners with lethal precision. When the car crossed the finish line and the driver pulled off his helmet, my entire world shattered.

It was him. The very man who whimpered in "pain" in front of me every single day. Ethan stood on the podium, hoisting the trophy high, his movements effortless and agile.

The comments section sliced through my heart like a blade. "Vance is a god! Not even a leg injury can stop him!" "What leg injury?

He's just faking it to keep that brainless assistant wrapped around his finger." "I heard she waits on him hand and foot every day.

How pathetic." Five years of memories rushed over me like a tidal wave. His painful groans. My sleepless nights taking care of him.

The glasses he smashed in rage, and how I knelt to sweep up the shards. The blueprints I stayed up all night to finish, only for him to take the credit. His fame, and my obscurity.

It was all a lie. This was my 100th "penance." I took a deep breath, saved the final draft, and emailed it to his inbox.

Then, I closed all the tabs, cleared the browsing history, and pretended I saw nothing. Tomorrow, I would show up at the studio just like any other day.

But in my heart, a cold, quiet voice had awakened: One hundred times. Not one more, not one less. Once this game is over, we are through. Forever.

The studio door swung open. The harsh squeal of wheelchair wheels scraped against the floor. Ethan rolled in, putting on his usual "struggling" act.

Carter Hayes followed him like a loyal dog, a sycophantic grin plastered on his face. "Well, well.

Look who finally finished." Carter's voice was dripping with venom. "Do you have any idea how long Ethan has been waiting for you, Serena?" "Dragging your feet over such a simple task.

Are you trying to keep him from resting on purpose?" He spat his words out, his finger practically poking my face.

Ethan raised a hand, signaling him to stop. "That's enough, Carter." He turned to me, his tone dripping with forced gentleness. "Serena, you look awful.

Are you still sick?" His gaze quickly drifted past my shoulder, locking onto the final design on my computer. "Excellent work." He offered a condescending nod of approval. "I knew you wouldn't let me down under my guidance." I watched him quietly as he casually took credit for my blood, sweat, and tears.

He had played this part for five years, and I had watched it for five years. Today, it just felt pathetic.

Sensing the heavy silence, he reached out, pretending to feel my forehead for a fever.

That same hand, which confidently gripped the steering wheel on the racetrack yesterday, was now putting on a show of fake concern.

Right before his fingers brushed my skin, I took a sharp step back. His hand froze midair. The gentle mask on Ethan's face cracked. Beside him, Carter gasped in shock.

The air in the room turned to ice. Ethan’s fingers curled slightly in the air.

A flash of pure malice flickered in his eyes, gone in a second, but his charming facade was barely holding together.

Carter jumped like a cat that had its tail stepped on. "Serena Cole!

What the hell is your problem?!" "Ethan is trying to be nice to you, and you dodge him?" "Getting arrogant now, are we?

Have you forgotten what you are?" He was practically foaming at the mouth, his voice screeching. I lowered my gaze, refusing to look at his distorted face.

My voice was flat, devoid of any emotion. "The design is done.

I've emailed it to you." "Is there anything else?" Ethan stared at me, trying to read this sudden shift in my behavior.

A few seconds later, he forced that fake smile back onto his face. As if the awkward tension had never happened. "No, that's all.

Good job." He was clearly pleased with my sudden "submission." "Go home and get some rest." He waved his hand, dismissing me like a disposable tool. I turned and walked away.

The click of my heels echoed through the empty studio.

Behind me, Carter’s hushed, brownnosing voice drifted over. "Man, she needs to be put in her place." "Well, it's almost time anyway.

This is her 100th task, right?" "Once she hits a hundred, let's see how high and mighty she acts." Ethan’s cold, mocking voice drifted through the air, carrying a playful cruelty. "The final one." "I'm going to make sure she never forgets it for the rest of her life." My steps faltered for a fraction of a second before I kept walking.

The door clicked shut behind me, blocking out their disgusting voices. Never forget? Oh, trust me. I will make sure none of us ever forget.

A few days later, the atmosphere in the studio shifted. Ethan brought in a woman.

She was young, gorgeous, and drenched in a suffocating cloud of cheap perfume. "This is Chloe Montgomery. My new personal assistant," he introduced casually.

Chloe wore a tight, dangerously short skirt. She eyed me up and down, her gaze sharp and condescending, as if looking at a piece of outdated, unwanted furniture.

Ethan handed some of his "care" tasks over to her. The tedious, degrading duties that used to be mine. Chloe immediately slid into the role.

While I was sorting files, she would lean heavily against Ethan, adjusting his collar, her fingers lingering suggestively on his throat. Ethan didn't push her away.

He didn't even look annoyed. Carter stood nearby, smirking and talking just loud enough for me to hear. "Now this is what a real assistant looks like.

Chloe actually knows how to take care of Ethan." "Unlike some people who look like they're attending a funeral." Ethan chuckled, saying nothing.

Then, he turned his gaze to me, wearing that familiar, hypocritical smile. "Serena, take a break." He patted his thighs.

The very legs that could run a race perfectly. "Chloe, come massage my legs." Chloe eagerly knelt beside his wheelchair.

Her hands slid onto his calves, rubbing them with slow, suggestive strokes. Ethan leaned his head back, closing his eyes with a satisfied sigh. Right in front of me.

My stomach churned. Ethan opened his eyes, watching me with a smug, teasing look. So that was it. Even the "privilege" of being his punching bag for atonement wasn't exclusive.

Chloe could do it. Any other "Chloe" could do it. I was just a tool he could throw away whenever he wanted. Five years. What a joke.

The nausea hit me again, but this time, it wasn't from humiliation. It was from pure, unadulterated clarity. I had to leave. Right now. The realization had never been clearer.

I pulled out my phone, my fingers icy cold. I scrolled down to a number I hadn't called in years. Valerie. My aunt who lived abroad. My final escape route.

The call connected, and her warm, anxious voice filled my ear. "Serena?

Is everything okay?" "Aunt Valerie, I need your help." My voice trembled in a way I couldn't control. "I need to leave. As soon as possible." There was no hesitation.

No questions asked. "Okay. Leave it to me." After hanging up, my heart hammered like a drum, yet a strange, cold peace washed over me. Over the next few days, I worked as usual.

I kept a blank face, sorted files, endured Chloe's petty provocations, Ethan's hypocrisy, and Carter's insults. Nobody noticed a thing. Late at night, I began cleaning up.

I deleted my digital footprints, shredded any papers that could give away my plan, and packed a few essentials and cash into an inconspicuous backpack. I worked fast and silently.

With every item I packed, I felt like I was shedding a layer of dead skin, revealing the cold, determined resolve beneath.

Ethan announced he was going out of town for an "important project." Naturally, Chloe tagged along. I knew exactly what that project was.

Either an illegal drag race, or a dirty weekend getaway with Chloe. I didn't care.

He still called me every day at the same time, his voice dripping with that fake, mandatory warmth to prove he still "cared" about me.

Until one day, during a call, a loud, breathless female voice echoed in the background. "Ethan, hurry up..." It was Chloe. Her voice was thick with temptation and impatience.

Ethan's tone instantly panicked. He snapped something at her, and the call was abruptly cut off. Beep— Beep— The dial tone buzzed in my ear. I stared at my phone, expressionless.

My heart didn't even skip a beat. With him gone, the studio was finally quiet. I opened his laptop and smoothly typed in his password.

I opened the hidden folders he thought no one knew about: videos of his illegal street races, dangerous drifts, nearmiss crashes. And...

The original design files that I had poured my soul into, all saved under his name. The progress bar for the file transfer crept forward, ticking down the seconds to my freedom.

With every file copied, I took one step closer to escaping this prison.

I also started digging into his "important project." Every document, every scrap of data pointed to a specific, blurry date. The "100th act." What was he planning?

I uncovered records of the massive debts he owed to loan sharks for his racing habits.

Though his old debts were supposedly settled, the contact numbers of those dangerous syndicates were still active on his phone logs. Slowly, a plan began to take shape.

I would use his own madness to destroy him.