At my birthday party, my sister scalded me with boiling water from the pot.

“Which means he’s the only person here who knows that the car wasn’t bought with Dad’s company money. It was bought with my $350,000 investment and legally it’s collateral under my control.”

I watched all the color drain from her face.

“Liar! There’s no way someone as plain as you has that kind of money.”

“It’s not a lie. Check the registration and insurance. You’ll see: Primary Lien Holder: Sarah Walker.”

I dealt her the decisive blow. Her breathing turned ragged, her eyes darting desperately as she tried to reject reality.

“You… you!”

With an incoherent shriek, she lunged toward the electric kettle on the counter, the one filled with freshly boiled water.

I watched in slow motion as reason left her eyes, replaced by pure malice. Without hesitation, she swung the kettle, its lid already open, straight toward me.

The boiling water arced through the air and crashed onto my left arm and chest. My scream shook the kitchen.

Immediately after, Allison slammed the empty kettle onto the counter with a loud metallic clang. The moment my scream echoed into the living room, the music and conversations ceased instantly.

Allison cracked the swinging door open just enough to peek inside, then turned back with a bright, cheerful smile and clapped her hands.

“Everyone, so sorry! Sarah had one of her clumsy moments again. Nothing serious, so please enjoy the party.”

Her voice was light and bubbly, and many guests believed her, returning to their conversations. But only my lawyer Chris and my investor Paul remained still.

Chris quietly slipped his hand into his suit jacket and opened a recording app on his phone. My mother picked up the empty kettle Allison had slammed down, then, wiping away fingerprints with her apron, she rolled it to the floor by my feet.

“Listen carefully, Allison. When the police arrive, this is what you say.”

She didn’t whisper to me; she spoke to her panicked daughter in a low, controlled tone.

“Sarah slipped on some water. She lost her balance, grabbed the kettle on the counter, and spilled it on herself. You tried to help, but you couldn’t reach her in time. Got it?”

Allison nodded frantically, her face pale.

“I… I get it. I didn’t do anything. She slipped on her own. It’s not my fault.”

She kept repeating it like a spell, trying to implant the false memory into herself.

My mother then splashed the water from the sink across the floor, deliberately creating a slippery surface.

“There, perfect. Sarah, you understand, don’t you? If you say anything stupid and ruin Allison’s future, you’ll have nowhere left to belong.”

“Oh my, how careless of me! Poor Sarah slipped and fell.”

My mother pressed her fake tears to her cheek as the police entered.

One officer began examining the scene. At first glance, it did look like a tragic household accident, but he sensed something off.

Because in the corner of the living room, Chris approached him calmly, offering his business card and whispering something.

“I represent the victim and I have a recording of everything that was just said. This was not an accident.”

Chris spoke softly, but it was enough to harden the officer’s expression. That was the moment my counterattack began.

The Price of Freedom

I was moved from the ICU to a private room in the general ward about a day after the incident. Even with painkillers continuously dripping through the IV, the sensation of burning skin along my left arm and chest never fully subsided.

Dr. Baker stood by my bedside, holding a thick binder. His voice was clinical, emotionless, as he explained the extent of my injuries.

“Will the scars remain?”

When I asked, he adjusted his glasses and answered honestly.

“There is a high likelihood of keloid scarring. Reconstructive surgery can lessen the appearance, but your skin will not return to its original state. Including rehabilitation, you’re looking at a minimum of six months for full recovery.”

I didn’t cry. They had branded me with something that would never disappear.

Then I decided that I would leave an indelible mark on their lives as well.

“Doctor, I need a detailed medical report. Please include photos. We’ll use it in court.”

As the doctor left, there was a knock at the door. Chris, my lawyer, and Detective Jackson, who had questioned the family yesterday, entered the room.

I had the bed raised and turned to face Jackson.

“Miss Walker, we spoke again with your mother and sister yesterday. They still insist this was an accident—that you slipped on the wet floor.”

The detective spoke without opening his notebook.

“However, our on-site inspection uncovered several inconsistencies.”

Chris interjected.

“Inconsistencies? It’s more than that. The location where Sarah supposedly slipped, the position of the kettle, and the spread of the hot water… analyzing the trajectory, it’s far too horizontal to have spilled from a fall. This is clearly the result of someone intentionally pouring from a height.”

The detective faced me, his eyes serious.

“We now have circumstantial evidence supporting your testimony, but to request an arrest warrant, we need definitive proof of intent to harm.”

I quietly played my trump card.

“Detective, have you checked the network camera in the living room?”

Jackson shook his head.

“Your mother said it was broken and not recording. We checked; the SD card had been removed.”

“Just as I expected. My mother had carefully tried to destroy the evidence, but she forgot one thing,”

I said, glancing at Chris.

“The camera not only stores footage on the SD card; it automatically backs up to the cloud, and I control that cloud account and its monthly payments.”

Jackson’s eyes widened.

“So there’s footage?”

“Yes. Last night, I had Chris preserve the data from the server.”

Jackson stared at the screen intently, then slowly looked up. He stood up and straightened the collar of his jacket.

“I’ll request a warrant from the judge immediately. We’ll begin investigating for assault and embezzlement.”

“Embezzlement?”

I asked. Jackson smiled faintly.

“Yes, we looked into the BMW your sister was bragging about. There’s strong suspicion she misused company assets for personal gain.”

The police had already uncovered more than I had anticipated. The counterattack was ready; next came the execution.

The next afternoon, Chris positioned himself outside my family home via video call under the pretense of asset preservation while I watched from my hospital room.

Two police cars slid silently into the driveway. Detective Jackson and a group of uniformed officers stepped out.

The intercom rang. After a moment, the door opened; it was my mother who appeared.

“What is this? It’s barely 11:00 a.m.”

But Jackson ignored her and presented the warrant.

“This is an arrest warrant for Allison Walker and a search and seizure warrant for this residence. Suspected offenses: second-degree assault and evidence tampering.”

As my mother screamed, “You can’t be serious,” the officers entered forcefully.

Minutes later, Allison, handcuffed behind her back, was dragged out by two officers.

“Let me go! Mom, Dad, do something!”

She screamed hysterically.