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Son père ne l'aimait pas, et sa belle-mère et ses demi-sœurs la rejetaient, la mariant à un perdant. Contre toute attente, ce soi-disant perdant était milliardaire. De plus, elle était un génie qui a percé le mystère de l'hydrogène et une figure emblématique de la communauté scientifique. Ses familles étaient si horrifiées qu'elles ont imploré même son pardon ! ===== « Mais votre mariage est déjà enregistré ! Que venez-vous faire ici ? Tenter une seconde union alors que la première est toujours valide, c'est illégal ! » Alina Dumas sortit du tribunal, hébétée, les doigts crispés autour d'un certificat de mariage encore tiède. L'homme à ses côtés, engagé pour jouer le rôle d'un époux d'un jour, recula lentement, comme si la réalité le gi**ait. Il la fixa, la bouche entrouverte. « Vous êtes mariée ? Mais pourquoi m'avoir payé pour une cérémonie bidon ? » Il récupéra son manteau et lâcha dans un soupir irrité : « L'acompte est non remboursable, adieu. » Et il disparut. Alina resta figée. Mariée ? Elle ? Elle n'avait jamais eu de petit ami, encore moins franchi la moindre étape vers un engagement. Elle baissa les yeux vers le papier. Le document officiel qu'elle tenait tremblait légèrement dans ses mains. Elle y découvrit sa propre image : un sourire contraint, une mine vaguement embarrassée, mais ce grain de beauté au coin de l'œil ne laissait aucune place au doute - c'était bien elle. L'homme à ses côtés, cependant. Un visage qu'elle ne connaissait pas. Traits sévères, nez anguleux, lèvres minces et regard sombre, brûlant à travers le papier comme un avertissement silencieux. Sous la photo, un nom : Nohan Leroux. Jamais entendu parler de lui. La panique naissante se changea en détermination. Alina prit une photo du certificat, l'envoya via WhatsApp à un contact anonyme - un simple avatar noir, sans nom - et écrivit : « Trouve-moi qui c'est. » Réponse immédiate : « Reçu. » Elle rangea son téléphone, monta sur son vieux scooter électrique et se dirigea vers la résidence familiale, dans un quartier bourgeois, le cœur battant. Aujourd'hui, sa demi-sœur Maïa célébrait ses fiançailles. La propriété resplendissait de décorations luxueuses. Les domestiques s'affairaient et des travailleurs temporaires s'agitaient à l'entrée. À peine descendue de son scooter, elle entendit les murmures. « Qui est cette beauté ? » « Tais-toi. C'est la bâtarde que le maître n'a jamais reconnue. » « Sa mère était l'am**te. Elle est arrivée en**inte alors que Mme Dumas était déjà sur le point d'accoucher. Elles ont accouché le même jour, dans la même maison. Une honte. » « Elle connaît sa place. Partie à l'internat, elle ne revient que rarement. Que fait-elle ici aujourd'hui ? » Alina ravala sa fierté, traversa le hall la tête baissée et entra. Line, sa mère, l'attendait à la porte. Élégante et nerveuse, elle l'attrapa par le bras. « Monte avec moi voir ta sœur. As-tu reçu le certificat de mariage ? » Alina répondit d'une voix neutre : « Oui. » C'était la vérité, même si l'homme dessus n'avait rien à voir avec celui prévu. « Parfait. N'oublie pas qui tu es. Ayden Leroux est promis à Maïa. Il est d'un rang noble, il ne sera jamais pour une fille comme toi. Seule Maïa peut l'épouser. » Une lueur glacée traversa les yeux de Alina. Ayden Leroux. Ce même homme qui lui avait couru après pendant quatre ans à l'université, avant de demander Maïa en mariage le jour même de la remise des diplômes. Dès que Linel'avait appris, elle avait ordonné à Alina de se marier avec un inconnu, pour éliminer toute trace de lien entre elle et Ayden. Cela avait toujours été ainsi. Dès qu'un choix devait être fait entre elle et Maïa, Linel'écrasait sans pitié. Elle était la fille cachée, la honte vivante. On lui avait appris à se taire. Mais aujourd'hui. Elle serra les dents. « Nous avions convenu que ce serait la dernière fois. » Lineserra les lèvres, irritée. « Bien. » Elles entrèrent dans la chambre d'Maïa. La jeune femme, resplendissante dans sa robe de créateur, trônait comme une reine, entourée de pierres précieuses. Alina, en tenue sobre, se tint droite. Maïa sourit. « Alina ? Quelle surprise. » Avant qu'elle ne puisse répondre, Lineintervint. « Ta sœur s'est mariée aujourd'hui. » Les yeux d'Maïa s'écarquillèrent. « Déjà ? Qui est l'heureux élu ? Il est mieux que Ayden ? » Lineéclata de rire. « Bien sûr que non. Personne ne vaut Ayden. Le mari de Alina est un raté, même pas capable de se présenter. Il a trop honte. » Maïa fronça les sourcils. « Pourtant, Alina est jolie. Ayden l'aimait bien à l'époque. » « Belle ou pas, une chaussure usée ne va qu'avec une chaussette trouée. Une fille illégitime n'épouse que le rebut de la société. Ayden s'amusait, rien de plus. Seule toi, Maïa, peux lui être égale. » Alina fronça les sourcils. L'homme sur le certificat, Nohan Leroux, n'avait rien d'un looser. Quelque chose clochait. Mais elle ne répondit pas. Pas maintenant. Maïa choisissait ses bijoux. Sa robe moulante l'empêchait de se pencher. Elle sourit à Alina. Poppy, sans la moindre gêne, ordonna : « Aide ta sœur à mettre ses chaussures. » Alina se figea. Toujours la même rengaine. Toujours traitée comme une servante. Elle redressa la tête. Son regard était dur. « Tu peux le faire toi-même. » Lineexplosa. « Alina Dumas ! Pour qui te prends-tu ? Tu crois que t'es importante parce que t'es mariée à un misérable pique-assiette ? » Chapitre 2 « Au final, tu devras toujours compter sur la famille Dumas ! » tonna Poppy, sa voix perçant le silence de la pièce comme une flèche acérée. « Si tu refuses de faire la paix avec ta sœur aujourd'hui, le moment viendra où toi et ton mari ramperez à ses pieds pour mendier son aide ! N'oublie jamais que la famille Dumas t'a élevée. tu lui dois allégeance comme une servante à ses maîtres ! » À cet instant précis, l'ombre d'un homme s'étira sur le sol, grand et imposant dans l'embrasure de la porte. Samuel Dumas Dumas venait d'arriver. Il fronça les sourcils, sa voix grave résonnant dans la pièce : « Un invité de prestige est attendu, et vous trouvez le moyen de vous quereller comme des enfants ? » Maïa afficha un visage faussement innocent, détournant les yeux. De son côté, Linese lança dans son rôle favori : la victime. « Tout ça à cause de cette fille ingrate ! Elle méprise sa propre mère simplement parce qu'elle s'est mariée aujourd'hui. » Samuel Dumas planta ses yeux perçants dans ceux de Alina. « Tu t'es mariée ? Pourquoi ne pas avoir attendu qu'on te présente un homme digne de toi ? Montre-moi ce certificat de mariage. » Un court silence s'installa. Alina, figée, hésita à sortir le précieux document. Mais, prise de remords ou de défi, elle finit par le tirer lentement de son sac. Avant même qu'elle ne puisse le tendre, Linese jeta dessus avec avidité. « Laisse-moi découvrir quel raté tu as épousé ! » s'écria-t-elle. Maïa, tout sourire, ajouta avec malice : « Et dis-nous donc, Papa. Qui est cet invité si impressionnant qui te fait suer à grosses gouttes ? » À cette évocation, Samuel Dumas sembla reprendre vie. Il se redressa, les yeux brillants d'orgueil. « C'est Nohan Leroux. » Alina en resta stupéfaite. Nohan Leroux ? Ce nom résonnait comme un coup de tonnerre dans une nuit calme. Maïa, curieuse, plissa les yeux. « Qui est Nohan Leroux ? Est-ce vraiment quelqu'un d'aussi influent ? » Même Alina, qui connaissait bien les milieux fortunés d'Solaria, ne l'avait jamais entendu. Samuel Dumas répondit d'un ton mystérieux : « Il est inconnu du grand public. Moi-même, je ne l'ai jamais rencontré. Il s'agit du jeune oncle de Ayden Leroux. Il a à peine 28 ans, mais c'est lui qui dirige véritablement toute la dynastie Leroux. » Lineécarquilla les yeux. « Dans ce cas. il serait un bien meilleur prétendant pour Maïa que Ayden ! » Le pouvoir surpassait toujours la lignée, après tout. Samuel Dumas l'interrompit sèchement : « Ne dis pas de bêtises, M. Leroux est déjà marié ! » Alina sentit un frisson la traverser. Marié ? Si c'était bien son époux sur le certificat. alors Nohan allait bientôt comprendre ce qui se tramait. Poppy, déçue, murmura : « Qui est donc cette femme ? Quelle chance elle a. » Samuel Dumas haussa les épaules. « Nul ne le sait. Il paraît qu'il déteste les mondanités, lui et son épouse. » Il parut troublé. « Je ne comprends toujours pas pourquoi il aurait décidé de venir aujourd'hui, à ces fiançailles. » La famille Leroux, géante d'Solaria, incarnait la puissance absolue. À côté, les Dumas n'étaient que des bourgeois avec un peu d'influence. Qu'un homme tel que Nohan Leroux se déplace en personne. cela relevait presque du prodige. « Peut-être qu'Maïa est tout simplement irrésistible ! » s'exclama Poppy, l'air béat. « Maïa, ce collier est ridicule face à de tels invités. Vite, allons te parer de joyaux plus dignes ! » Elle rendit distraitement le certificat à Alina et tira Maïa par le bras vers la salle des bijoux, abandonnant sans scrupules Mme Dumas. Alina, en retrait, observa la scène avec un sourire amer. « Monsieur, la famille Leroux ne va plus tarder », annonça respectueusement le majordome. Samuel Dumas descendit lentement l'escalier, jetant un regard froid à Alina. « Tu n'étais pas revenue depuis des lustres. Bois un verre et repars. » Alina se contenta de hocher la tête. Elle n'avait qu'une envie : rester et mettre enfin un visage sur celui qu'on appelait Nohan Leroux À l'étage, Linechoisissait frénétiquement les plus luxueux colliers pour Maïa, l'enveloppant de perles et de diamants. Face à la beauté de la jeune fille, elle la contemplait avec fierté. Depuis plus de vingt ans, Linenourrissait une haine viscérale envers Jodie Vega, alias Mme Dumas. À l'époque, elle avait simulé un scandale, accouché le même jour et échangé les bébés à l'hôpital. pour que sa propre fille grandisse dans l'opulence, tandis que celle de Jodie vivrait comme une paria. Aujourd'hui, sa vengeance était totale. Maïa allait se marier en grande pompe, couverte de diamants, tandis que Alina - qu'elle considérait comme une erreur du destin - n'était qu'une roturière sans le sou, contrainte d'épouser un homme sans prestige. Linesavourait cette ironie du sort avec une délectation perverse. En bas, Alina, adossée contre le mur, observait calmement la grande porte. L'arrivée des Leroux était imminente. Puis, lentement, une silhouette descendit les escaliers : Mme Dumas. Appuyée sur une servante, vêtue de violet, elle paraissait fatiguée, amaigrie, mais empreinte d'une dignité rare. « Madame, vous êtes faible. Il serait préférable de ne pas descendre », souffla la servante. Mme Dumas secoua doucement la tête, la voix brisée par une toux. « Non. je ne peux pas. manquer le grand jour d'Maïa. » Elles ne remarquèrent pas Alina, tapie dans l'ombre. La jeune femme les regarda s'éloigner, le cœur serré. Ironiquement, dans cette famille qui n'avait cessé de la rejeter, la seule personne à lui avoir témoigné de la tendresse était celle qui aurait eu toutes les raisons de la haïr. Mme Dumas, cette femme fragile mais fière, incarnait à ses yeux la noblesse véritable. Poppy, elle, n'avait jamais été une mère. Elle avait souvent oublié de nourrir Alina, la laissant pleurer seule dans le noir. Mais ce soir, Alina ne pleurait plus. Ce soir, elle allait découvrir si Nohan Leroux, l'homme mystérieux sur son certificat, était celui que tous redoutaient ou espéraient. Chapitre 3 Enfant, Alina n'était qu'une ombre famélique dans les rues, le ventre toujours vide, les yeux trop grands pour son visage amaigri. Elle apprit à marcher au même moment qu'elle apprit à fouiller les sacs-poubelle derrière les maisons de banlieue. Un après-midi venteux, alors qu'elle tentait de récupérer une croûte de pain moisi, une silhouette douce mais ferme l'interrompit. Depuis ce jour, Mme Dumas déposa chaque matin une assiette de restes derrière sa clôture, sans jamais rien dire. Ce geste devint un rituel silencieux pendant douze longues années. Sans cette main tendue, Alina n'aurait sans doute pas survécu. Aujourd'hui, alors que Mme Dumas s'éloignait d'un pas fatigué, sa toux persistante la trahissant, Alina sentit son cœur se serrer. À cet instant, un vacarme résonna à l'entrée. Les Leroux venaient d'arriver, annonçant leur présence comme une fanfare. Samuel Dumas et Mme Dumas les accueillirent avec chaleur. Une brève conversation s'engagea, puis ils s'écartèrent pour laisser passer un cortège élégant. Parmi eux, Nohan Leroux, éblouissant dans un costume noir taillé sur mesure, avançait avec assurance, tel un roi parmi ses sujets. Il était encore plus impressionnant que sur les clichés : menton carré, regard profond, lèvres serrées, port altier. Son regard perça la foule et s'arrêta un instant sur Alina. Un frisson la traversa lorsque leurs yeux se croisèrent. L'instant fut bref, mais lourd de tension. Il détourna les yeux avant qu'elle ne puisse en déchiffrer le sens. Samuel Dumas lança joyeusement : « Monsieur Leroux, votre épouse ne vous accompagne pas ? » La question eut l'effet d'un électrochoc sur Alina. Elle sentit à nouveau le regard de Nohan se poser sur elle, plus insistant. Il répondit, d'un ton distant : « Elle n'a pas pu venir. » Ils avancèrent vers le salon, discutant des préparatifs du mariage. Ayden Leroux suivait les aînés, plus élégant que jamais dans son costume. Loin de remarquer Alina, il parlait doucement à Maïa. Le salon s'anima autour de Nohan, installé à la place d'honneur. Alina restait à l'écart, muette, observant les convives se perdre dans leurs bavardages frivoles. Poppy, surgissant de nulle part, l'agrippa violemment par le bras : « Alina ! Pourquoi es-tu encore là ? Tu ne peux donc pas laisser Ayden tranquille ? C'est ton beau-frère, à présent ! » Alina se dégagea avec un sourire froid. « Inutile de t'agiter. Je ne suis pas là pour jouer les maî**esses. M. Dumas m'a invitée à boire un verre pour célébrer. » Depuis l'adolescence, elle avait toujours appelé Samuel Dumas Dumas ainsi, signe de respect distant. Linegrimaça. « Tu prends ses paroles au pied de la lettre ? Tu ne vois donc pas que tu es déplacée ici ? Même moi, je n'oserais pas embarrasser les Dumas comme ça, et toi, bâ**rde sans statut, tu crois avoir ta place à cette table ? Pars avant d'attirer la honte ! » Alina fulminait intérieurement : Va-t-elle un jour se taire ? Elle s'apprêtait à répondre quand elle aperçut Nohan Leroux se lever. Il montra son téléphone, s'excusa brièvement et s'éloigna vers le balcon. Les yeux de Alina s'illuminèrent. « Très bien. » Elle repoussa Lineet sortit discrètement du salon, sans pour autant quitter la maison. Elle grimpa à l'étage et rejoignit le balcon qui donnait sur le jardin. Nohan venait de terminer son appel. Quand il la vit, il la fixa d'un regard glacial. Alina hésita, puis murmura : « Chéri ? » Le balcon, isolé, masquait le tumulte du salon. Nohan, interloqué, la regarda sans un mot, ses yeux sombres impénétrables. Puis il fit volte-face, prêt à repartir. Alina se plaça devant lui. Il s'arrêta, fronçant les sourcils. « Écartez-vous. » Sa voix, grave et posée, résonna comme une ca**sse menaçante. Alina sentit son estomac se nouer. « Tu. tu ne me reconnais pas ? » Nohan la scruta de haut en bas. « Devrais-je ? » Dès qu'il avait franchi le seuil des Dumas, il avait senti un regard brûlant l'observer. Ce n'était pas un de ces regards mielleux qu'il connaissait trop bien, mais un regard sincère, brut. C'est ce qui l'avait poussé à jeter quelques coups d'œil en retour. La jeune fille était magnifique, avec une allure tranquille mais rebelle, et ce grain de beauté discret au coin de l'œil, presque trop parfait pour être réel. Mais elle avait osé l'appeler chéri. Agacé, Nohan déclara sèchement : « Mademoiselle, je suis un homme marié. Veuillez garder vos distances. » Alina recula légèrement, déconcertée. Il ne se souvenait donc pas d'elle. mais comment pouvait-il affirmer être marié alors que. Elle sortit un document plié de son sac. « Puis-je savoir qui est votre épouse ? » « Ce n'est pas vos affaires. » Il était glacial. Elle lui tendit une copie de leur certificat de mariage. « Monsieur Leroux, cet homme sur le document, c'est bien vous, n'est-ce pas ? » Nohan baissa les yeux, lut les noms. La mariée s'appelait Alina Dumas. Il releva la tête, sarcastique. « Mademoiselle Dumas, un faux pareil ? Vous auriez pu faire un effort. Une copie professionnelle, ça ne coûte presque rien. » Puis il tourna les talons, évitant le salon pour rejoindre directement le jardin et le parking. Alina le poursuivit. Deux agents de sécurité en noir l'arrêtèrent. « Monsieur Leroux ! Ce papier est authentique ! Vous pouvez vérifier au Bureau des affaires civiles ! » Mais Nohan ne ralentit pas. Il monta dans sa voiture et disparut dans la nuit. Son assistante, restée sur place, regagna le salon. Maïa l'intercepta, inquiète. Elle avait vu la scène, sans comprendre les mots. « Pourquoi M. Leroux est-il parti si brusquement ? Quelqu'un lui a manqué de respect ? » Chapitre 4 L'assistante personnelle afficha un sourire discret. « Monsieur Leroux a dû partir précipitamment pour des affaires urgentes. Mademoiselle Dumas, pourriez-vous prévenir les aînés de la famille, je vous prie ? » Le patron ne fit aucun reproche à la jeune femme, ce qui signifiait qu'il n'était pas en colère contre elle. Maïa acquiesça aussitôt, reconduisant l'assistante avec courtoisie. Une fois la date du mariage fixée et le repas terminé, les membres de la famille Leroux prirent congé. Après avoir salué les invités, Samuel Dumas exprima son inquiétude : « Pourquoi M. Leroux est-il parti ainsi ? Aurions-nous commis une faute ? » Maïa, les yeux assombris, pensa à l'attitude étrange de Ayden, distrait comme s'il cherchait désespérément quelqu'un, puis au visage troublant de Alina. Elle serra les poings, le regard dur. « Papa, j'ai vu Alina importuner M. Leroux. Il était visiblement furieux en partant et a laissé un message. » « Quel message ? » demanda Samuel Dumas. « Il a dit que tu devrais mieux éduquer ta fille. » Maïa mordilla sa lèvre. « Si Alina continue ainsi, la famille Leroux pensera que nous manquons d'autorité. » Le teint de Samuel Dumas vira au blanc. Pendant ce temps, Alina, à bord de son scooter électrique, quittait la villa. Elle avait perdu Nohan de vue et commençait déjà à regretter ses agissements. Son téléphone vibra. À l'autre bout du fil, la voix inquiète de son assistant Samuel résonna : « Chef, beaucoup de gens cherchent à savoir qui est vraiment le Dr Vega ces derniers temps. » Alina haussa un sourcil. « Ils n'ont rien découvert, j'espère ? » « Non, bien sûr. Qui soupçonnerait qu'une jeune femme tout juste diplômée, à l'air si inoffensif, soit la génie ayant résolu le casse-tête de l'hydrogène ? » « Autre chose ? » coupa-t-elle froidement. « Oui. J'ai trouvé des infos sur Nohan Leroux ! » « Je vous écoute. » « Il est le second fils de l'ancien patriarche Leroux. On dit de lui qu'il est d'une brutalité rare, ce qui expliquerait son exil précoce à l'étranger. Tout le monde croyait que l'héritage familial irait à son frère aîné, le père de Ayden. Pourtant, Nohan est revenu soudainement la semaine dernière et a forcé son père à céder la direction du groupe Leroux en employant des moyens radicaux. » Samuel s'interrogea ensuite : « N'aviez-vous pas prévu un mariage de façade aujourd'hui ? Comment le marié s'est-il révélé aussi redoutable ? Patronne, si votre situation conjugale vacille, l'introduction en bourse pourrait être compromise. » Alina fronça les sourcils. « Trouve-moi ses coordonnées et son emploi du temps. Je dois lui parler. » La seule raison pour laquelle elle avait accepté cette mascarade de mariage, c'était parce que le statut marital d'une représentante légale consolidait l'image de l'entreprise en vue de son introduction en bourse. Mais elle s'était retrouvée mariée à un homme qu'elle ne connaissait pas, et l'ombre d'un piège planait autour d'elle. Nohan Leroux n'était pas un homme ordinaire ; la meilleure issue serait un divorce rapide. Après avoir raccroché, elle se massa les tempes. La situation était devenue plus complexe qu'elle ne l'avait anticipé. Nohan, en tant que chef d'entreprise, était constamment entouré de gardes du corps. Le revoir ne serait pas chose aisée. Elle se ma**it d'avoir, sur un coup de tête, utilisé ce mot insensé - « chéri » - qui avait provoqué sa colère. Soupirant, elle redémarra son scooter et quitta lentement le centre-ville pour rejoindre un vieux quartier en périphérie. Depuis le collège, elle avait fui la demeure familiale des Dumas avec peu d'argent, louant une vieille maison où elle s'était installée sans jamais déménager. En s'engageant dans un virage près de chez elle, une vieille dame surgit soudainement du bord de la route. Alina freina brusquement, évitant de justesse l'accident. Intriguée, elle observa la vieille femme. Malgré son apparence frêle, elle était bien habillée et portait un badge autour du cou. On y lisait : « Si vous trouvez cette dame, appelez ce numéro. Une récompense sera offerte. » Alina comprit aussitôt : cette femme était atteinte d'Alzheimer et s'était égarée. Elle s'empressa de composer le numéro. À ce moment-là, la vieille dame, auparavant perdue dans le vide, attrapa brusquement son poignet. Ses yeux, soudain pleins de vie, s'illuminèrent. « Ma belle-fille ! C'est toi, ma belle-fille ! » Alina, figée, sentit les coins de ses lèvres se crisper. Vingt-deux ans de célibat et voilà qu'elle avait encore trouvé un mari sans le vouloir. Le Bureau des affaires civiles distribuerait-il des maris en série maintenant ? Trouvant la situation presque absurde, elle demanda calmement : « Grand-mère, qui est ton petit-fils ? » La vieille dame chercha dans sa mémoire. Le nom lui échappait. puis un éclair : « Nohan Leroux ! » bredouilla-t-elle avec enthousiasme. Un long silence. La vieille dame s'agitait. « Il s'appelle Nohan. Son nom. Son nom. » Mais le mot restait bloqué. Alina tenta de la rassurer. « Ce n'est pas grave, madame. Ne vous inquiétez pas. » Puis elle reprit l'appel. Pendant ce temps, à quelques rues de là, Nohan Leroux était assis dans sa Bentley. Son regard sombre glaçait l'air. À ses côtés, Tom Davis tremblait. « Je. Je suis désolé, monsieur. J'ai perdu la vieille Mme Leroux ! » Aucun mot ne sortit de la bouche de Nohan, mais l'atmosphère devint lourde. Tom déglutit difficilement. Qui aurait cru que la vieille dame, d'ordinaire dans un état second, retrouverait soudain ses esprits et disparaîtrait ainsi ? Les caméras de surveillance révélèrent qu'elle avait pris un bus vers la banlieue. Seule. Chapitre 5 Le quartier portait les stigmates du temps, avec ses ruelles étroites et ses bâtiments à moitié effondrés. L'obscurité s'étendait dans ces allées privées de caméras, rendant toute enquête extrêmement complexe. C'est dans ce décor morne qu'un téléphone vibra brusquement, brisant le silence pesant de la voiture. Nohan décrocha immédiatement. Une voix féminine, calme et troublante, se fit entendre : - Bonjour, la vieille dame que vous cherchez est avec moi. Un court instant s'écoula, suspendu dans une tension glaciale. Tous retinrent leur souffle. Une soudaine activité s'empara du véhicule : certains prirent leurs téléphones pour prévenir les autorités, tandis que Tom traçait la provenance de l'appel. Nohan, implacable, posa sa question d'un ton ferme : - Que voulez-vous en échange ? - Relaxez-vous, répondit-elle d'un ton espiègle. Ce n'était qu'une blague. Vous devriez simplement mieux veiller sur vos aînés. Puis elle donna une adresse et coupa court. Tom soupira bruyamment, posant la main sur son cœur. Quelle audace désarmante ! Mais Nohan, lui, fronça les sourcils. Cette voix. elle avait quelque chose de familier, presque troublant. En moins de cinq minutes, ils arrivèrent sur place. Pourtant, la mystérieuse bienfaitrice s'était volatilisée. Il n'y avait qu'un policier et la vieille Mme Leroux, saine et sauve. - Grand-mère, comment es-tu arrivée là ? demanda Nohan. La vieille dame répondit d'un ton énigmatique : - Je suis venue rendre visite à ma belle-fille. Elle habite juste à côté. Nohan se figea. - Grand-mère. tu n'as pas de belle-fille. - C'est faux ! Je l'ai rencontrée. C'est elle qui m'a livrée à la police avant de s'éclipser. Donne-moi ton téléphone. Il obéit. Elle griffonna précipitamment les derniers numéros appelés dans son carnet, convaincue d'avoir enfin trouvé sa mystérieuse belle-fille. Pendant ce temps, Alina, l'autrice de ce geste altruiste mais discret, préférait éviter tout remerciement gênant. Elle remit la vieille dame à la police et quitta les lieux rapidement. Elle n'était pas taillée pour les scènes d'émotion familiale. Le lendemain, elle reçut un appel de son conseiller pédagogique : - Alina, viens immédiatement à l'université ! Déconcertée, elle sauta sur son vélo électrique et se précipita vers le bureau du professeur Miller. En y entrant, elle y découvrit Maïa et Linedéjà installées. Alina plissa les yeux, soupçonneuse. Maïa était sa camarade à l'université Solaria, un établissement prestigieux. Maïa avait été admise grâce à ses résultats brillants, tandis que Alina, entrepreneuse ambitieuse, avait volontairement gardé ses notes basses pour ne pas éclipser Maïa, choisissant une filière peu prisée : l'énergie et l'électricité. Ironiquement, ce domaine devint tendance deux ans plus tard. Maïa changea alors de cursus, les réunissant à nouveau dans les mêmes classes. Alina pouvait comprendre la présence d'Maïa. mais pourquoi Line? Avant qu'elle n'obtienne de réponse, la voix du professeur Miller résonna : - Alina, ta recommandation pour les études de troisième cycle a été annulée. - Quoi ? s'étrangla-t-elle. Pourquoi ? - Ta mère considère que ton comportement est incompatible avec les critères requis, dit-il avec sévérité. Tente de t'excuser, cela pourrait s'arranger. Maïa soupira théâtralement. - Je suis certaine que ta mère agit pour ton bien, Alina. Tu as contrarié M. Leroux, et il a exigé que tu quittes Solaria. Alina mit quelques secondes à comprendre que ce "M. Leroux" n'était autre que Nohan. Elle se souvenait de leur bref échange de la veille. était-il vraiment rancunier au point de nuire à son avenir ? Maïa s'approcha avec un air doucereux : - Papa t'a acheté un billet pour l'étranger. Il pense qu'il est plus sage que tu partes. Même la famille Dumas ne pourra plus te couvrir si tu restes. Alina jeta un coup d'œil à la destination : l'Argentine. Littéralement à l'opposé du continent. Cherchaient-ils à l'exiler à jamais ? Elle repoussa le billet, glaciale : - Je n'ai pas besoin de votre charité. Maïa sortit alors une carte bancaire, faussement compatissante : - Tu as peur de ne pas t'en sortir là-bas ? Voici 6 000 dollars, toutes mes économies. Je t'aiderai encore dès que j'aurai mon argent de poche. Alina esquissa un sourire moqueur. La précieuse héritière Dumas ne possédait donc que 6 000 dollars ? Mais Linearracha brusquement la carte : - Maïa ! C'est déjà généreux de lui avoir payé un billet. Elle fusilla Alina du regard : - Fais tes bagages. Tu pars. J'ai déjà signé les papiers pour ton retrait de l'université. Alina la fixa, glaciale : - Et qui t'a donné ce droit ? - Je suis ta mère ! Et franchement, avec tes résultats, continuer les études est une perte de temps. Va travailler, gagne ta vie. - Madame, intervint Miller, Alina a un excellent niveau. - Professeur, épargnez-moi ce discours, coupa Poppy. Si elle veut tant faire des études, c'est uniquement pour rivaliser avec Maïa. Le professeur resta sans voix. Il se tourna vers Maïa : - Tu souhaites aussi poursuivre tes études ? Pourtant, tu n'as reçu aucune recommandation. Maïa afficha un sourire angélique : - J'ai été acceptée par une filière spéciale. Le mentor est Dr Vega, Il a fait breveter sa recherche sur l'hydrogène comme carburant alternatif. Alina la dévisagea, incrédule. - Tu as dit. qui ?. Que se passe-t-il ensuite? Le nombre de chapitres affichés est limité. 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Her fiancé became her sister's man, yet her parents sided with her sister, planning to sell her off to an old man. To escape that fate, she accepted a proposal from a neighbor she'd spent one night with. She never expected he'd been secretly in love with her for years, spoiling her endlessly after their marriage. ===== Crack! My fiancé hit me. Two minutes ago, I accidentally broke a mug. Then, Rhys sl**ped me across the face-hard. My cheek burned like it had been seared by fire. Three minutes ago, I had been daydreaming about how to decorate our ridiculously expensive penthouse apartment, where every corner looked like it belonged on the cover of a magazine. It took a full thirty seconds before my brain restarted, slowly piecing reality back together. "Are you f**king insane?" I gritted my teeth, forcing the words through the cracks of my jaw. Rhys's lips were pressed into a cold, tight line, his expression dark and resolute. "It was just a mug with Catherine's face on it," he said, as if my reaction was an overblown performance, not the result of something horrifying he had just done. "You have got to be f**king kidding me." I stared at him in disbelief, my ch**t heaving as rage and humiliation churned violently inside me, ready to explode. For half a second-just half-something like guilt flickered across his face. Then it vanished, consumed by a storm of fury. "No, you're the insane one!" he roared. "I already agreed to marry you-what more do you want? Catherine's gone, but you still broke that mug on purpose!" His voice trembled with anger. "She was your sister! She had to leave because of you! And now you're jealous of her? You won't rest until every trace of her is erased, will you?" The hatred in his eyes cut deeper than the s**p. My cheek throbbed. My hand was still bl**ding. But nothing hurt more than my heart. I forced myself to unclench my jaw and made one last attempt to explain. "It wasn't me. I never asked her to leave." Technically speaking, I understood why someone might say that. Catherine had left behind a letter. In it, she said she'd seen my diary, realized I had a crush on Rhys, and decided to "let go," to "let him be yours." I don't think she ever understood that a diary meant privacy. I never meant for anyone to read it, but not only did she read it-she told everyone. No one cared about the pain I felt when my secret was exposed. I was dragged out, nailed to a pillar of shame, forced to pay for her so-called noble sacrifice. To my family, it was like I'd been bumped up to the starting lineup out of nowhere, replacing the golden girl-I should've been grateful. Even if Rhys had st**bed me in the gut, they'd still find a way to excuse it. It was as if my parents had always hated me. No matter how much better I did than Catherine, they always saw me as bitter, as someone who couldn't protect her fragile pride. The searing pain on my cheek intensified. My fingers clenched tightly around the engagement ring. A wave of heat-anger, humiliation, resentment-rose in my throat. Hot tears welled in my eyes, blurring my vision. I blinked fast, wiping them away before they could fall. I would not cry. I would never show weakness in front of him. I took a heavy step toward the door, struggling to move. I had to get out of there, or I would completely fall apart. Whatever shred of dignity I had left-I couldn't let it be destroyed in front of this man. Rhys suddenly grabbed my wrist and yanked me back. "Clean it up." I looked up at him in disbelief, needing to confirm I'd heard him right. "You broke the mug. You clean up the pieces." His voice was icy, absolute. He had to be insane. "No." I lifted my chin and spat the word without an ounce of compromise. His face tightened, jaw clenched. "You sure you want to do this?" "Yes. I said no." My eyes were red, but they blazed with defiance as I stared him down without flinching. If love meant I had to grind my self-respect into the dirt, then it was worthless to me. The air between us was taut enough to snap. I could almost hear it crackling. The fury in his eyes was an uncontrollable blaze, threatening to consume me. And beneath that fire, I saw something else-disbelief. The once docile little lamb had bared her fangs. He took a step closer, menace radiating from him. "Last chance. If you don't obey me, then we-" "-are over," I finished for him, cold and final. Shock froze his face. For a moment, the air went still. He hadn't expected me to actually say it. While he was caught in that moment of confusion, I wrenched my arm free from his grip. The taste of freedom hadn't yet bloomed in my ch**t when he snapped back to life, grabbing my arm again with brutal force. Now. I spun around without hesitation and raised my hand-sm**k! A resounding s**p landed hard across Rhys's handsome, arrogant face. The air froze again, thick with silence. My palm tingled slightly, but it brought a rush of fierce, unprecedented satisfaction. Rhys staggered back a few steps, his eyes wide with shock and disbelief-not from the pain, but from a world turned upside down. He never thought I would dare. After all, I had once loved him so deeply. I lowered my hand, lifted my chin, and looked calmly at his stunned expression. I gave him a faint smile. "Now we're even." Without waiting another moment, I dragged my feet away from that suffocating h**l. If I stayed even one more second, I would break down. I'd rather choke on my own tears than let him see them fall. Then-thud-I fell. High heels and emotional chaos are a terrible match. Pain shot through my palms and knees as they scraped against the hard marble. Bl**d surged out instantly, but I barely felt it. I got up, grabbed my purse, and kept walking. Home. I just wanted to go home. Away from all of this. Away from him. Like a woman fleeing the scene of a crime, I burst out of the building-only to slam into a wall of mu**le and the in**xicating scent of expensive cologne. I looked up-and saw sharp, sculpted features with an aura so commanding it could silence a room. He looked like the kind of man who, if you pissed him off, wouldn't just ruin your life-he'd erase your entire existence. Unfortunately, that only made him more attractive. For a second, I wished he would throw me over his shoulder and carry me to his lair-my face flushed red instantly. I snapped myself back to reality. "Sorry," I mumbled and rushed into the elevator of my apartment building. Back upstairs, I rummaged through my bag. My heart sank. No keys. Of course. The universe had clearly declared today The End of Mira Day. Frustration and helplessness surged in my ch**t. I kicked off my heels and shook the doorknob violently. It didn't help-but I needed to let it out. Why did everyone always choose Catherine?! Hadn't I done enough? I collapsed against the wall, sliding down to the cold floor as sobs tore from my throat. The tears came in a flood, impossible to stop. Just as I was nearly choking on my own cries, a voice-low, smooth, like black velvet-cut through the air behind me. "Your key." Fury sparked in my veins. Why did someone always interrupt me just when I was about to get it all out? Annoyed, I turned, ready to glare-only to freeze. Through tear-blurred eyes, I saw him again. The man I had bumped into downstairs-the one who looked like he had stepped out of a Renaissance painting. "Your key fell," he said, raising an eyebrow as his gaze landed on the scattered contents of my purse. "That's probably why you couldn't find it." I stared at the key resting in his elegant hand, my face flushing so hot it could've lit a match. I snatched it from him and fumbled to unlock the door, stumbling inside without a word. It wasn't until my back hit the door that I realized-I hadn't even thanked him. Great job, Mira. You absolute id**t. Hesitating, I crept toward the peephole. Through that tiny lens, I saw him calmly turn, unlock the door directly across the hall, and stroll inside. He lived across from me? He must have just moved in. With a face like that-and that aura-there's no way I wouldn't have noticed before. Wait, Mira. What are you doing? You're seriously letting a hot new neighbor make you forget the h**l Rhys just put you through? No. Absolutely not. All men are tr**h. Always. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to steady my racing heartbeat, reminding myself not to be so st**id again. But no matter how hard I tried, that sculpted face kept flashing through my mind. I needed ice-for my racing pulse, and more urgently, for the stinging pain on my cheek. Just as I forced myself up to head to the kitchen, my phone rang, shrill and sharp. One glance at the screen made my whole body go cold. Mom. I couldn't ignore the call. If I did, she would destroy my career without hesitation. She was absolutely capable of it. The moment I picked up, her voice sliced through the air-cold and merciless. "Mira, you must be insane! How dare you do something so disgraceful to Rhys! You apologize to him right now, or you're no longer our daughter!" I opened my mouth to explain, stunned-but she hung up before I could get a single word out. I gripped my phone tightly. Why was it that no matter how hard I tried, I still couldn't earn even a sliver of their love? And Catherine-she never had to do anything, yet she was their perfect, precious jewel. Enough. I thought if I worked hard enough, my family, my fiancé-they would love me. But that's never going to happen. I have to reclaim the self-respect I lost long ago. I have to break off this engagement with Rhys-no matter the consequences. Chapter 2 Plan B For the next forty-eight hours, I became one with my bed. No calls. No outside world. Just me, a pile of blankets, and the crushing weight of humiliation. That s**p from Rhys wasn't just a blow to the face. In so many ways, it was a s**p across my entire life-one steeped in desperation, delusion, and pathetic longing. It forced me awake. It made me look back on everything I'd ever done to make him notice me, everything I'd done for a fantasy called "us" that had never truly existed. God, where do I even begin? Like the time he casually mentioned he liked girls with smooth, silky hair. That night, I ordered three bottles of the shampoo he'd once praised. My scalp broke out in hives. I smiled through the pain and said, "It's fine-some allergic reactions are worth it." Or when he told me he was too busy with work to grab dinner, so I stayed up learning how to bake and brought him a box of pastries in the rain. He didn't even open the door-just had the receptionist tell me, "Don't bother next time. I don't like sweets." Then there was that night at his friend's dinner party. I forced down oysters-my most hated food-just to seem "graceful and agreeable." I spent the entire night crouched over a toilet, writhing in pain until 3 a.m. He didn't ask if I was okay. He laughed and said, "Can't even handle seafood? That's just dramatic." But the worst? That time he quoted a line from The Godfather he liked. I stayed up all night reading film essays just to casually drop the quote at a party. I got it wrong. He corrected me in front of everyone, sneering, "Don't pretend to like things you clearly don't understand." And I laughed. I laughed and said, "You've got such a good memory." What a joke. I never realized I was never the person he wanted. He never really saw me. To him, I was nothing more than a low-rent version of the "perfect and untouchable" Catherine. A cheap stand-in. I wasn't her, but I could offer him the faint illusion of having her again. That was all I was good for. I buried my face in the pillow and laughed until I shook. Not because it was funny-but because the pain had gone too deep for tears. Thankfully, after my parents delivered their final ultimatum two days ago, they hadn't contacted me again. A small part of me wondered-did Rhys intervene? Did he finally realize what he'd done? Suddenly, the doorbell rang. And it didn't stop ringing. For a full five minutes. I gr**ned into my pillow. Oh god. Social interaction. Dragging my exhausted body to the door, I opened it. Yvaine Carlisle-my best friend and the only person who had the legal right to yell at me-stood on the other side, hands on hips. Then her eyes landed on my face. Her expression froze. The light in her eyes dimmed. "What the h**l happened to you?" "I'm fine," I said, trying to sound casual. She wasn't buying it. She reached out, gently tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. Her jaw clenched. Then-silence. Not the awkward kind. The dangerous kind. The kind that comes right before something explodes. "Who hit you?" "Come inside," I muttered quickly, trying not to draw the neighbors' attention. That would be mortifying. Yvaine didn't move. She gripped my arm and spoke through gritted teeth. "Mira. Who. Hit. You?" As soon as the door clicked shut, I collapsed into her arms. My face buried in her sweater, and within seconds, the fabric was soaked. She didn't flinch. She just held me, her hand moving in calm, soothing circles across my back. I didn't know how long I cried. Long enough for my throat to burn and my nose to turn bright red like Rudolph. Eventually, I managed to force out a single word. "Rhys." Yvaine didn't move. Everyone in Skyline City knew that name. Rhys Granger wasn't the kind of man who needed to throw punches to destroy someone. One phone call to the right person, and your life would be over. Reputation, money, status-he had it all. Every move he made was deliberate, timed to perfection-like the ticking of a Rolex. When he chose to go to war, he was a nobleman wielding cruelty like fine art, probably with a glass of aged Sc**ch in hand. People called him arrogant. No one ever called him vi**ent. That's why, when Yvaine processed what I'd just said, I could practically hear the gears in her brain screaming in protest. "No way," she muttered under her breath, as if denying it out loud might somehow make it untrue. "Rhys? Your Rhys? He couldn't have." I got it. I really did. Rhys was supposed to be the gentleman. The golden boy. The flawless, elegant, untouchable good guy. "It was him," I said quietly. She exhaled sharply, then started rubbing my back again, this time slower. "Tell me what happened." I swallowed. "I was at his place. I, uh. accidentally broke a mug." Her entire body tensed. "Just a mug?" I nodded. Silence. Then she clenched her jaw and said, "I swear to God, if you tell me it was some priceless, hand-crafted, one-of-a-kind family heirloom-" "It was Catherine's mug." Yvaine's hand froze mid-pat. Everything shifted. One second, she was my concerned best friend. The next, she was a woman plotting mu**er. I grabbed her wrist before she could get ahold of something worse. "It's over between Rhys and me." "Really?" "Really. Even if the earth split in two and Skyline City sank into the ocean, I wouldn't marry him." That stopped her from storming out to commit ho**cide. "Catherine. That venomous snake-" Yvaine spat the name like it physically hurt her. "She's not even here anymore and she's still managing to wreck your life! And your parents? They just stand there watching! I swear, they could watch her light your house on fire and they'd hand her the matches. It's unbelievable!" I felt like a balloon someone had just popped-deflated, exhausted. That all-too-familiar ache settled deep in my ch**t. I knew some parents would always love their firstborn more. And there was nothing I could do about it. "I'm sorry, Mira." Yvaine sat down beside me and gave my head a firm push toward her shoulder. I pulled away and managed a weak smile. "Actually, I think it's a good thing. At least I found out what kind of man he is before we got married. Better now than after the vows, right?" She let out a long sigh, her eyes softening. "Mira, you know no matter what happens, I've got your back." Right then, my stomach growled loud enough to interrupt the moment. Loudly. Like a magician, Yvaine reached behind her and pulled out a takeout bag, giving me a look that practically screamed: I knew you'd be like this. I wanted to hug her, but I was too busy eating like a ravenous little goblin. After dinner, she pushed me into the bedroom and went off to clean up. I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, drained and overwhelmed. What now? Through the half-open door, I heard her on the phone. I didn't catch every word, but the ones I did hear. were iconic. "A pile of s**t." "Total f**king psycho." "Oh, you think that's bad? Wait till I tell you what this vi**ent ba**ard actually did-" She was probably talking to Zane Hasterton. And unlike Rhys, Zane would never raise a hand to her. The way Yvaine so instantly, so fiercely chose me-without hesitation, without question-made my throat tighten. She believed me. No one else did. But she did. This wasn't something she did lightly. Rhys's family sat at the very top of the food chain-untouchable. And I had no doubt her parents wouldn't be thrilled to see her go up against them. I curled deeper under the blanket and let out a slow breath. Why couldn't my parents love me like that? Ever since their favorite daughter Houdini'd her way out of their master plan, I became Plan B. But that didn't mean they forgave my existence. Let's be honest: the only reason they'd stopped actively berating me was because I got engaged to Rhys. That little arrangement somehow elevated me from "irreparable family di**race" to "potential saving grace." Part of the reason I agreed to the engagement-and I know how pathetic this sounds-was because I thought maybe I could finally get something Catherine had: a sliver of parental affection. A crumb of approval. But now that the engagement was off? I was disposable again. Last I heard, they were boxing up my things, ready to ship me off to some remote jungle where I'd spend the rest of my life befriending anacondas and repenting for my sins. They were absolutely capable of that. I gr**ned into my pillow. What the h**l do I do now? Unless. I married someone more powerful than Rhys. The idea was so ridiculous I snorted. Right. Because billionaires are just wandering around Skyline City hoping to marry a 23-year-old orphan with no patience for their bullshit. And yet- A face flashed in my mind. Three days ago. My new neighbor. I remembered, quite inappropriately, thinking I wouldn't mind being alone with him in his apartment where he could do all sorts of rated-R things to me. I shook my head, quickly banishing the thought. I didn't even know his name. Just that he had the kind of aura that could slice a person in half. No. Way too dangerous. I gr**ned again. If I hadn't broken that st**id mug, everything might've been okay. But it wasn't. And it's not. And there's no going back. F**k! Why am I the one trying to fix this when I wasn't even the one who messed it up?! I sat up-and bam, the door burst open. Yvaine marched in. "Sl**p is just going to make you feel worse. We're getting up, and we're going to find a d**k worth loving-one that's better than Rhys's." WHAT?! While I gaped, she had already changed me into a new outfit. Just like that, we were off to Skyline City's most exclusive club-members only. Chapter 3 Rebound Night "Is this really necessary?" I stood at the end of the line, shivering, tugging desperately at the hem of my tragically short skirt. I could practically feel it-if I opened my mouth to speak, my un**rwear would be on full display. "Sweetheart, we paid a fortune to get into this place. Of course we're going all in. Do you not get it?" Yvaine declared like a mafia queen, standing tall against the icy wind in her five-inch heels without the slightest trace of fear. "But isn't this a little too-" I didn't even get to finish before a brutal gust of wind slapped me across the face like it had a personal vendetta. I immediately zipped up my puffer jacket and curled into myself like a frozen shrimp. Yvaine let out a dramatic gr**an. "Mira, come on. We're going to a b*r, not an Arctic expedition." "I'm just glad I won't be hospitalized for hypothermia tonight, thanks," I snapped back. She rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might fall out, gave me a once-over full of disappointment-but said nothing more. Small victory. My puffer jacket was safe-for now. I'd thought we'd have to wait in line like everyone else. That was the whole reason I wore this thermal fortress of a coat. But clearly, I had underestimated Yvaine. She had zero plans to follow the rules. With the ease of someone who'd done this a thousand times, she slipped a rolled-up bill into the bouncer's hand, her palm casually grazing his rock-hard ch**t like a Bond girl who'd forgotten her martini. Ten seconds. That's all it took. We were in. Yvaine was the kind of beautiful that made men forget protocol-and ethics-in an instant. And just like that, we breezed into Roxanne. The place was thick with heat, perfume, and the effervescent scent of ch**pagne. I ripped off my coat the second we stepped inside, only to be met with an are-you-trying-to-embarrass-me glare from Yvaine. She handed her coat off to a passing server with a flick of her fingers, like she'd personally hired the man. Regal, effortless, born for this. I tried to copy her moves. Failed miserably. Nearly dropped my purse and stumbled like a hamster who'd just woken up from a freezer nap. Graceful? No. I looked like roadkill in Gucci heels. If I hadn't known each co**tail here cost about the same as my checking account balance, I might've even convinced myself I was pulling it off. "Jesus Christ!" I gasped, eyes glued to the menu like it had just in**lted my entire bloodline. Yvaine gave me a sideways glance and scoffed. "Relax. Tonight's on me." I exhaled with something dangerously close to gratitude. Considering I'd nearly broken off an engagement, risked being exiled to some remote tropical island by my parents, and needed to budget for anti-snake spray, I needed all the charity I could get. Price tags aside, the view was elite: ambitious young actors, outrageously good-looking models, and a legion of finance bros who looked like they gave TED talks while wearing Burberry. It was a glittering buffet of vanity and hormones, wrapped in velvet lighting and the illusion of power. We found a table near the b*r and hadn't even ordered drinks when a bartender locked eyes on us. Well. He was hard to miss-tall, sculpted features, sleeves rolled to the elbows just enough to show off well-trained forearms. He shouldn't be mixing drinks-he should be in the Louvre. Or at the very least starring in Dior's newest fragrance campaign. Maybe that's why this club was so expensive: even the staff had to be perfect. "Two 75s, French br**dy," Before I could even locate the cheapest drink on the menu, Yvaine had already tossed her order at the ba**ender. "Make it strong." And of course, she didn't forget to flash her signature smile-the one that balanced perfectly between s**y and innocent, chin tilted just enough to say "Oops, didn't mean to flirt." The ba**ender reached effortlessly for the g*n, giving her a half-smile. "Rough night?" "More like an engagement-level disaster," she said, casually pointing her thumb at me. "And it's wrapping up real soon." I glanced at her. "Thrilled that my personal life is now public broadcast." She patted my hand with mock sympathy. "Sweetie, this place runs on romantic catastrophes. Without bad decisions, no one would be buying drinks." Then she turned away and melted into the crowd, flipping into Social Queen Mode like someone had hit a switch. In under ten seconds, she completed a visual sweep-like a hawk zeroing in on prey-before spinning back around and pointing her perfectly manicured finger toward the edge of the dance floor. "Okay, listen. You need a rebound. Exhibit A: Six-foot-two, hair neater than your ex-fiancé's moral compass, shirt unbuttoned just enough to scream s**y without slipping into cheap. He either owns a yacht or, at the very least, a VIP card." I shook my head. "Nope." Her eyes flicked to a new direction. "Exhibit B: struggling musician. Dressed like payday hasn't happened yet, but he's hot enough you'd forgive him. You'd fund his next album and still sl**p like a baby." "Pass." She sighed, then pointed again. "Fine. Exhibit C: total dad vibes-but the good kind. Like 'books your doctor's appointment and your breakfast' dad, not 'calls the waitress 'sweetheart' and thinks climate change is a myth' dad." I gr**ned into my hands. "Yvaine, please." She didn't back down. "Mira, you cannot sit here like a decorative wall gecko. Tonight is about rebooting your life, not stitching up emotional wounds." Just as she geared up for a fourth round of rebound recommendations, she suddenly froze. It was like someone had hit mute on her entire system. Then, far too casually, she said, "Hey, want to hit the bathroom?" I narrowed my eyes. "No?" ".Or maybe let's move tables? The vibe here's weird." Her smile was tight, and her voice cracked like a pair of worn-out heels. Weird vibe? We'd only been sitting for ten minutes, and we just ordered drinks. By Yvaine's standards, we hadn't even made it past the opening credits. Then I followed her gaze. A half-private booth. Rhys. He had his arm draped around a woman. Her head rested on his shoulder, makeup flawless, smile polished and effortless. I didn't need more details. That face-I would never forget it. Four years ago, a girl vanished under mysterious circumstances. I, in all my na?ve glory, believed she had simply "stepped aside," choosing to selflessly walk away from a future with Rhys. And now, here was Catherine-perched on my ex-fiancé's lap, locked in a pose so in**mate. I had told myself I was over it. Over him. We'd broken up. It was done. Time to move on. Until I heard what came next. "Honestly, I didn't think she'd fall apart over a coffee mug." Catherine's voice was soft, full of false pity-the kind that sounded like she'd just k**led someone and was now gently tucking a blanket over the body. She gently swirled the w**e in her glass, her lips curling into a near-perfect smile. "Of course I put that mug somewhere obvious. I wanted her to notice. After all, she still doesn't know you've been seeing me behind her back. It was time she caught a little hint, wasn't it?" She looked up at Rhys, eyes glowing with admiration. "Honestly though, darling, your performance was spot-on. Even I almost believed you were worried she'd find out about us, instead of just helping me pull off the scene." "She's so st**id-of course she thought you were upset about the mug, not terrified of exposing your af**ir." Rhys chuckled softly, smug and relaxed. "I had to act like I cared. She spends every day trying to be the perfect girlfriend. If she found out all her effort still couldn't compete with you, she'd lose it." Catherine laughed under her breath and patted his ch**t. "Don't worry. Knowing Mira, she's probably still scrambling to fix things. She's the type who always believes that if she just tries hard enough, people will finally see her worth." Her laugh turned soft, laced with pity so sharp it felt like a bl**e. "But the harder she tries, the more pathetic she looks. And me? I just 'happened' to return home. Her parents don't know a thing. They didn't even get the chance to stop me. Tomorrow, I'll be seeing them in broad daylight-because she gave up the engagement herself, and you, dear, are blameless." Catherine leaned back with a triumphant sigh. "Isn't this the best ending? I never gave up on you. I was just waiting for her to step aside." Rhys nodded slowly, a small smirk on his lips. "You're right. You always are." A loud roar rang in my ears, and my heartbeat pounded against my skull like a war drum. Yvaine must've been saying something-pleading with me to stay calm, not to do anything st**id-but I didn't hear a word. I wasn't the same Mira who swallowed her pride for praise anymore. I slipped free from Yvaine's grip and turned to the bartender. "Your best red. Put it on Rhys Granger's tab." The ba**ender-bless his beautiful, rule-breaking soul-didn't even flinch. He handed me the bottle like I'd just ordered mineral water. With the bottle in hand, I had a mission. A singular, burning purpose. The bouncer moved to stop me, but one look at my face-like a vengeful goddess straight from h**l-made him wisely back off, hands raised in surrender. I marched straight toward Rhys and Catherine. They were lip-locked in some dramatic, second-rate soap opera make-out scene. I raised the bottle-and smashed it, with all my strength. Glass shattered with a sharp crack, spraying across the table. Rhys's forehead split instantly, a trail of bl**d beginning to drip down between his brows. Catherine screamed and leapt off his lap. "Mirabelle?! Are you insane?! What are you doing here?!" She scrambled to find a lie, panic rising in her voice. "You're misunderstanding, it's not what you think-" Rhys cut her off, his hand gripping her arm, his gaze dark and cold. "Don't bother explaining, Catherine. It doesn't matter. My parents will take your side, no matter what. We're just correcting an old mistake." Catherine's panic twisted into smugness in an instant. She curled into his side with sickening sweetness and cooed, "Oh, honey, your head's bl**ding. We have to get to the hospital." Before I could say anything, Yvaine rushed to my side, fury radiating from every pore. She raised her hand, ready to s**p Catherine straight back to whatever pit she'd crawled out of. "You disgusting, two-faced bi**h-!" I grabbed her wrist, steady and cold. "Yvaine, let them go. If they stay here one more second, I might lose my appetite permanently." I locked eyes with Catherine's smug little face and raised my voice deliberately. "After all, the theme of this place is premium taste, not some clearance aisle for secondhand tr**h." Catherine's smile froze on her lips. Rhys's face darkened, but they had no chance to respond. Yvaine, emboldened, lifted her chin and sneered at the bouncers. "Well? What are you waiting for? Kindly es**rt these two walking health code violations off the premises." Chapter 4 Key Guy As soon as they were gone, Yvaine dragged me out of the club. D**n it. I hated that Catherine had predicted every single thought running through my mind. Yes, I was still considering salvaging my relationship with Rhys. But now? The truth was right there, unmistakable and r*w-they'd been sl**ping together behind my back all along. And me? I was just the fo**ish, unnecessary third wheel in their twisted little story. What I couldn't figure out was-why had Catherine faked her disappearance four years ago? What exactly had she been hiding? And why come back now? My eyes stung. I tilted my head toward the sky, forcing the tears back. Fine. Catherine's back. Perfect. Now they could all reunite like a happy little four-piece family?, and I. I was finally free. "Mira. I'm so sorry. I had no idea they'd be there tonight. I didn't even know Catherine was back." Yvaine's eyes were full of regret. I gave a bitter laugh and shook my head. "Neither did I. But I heard it loud and clear-they've been screwing around for a while. To them, I was just in the way." "Those godd**n as**oles!" Yvaine hissed through clenched teeth. "You should tell your parents. Let them know Catherine's not the perfect angel they think she is. What about Rhys's parents? No way they'll tolerate a scandal like this. I was quiet for a moment. Yvaine had a point-Rhys's parents were the only people who had supported me. But he was their son. They wouldn't choose me over him. Not in the end. And my parents? I let out a breath, heavy and tired. "You know better than anyone-they only care about Catherine. No matter what I do, I'll never replace her." Yvaine grabbed my shoulders, worry darkening her gaze. "So what now? You're just going to let them humiliate you?" "Maybe." My voice dropped to a whisper, a weariness weighing it down. "Maybe if I accept it, it'll finally be over." Suddenly, Yvaine's phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, her brows knitting in frustration. "Mira, my agent just called. There's a last-minute ad shoot-I have to go now. Can you get home on your own?" I nodded, managing a faint smile. "Go. Don't worry about me. I'll call when I get back." After she left, I hailed a cab. Instinctively, I gave the driver my home address. But barely two minutes into the ride, a wave of suffocating pressure settled over me. "No, wait," I said quickly. "Take me to a b*r. Any bar. Just. far away from Roxanne." The driver didn't blink-clearly used to the erratic demands of Skyline City's broken-hearted. We eventually pulled up outside some unfamiliar ni**tclub. Velvet ropes. A crowd of influencer-types wielding selfie sticks. I didn't bother checking the name. I handed the bouncer some bills and strode inside. Straight to the b*r. "Wh**key sour. Large. Keep them coming." "Ma'am, maybe you should slow down," the ba**ender said gently, concern in his voice. I slammed my empty glass on the counter and shoved my card across. "Did I stutter? Top me off." The ba**ender sighed but obliged. "That guy's right," a smooth, magnetic voice murmured beside me. "Too much al**hol can impair cognitive function and judgment. Unless you want to wake up in a stranger's b*d tonight-" I turned, irritated-then froze. It was him. The man from last night. My new neighbor. The one who'd handed me my keys with all the casual elegance of a Renaissance statue. "Well, well. You again." I raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile tugging at my lips. "You really can't resist other people's business, huh?" He chuckled softly, completely unfazed. "Think of it as a well-developed instinct for being helpful." I gave an exaggerated sigh. "You're a hero, truly. But I don't need saving, Mr. Key Man." "I know," he said calmly, lifting his glass and taking a slow sip. His eyes were clear and sharp. "But you do seem in desperate need of clarity." I frowned. "Is this how you treat all your neighbors? First their keys, then their dignity?" He laughed-a low, rich sound. "Only when the neighbor looks like she's on the verge of self-destruction." ".But I am always self-destructing," I muttered, suddenly quieter. "Doesn't it seem kind of pathetic? Like my whole life is just one mess after another?" He didn't laugh. He didn't rush to reassure me, either. He didn't even deny what I'd just said. He just looked at me. Calm. Quiet. Like he was watching a slow-motion disaster unfold-but had no intention of stopping it. "You're not wrong," he finally said, his voice low and steady. "You are pretty good at making a mess of things. Like right now-you can't even stand properly and you're still demanding more al**hol." I froze, frowning instinctively. But he went on, his tone unhurried-like he was flipping through a book and had landed on a sentence he already knew by heart: "But strangely, you always seem to meet someone who refuses to walk away. right before everything falls apart." I stared at him, half in shock, half in suspicion. "Are you. fl**ting with me?" He gave me a slow smile, his eyes lazily curving with just the right amount of mischief. His voice came out smooth and provocative, like velvet wrapped around steel. "Does it make you feel any better?" His voice was low and warm, like wh**key being poured into a glass at midnight-just a little dizzying, just a little dangerous. He looked at me with an intensity that felt nearly uncontrollable, like he might lean in close and whisper things in the dark, on a b*d, asking if his to**h was hard enough. My heart skipped a beat. My cheeks flushed instantly. My fingertips tightened against the edge of the b*r. I had to look at him properly. Really see him. That face-it wasn't just handsome. It had the kind of quiet, devastating maturity that no amount of cologne and hair gel could fake. Not the kind you'd find among the over-groomed boys who danced to house music like they were owed the world. A wild, uninvited thought flashed through my mind. If I let him walk away tonight, maybe I was rejecting one of those rare, merciful moments when fate offered a second chance. Before I could stop myself, my hand wrapped around the sleeve of his suit jacket. I rose from the barstool, heart pounding. "So, Mr. Keys," I said, my voice hoarse but firm, "since you're so committed to helping. why not help all the way?" He clearly hadn't expected that. His brow lifted slightly, surprise flickering across his face-but he didn't step back. He didn't laugh. He simply said, calm and steady: "Of course. As long as this is something you won't deny when you're sober." "I'm sure." I answered without hesitation. Gripping his wrist tighter, I pulled him through the crowd and out of the b*r. The night wind struck us like a cleansing slap, city lights flickering above. I didn't let myself pause. No time to think, no space for regret. We crossed the street. Entered the nearest ho**l lobby. Because tonight, I needed to know if I had the courage to accept what fate had placed in front of me. It must have been one h**l of a night, because when I woke up, sunlight was spilling through the curtains, and the red LED numbers of the digital clock blinked 10:07 AM at me with the judgmental smugness of a nun catching you sneaking out of the church. The sh**ts still carried his scent-bergamot and sin-and my body buzzed from the lingering aftershocks of what we'd done. I stared at the ceiling and thought: That was absolutely phenomenal s*x. I ached everywhere-in the best, most regrettable way. But my head. my head was a battlefield. It felt like a hundred tiny jackhammers were drilling through my skull. The al**hol from last night had declared mutiny, and my brain was paying the price, like someone had jammed a red-hot poker through my temple. I had no idea how much I drank-definitely more than I should've. The details had vanished into a fog thicker than a London morning. Gr**ning, I rolled out of bed. Gr**ned again. Began gathering the scattered pieces of my clothing. The plan was simple: Get dressed. Sneak out. Pretend this never happened. I had just picked up my skirt when a voice stopped me. "Leaving so soon?" S**it. I turned-very slowly, thanks to the hangover and the shame-and saw him standing in the bathroom doorway, a towel slung low on his h**s. I stared. Unashamed. Images from the night before surged back into my brain. I suddenly felt. very, very thirsty. "We need to talk," he said. He looked at me again, then-unhurriedly-said: "Will you marry me?". What?!. What happens next? 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The love of her life, whom she thought was dead, suddenly returned. She wanted to see if he still loved her but was met with cold disappointment. Finally, she gave up and tried to walk away, but he broke down in tears and begged her not to leave. ===== Florrie Barnes left the law office with the divorce papers clutched tightly in her hand while a gentle drizzle spread across the city. Right when she reached for her car door, her phone lit up with her husband Alexander Jenkins' name. For a brief second she froze, but then pressed the phone to her ear. From the other end came Alexander's cold voice. "You're not at home?" Something in the way he spoke gave her pause, almost as if there was a trace of concern hidden in his tone. With her gaze lowered, she answered softly, "I'll be back soon, you." Before she could finish, Alexander chimed in, "Pick up some ointment for swelling before you return." The words made her frown, and despite the divorce papers in her hand, worry stirred. "Did you get hurt? Is it serious? Is your heart acting up again? I'll come straight back and take care of you." But in the next instant, the voice that drifted through the receiver sent a shiver down her spine. "Alex, it still aches. It's all your fault!" A syrupy, fl**tatious voice oozed from the receiver, drenched in sweetness. It was Suzanne Hewitt--Alexander's childhood sweetheart. Then Alexander spoke again, detached and dismissive. "I got a bit carried away and might hurt Suzanne earlier. This isn't something you can deal with. Just buy the ointment. And while you're at it, get a morning-after p**l." The line went dead before Florrie could breathe a word. Cold wind swept through the night, and as the dial tone droned on, numbness spread to her fingertips. Was his wife really meant to fetch a morning-after p**l for the lover he kept by his side? During three years of marriage, he had never once touched her. To him, she was nothing more than a pitiful shadow, clinging to him with blind devotion, her dignity stripped away, her love reduced to something worthless. Yet none of that mattered, so long as his happiness remained untouched and the heart of Alexis Wallace, beating within his ch**t, was kept safe. Wordlessly, she purchased both the ointment and the pill before heading back home. When the door swung open, the sight that greeted her was Suzanne lounging in Alexander's arms. Across the room, Alexander sat peeling grapes for her, slipping them between her lips with a te**ing lilt. "Still mad at me, baby? I'll behave next time, I swear. Tomorrow we'll go out, just you and me, all day long. How does that sound?" Suzanne leaned closer with a pout, her voice girlish and sweet. "You better not trick me again." Even though Alexander bore the title of her husband, Florrie could see where his true affections lay. Between the two of them, there was intimacy, while she, his wife, stood as the stranger intruding. In silence, Florrie clutched the paper bag tighter. When Suzanne finally noticed her, a shadow passed through her gaze. Moments later, Suzanne put on a mask of innocence, her tone fragile. "Oh. Florrie, you're home?" Pretending to panic, she shifted as if to get off Alexander's lap. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean--" But Alexander's arm only tightened around her waist, pulling her firmly back. "Don't waste your breath on her. Isn't this where you belong, right here with me?" Not once did he acknowledge his wife directly, his words cutting like ice. "Leave the bag on the table and get upstairs. Don't bother Suzanne and me again." So that was her place--the unwanted wife, treated as a nuisance even in her own house. From the corner of her eye, Florrie caught the smirk Suzanne tried to hide, and she managed a faint smile of her own. "Be careful, Alexander. A heart that's endured surgery isn't built for reckless indulgence." His stare turned sharp with annoyance, his voice flat. "That's none of your concern." Nothing he said could hurt her anymore. Her devotion had never been for Alexander himself but for the heart he carried inside his ch**t. For three years, every effort she made was only to shield that heart from harm. Alexander always assumed Florrie married him for wealth and status, so he accepted her care as if it were owed. That fragile arrangement held until Suzanne's sudden return from overseas. With her back, everything collapsed in an instant. Alexander rushed toward Suzanne without hesitation. And so, Florrie decided she might as well step aside and grant him the freedom he longed for. Chapter 2 I Need You To Sign This Florrie slipped the papers from the envelope and turned straight to the page for signatures. "I need you to sign this." She almost blurted out, "Let's end this marriage," but she caught herself. Alexander's pride and obsession with appearances made her doubt he would sign without a fight. So she changed her approach and said, "It looks like it came from the property management office for that villa you bought a while back." Alexander finally lifted his eyes, his brows tightening with irritation. "Do you honestly need to trouble me with something so minor? Why can't you just sign it for me?" Florrie pressed the papers and pen toward him, lowering her eyes as she spoke softly. "It's in your name, so I can't sign it for you. And didn't you say you didn't want anyone knowing I was your wife?" Florrie's reply caught Alexander off guard, and his frown deepened. There was a quietness about Florrie today that didn't feel familiar. Even though she had always been gentle and compliant around him, there had still been moments when she showed a hint of sadness. This time, though, her compliance seemed out of place, almost unnatural. He was about to question her when she noticed his suspicion and quickly added, trying to sound concerned, "It's best if she takes the morning-after p**l right away. She might not feel well after, so make sure you look after her." Alexander heard her and the scowl faded from his face, replaced by a faint scoff. He figured Florrie was anxious that Suzanne might end up pr**nant and threaten her own standing as his wife. Her sudden eagerness to please now made sense. He pulled his gaze away and, as always, ignored the documents entirely before picking up the pen and scribbling his signature without hesitation. Collecting the signed papers, Florrie watched as he lifted Suzanne in his arms and took her upstairs. She stood in the empty living room, silent, only moving much later when she made her way to the guest bedroom. All night long, the loud mo**s from the next room kept her awake, tossing and turning as sl**p refused to come. The same haunting nightmare returned once more, pulling her back to that frozen field stained with bl**d. She stood helplessly, watching as the man she loved was carried into an ambulance, his cashmere coat drenched in bl**d. The final thing he said to her was, "Florrie, don't cry. Promise me you'll live well." "Alex! Alex!" Florrie cried out his name, reaching for him, but her arms grasped at nothing as his figure faded farther and farther away. Coldness spread through her limbs until a sharp voice broke through. "Florrie, wake up!" Her eyes flew open, and she was met with a face she knew all too well. The man hovered above her, his brow drawn tight, his gaze heavy with restrained anger. "Alex." she mumbled. His voice cut in, harsh and unfeeling. "Why are you yelling first thing in the morning?" Then, with a trace of contempt, he added, "Was it just a nightmare?" The fog in her head cleared, and reality sank in--this wasn't the Alex she dreamed of. It was Alexander. She stayed quiet, which only made his frown deepen as he reached toward her. She pulled back before his hand could touch her. "Sorry if I disturbed you both," she said softly. Her words were gentle like always, but there was a distance in them that hadn't been there before. Without thinking, Alexander curled his hands into fists, unsettled by the change he felt from her. Florrie steadied herself and asked politely, "Did you need something?" He snapped out of his thoughts, forcing the unease down, and answered in a clipped, formal tone, "Suzanne is planning to gain some hands-on experience at the Jenkins Group. Assign the Greenhill Village redevelopment project to her and guide her through the process, since she'll be using it as part of her graduation project." Chapter 3 Only If You Promise Me One Thing Florrie gripped the edge of the bed sheet until her fingers went numb, a sudden chill crawling through them. Back in college, she had trained in surgical medicine, where her professors often told her she had the talent to become one of the best in the world. Instead of chasing that future, she chose to remain in Alexander's company, taking on the role of deputy director and setting aside her career for his sake. Every bit of it had been for the heart beating inside his ch**t. The Greenhill Village redevelopment had been her pride and her burden. She had carried the project from its earliest sketches to the near-finished stage, surviving endless sleepless nights to hold it together. There had been villagers who cu**ed her and even attacked her, leaving her one step away from being hospitalized. Still, she had pressed on--even while lying in a hospital bed with a high fever, she typed proposals through the night because Alexander's grip on the CEO position was slipping, and he needed this victory to steady his name. Florrie had poured everything into the Greenhill Village project, believing it would be her greatest offering to him. She never imagined Alexander would give it away so carelessly, showing not the slightest trace of appreciation for her efforts. When her silence stretched on, Alexander let out a mocking laugh. "You've always put up with everything, haven't you? You didn't even complain when I skipped our wedding day. So over one project, you're not seriously planning to refuse, are you?" Florrie lifted her eyes to his. "I won't refuse, but I'll agree only if you promise me one thing." Alexander's jaw tightened at her response. Did she mean to make some ridiculous demand? His voice turned sharp, though calm. "What do you want? Money, property, shares, a house? Whatever's within reach, I'll give it. But don't ask for anything else." Her gaze dropped, and a bitter smile touched her lips. Alexander had never been generous. During their entire marriage, apart from the rare pieces of jewelry meant to keep up appearances, he had never given her anything of real value. And now, for Suzanne's sake, Alexander was ready to give up so much, even allowing Florrie the freedom to name her terms. Once, that would have shattered her. But somewhere along the way, she had stopped expecting anything from him. Maybe she had grown used to disappointment. Maybe she had just gone numb. Her lips curved faintly as her eyes lingered on his collarbone. "I want the talisman you've kept on you these past three years. Will you give it to me?" That talisman had once belonged to Alexis. If she was going to walk away, then taking it back felt like the only right thing to do. Alexander froze at her request, then his brow tightened in confusion. The pendant wasn't worth much. It was carved from ordinary stone, something his grandmother had pressed into his hands after his surgery years ago. The only marking on it was a simple engraving of the name "Alex." His gaze lifted to hers as he asked, almost without thinking, "Why would you want that?" Florrie laced her fingers together, her tone even. "It's nothing important. You've worn it for so long, I just thought. it could be a keepsake." Alexander studied her a moment longer, unsettled but unconcerned. Florrie had always been the type to treasure scraps of affection, holding on to anything he let her have. Asking for something that had been so close to him seemed natural. "I'll hand it over after you finish the project transfer at the company. Once Suzanne is settled, it's yours." Straightening his tie, as though the deal had already been made, Alexander added, "Our wedding anniversary is coming up soon, isn't it? Tell me what you'd like this year." Her smile barely lifted. "Don't bother. I'll think of something later." Alexander sensed that something about her behavior was unusual, but he couldn't quite figure out what it was. Florrie had once cared about every little gesture. She used to light up the moment he mentioned giving her anything. Now she sounded as if none of it mattered. Chapter 4 I'll Be Broken With It, Gone Forever Before Alexander's thoughts could settle, a sound came from the adjoining room, followed by Suzanne's voice. "Alex, are we leaving for the company now?" She stepped out barefoot, her expression uneasy when she spotted him standing in Florrie's room. "Sorry, Florrie, I didn't mean to intrude." Suzanne pressed a hand to her temple and swayed as if she might collapse. At once, Alexander dismissed Florrie's strange behavior and rushed toward Suzanne, lifting her into his arms. "It's freezing in here. Why are you walking around without shoes? Do you have any idea how worried I'd be if you ended up sick?" He didn't spare Florrie another glance. Carrying Suzanne back toward the master bedroom, he instructed over his shoulder, "Get what I told you done quickly. I'm taking Suzanne to the company this afternoon." Florrie nodded quietly, watching his back until he disappeared, her mind growing distant and hazy. She remembered how Alexis used to hold her just like that, his voice both warm and teasing. "Babe, you're running around the house barefoot again? What if you get sick?" he'd ask with a worried laugh. She had lost the love of her life--the man who had always put her first and saved her one last time before dying right before her eyes. Alexander never learned the truth--he had a brother, five years older, who went by Alexis. And that man was her real "Alex." For him, she would have walked through fire, just to stay close to him. Later, while driving to the office, Florrie's thoughts swirled, heavy and unspoken. When she stepped inside, a group of colleagues whispered nearby. "That girl with Mr. Jenkins today is his fiancee, isn't she? She looks incredible." "I heard they've known each other forever, and her family's background is perfect for his. She went abroad for a finance degree and only just recently returned." Florrie couldn't help but give a small, bitter smile. No one ever knew that Florrie had been Alexander's wife for three years, yet his childhood sweetheart who had only just returned was already being introduced proudly by him to everyone. She ignored the whispers around her and headed straight into her office. When she finished sorting through the project files, noise suddenly rose outside her door. Alexander walked in with Suzanne close behind him, his arm slightly angled as though to shield her. With a faint smile, he announced, "Starting today, Miss Suzanne Hewitt will serve as the deputy director of the Marketing Department. I expect everyone to support her in her new role." The news sparked a wave of surprise through the office, and Florrie's hand froze over her mouse. That position had once been hers. Adalyn Davies, Florrie's loyal assistant, darted a cautious glance toward her before she asked, "Mr. Jenkins, what about Florrie?" Alexander's tone was calm but dismissive. "She'll be assisting Suzanne for the time being, especially with the Greenhill Village redevelopment project." The staff exchanged uneasy looks, though Suzanne's cheeks turned pink as she smiled shyly. "Then I'll be relying on you, Florrie." She moved forward, stretching out her hand. The moment Florrie touched her fingers, Suzanne stumbled backward, sending a cup crashing off the desk. Florrie's eyes widened as she reached out instinctively, but she missed. The cup hit the floor and shattered into fragments. Pieces of porcelain scattered across the floor. Suzanne swayed and caught herself, turning a wide-eyed look on Florrie. "Florrie, do you dislike me?" she asked softly. Her words weren't an accusation, but the message was obvious. Suzanne clearly expected Florrie to argue, yet Florrie didn't speak. She just stared at the shattered cup, her whole body trembling, tears filling her eyes. That cup had been Alexis' last gift to her, given on Christmas Eve, the night before his death. He painted the two of them on it--her in a wedding gown leaning in his arms as they walked toward the church. He had remarked, "Florrie, one day I'll marry you. Let this cup be my promise. If I break that promise, you can smash it, and I'll be broken with it, gone forever." Since losing Alexis, she had treasured that cup. Now, it was nothing but fragments on the floor. Rage surged through Florrie as she clenched her fists. Without a second thought, she strode forward and sl**ped Suzanne hard across the face. Chapter 5 You Will Pay For It Alexander's face hardened instantly. "Are you out of your mind? Apologize to her right now!" At first, he had believed Florrie's calm acceptance meant she was genuinely willing to give Suzanne the project. Now he realized she was still being difficult. Instead of answering, Florrie crouched down and began gathering the broken shards with steady hands. That only darkened Alexander's expression further. He stepped in, grabbed her wrist, and snapped, "Did you not hear me?" Pain shot through her arm so sharply that it felt as if her bones might splinter. Florrie lifted her head at last, meeting his gaze with cold detachment. "And why should I apologize?" His fist curled tight at her defiance. In the past, the smallest sign of anger from him had always been enough to make her retreat. But today she actually stood her ground. "You made a mistake. Shouldn't you apologize for it?" Alexander asked sharply. "Do you think the Jenkins Group has no rules and will just let you behave so recklessly?" The weight of his authority pressed over the room, and it felt as though the air itself had turned colder. Yet Florrie only gave a thin smile. "Then pull the footage, and bring in the police." A twitch ran across his brow. "What are you trying to say, Florrie?" Her eyes never wavered as she answered, "Mr. Jenkins, I'm here as an employee, not as someone who owes you obedience. If you want to stand up for your girl, then do it by the rules. If the police say I'm guilty, I'll apologize. If not, I won't." Her defiance had struck him harder than he expected and ignited his temper. "Fine. If that's how you want it, I'll take you at your word!" Turning sharply, he yelled to his secretary, "Aidan, check the cameras. Call the police. Charge her with intentional assault!" That was when Suzanne's composure finally cracked. If the surveillance footage was pulled, everyone would know she'd intentionally smashed Florrie's cup and her carefully crafted image would be tarnished. When Aidan Marsh reached for his phone, Suzanne quickly interjected, "Alex, let's just drop it. Florrie has been an loyal employee by your side for years, so why turn this into something bigger than it is?" Instead of easing, Alexander's expression hardened further. "She crossed the line. Mistakes deserve consequences." The room remained heavy with tension as Aidan hesitated, and then reluctantly pulled out his phone. Suzanne's face shifted, panic flashing across her features. Right before he could place the call, she grabbed her head and let out a pained cry, collapsing to the floor with a thud. "Suzanne!" Alexander's eyes narrowed in shock. He shoved Florrie aside and bent down to scoop Suzanne into his arms. Thrown off balance, Florrie crashed onto the broken pieces, sharp edges cutting deep and bl**d spreading quickly across the pale tiles. Still, Alexander didn't so much as glance at her. Holding Suzanne protectively, he strode out of the office. On his way out, he cast a frigid look in Florrie's direction. "If Suzanne suffers because of this, Florrie, you'll pay for it." His cutting words echoed in her ears, but Florrie gave no reaction. Instead, she quietly gathered the bl**d-streaked fragments from the floor. Once, she had naively believed that because Alexander carried Alexis' heart, he might come to resemble the man she loved. Maybe they could have lived side by side, even if not as lovers. But standing there, she understood just how misguided that hope had been. Alexander and Alexis were worlds apart, and she should never have expected otherwise. One by one, she set the bl**died pieces aside, and then returned to her desk. On the screen, she began typing two words--"Resignation Letter." "Florrie, wait." Adalyn's voice came from behind. She had caught sight of the words on the screen, and her face tightened with alarm. "I know you're innocent. You've given everything to this company--walking away now would be throwing it all away." Chapter 6 Don't Be Scared, I'm Here Florrie offered Adalyn a soft smile and said gently, "Don't worry about me. Go on and get back to your work." Adalyn had intended to argue further, but the resolve in Florrie's eyes silenced her. Instead, she hurried out, returned with a small tube of ointment, and pressed it into Florrie's hand. "If you ever need anything, please don't hesitate to ask me," she said with genuine concern. The words caught Florrie off guard, and her ch**t tightened as her eyes burned with unshed tears. They had only worked together for a short while, yet Adalyn could show her a warmth she had never known at home. She had spent years tending to Alexander with careful devotion, and not once had he offered even the simplest acknowledgment of her effort. With quiet gratitude, Florrie thanked Adalyn, and then gathered the documents, arranged them neatly for handover, and walked them to the HR department. Her resignation stunned the department manager. But after remembering the scene that had unfolded earlier, the manager swallowed any questions and processed the paperwork. "Company policy requires you to complete the handover with Miss Hewitt first. Once it's finished, you're free to go." Florrie gave a simple nod. It wouldn't take long, and nothing could delay her decision to leave. When the last task was completed, Florrie drove back to the villa. Alexander was still gone, and whether he came home or not no longer mattered. The house stood quiet. She went upstairs and began placing her belongings into a suitcase. There wasn't much to bring--her passport, the important papers, and the keepsakes Alexis had left behind. Nothing else seemed worth taking. At the back of the safe lay an old album, which she carefully pulled out. The pages told the story of days shared with Alexis, the places they had wandered together, and the future she had once believed was theirs. Fate had cut that dream short. She had worn the gown meant for a bride, but the man waiting for her at the altar had not been Alexis. The final pages held a handful of pictures of her and Alexander together. Although the brothers carried the similar features and Alexander lived with Alexis' heart beating in his ch**t, everything else about Alexander--his eyes, his manner, his indifference--reminded her that he would never love her. Florrie took the photos with Alexander out of the album before tucking it into her suitcase. The jewelry glimmered inside the safe, but she left every piece behind, though once they had meant everything to her. Back then, she had convinced herself that Alexander could take Alexis' place, that they might actually build a life together, so she had surrendered her heart without hesitation. Now, that illusion had lost all meaning. She ripped their pictures straight down the middle and dropped the torn halves into the tr**h. Afterward, she shut the safe and placed the key on the desk in Alexander's study. Some things had never been hers, and she shouldn't have clung to them. With everything settled, she picked up her suitcase and walked out of the villa without once turning her head. Outside, the day was gray and wet, the drizzle soft but persistent. Luckily, the evening rush had passed, and the roads were nearly clear. Not long into the drive, a sudden wave of dizziness struck her, and her ch**t thudded in uneven beats. When the light turned red, she pressed a palm to her forehead, realizing it was scorching hot. The weather had cooled sharply over the past days, and sleepless nights had left her vulnerable. A fever must have taken hold. Still, Florrie gripped the wheel and pushed forward, recalling that a pharmacy should be close by. She didn't consider a fever dangerous, yet every mile made her body heavier. Heat and chills wrestled inside her, her throat ached with a burning dryness, and her vision wavered at the edges. She managed to pull over in front of the pharmacy and forced herself to open the door. The rain and wind blasted into the car, cutting through her and making her shudder violently. Umbrella in hand, she dragged her steps forward, but each one seemed harder than the last. By the time she reached the storefront, her balance gave way, and she crumpled to the ground. Rain soaked through her clothes instantly, and in the blur of her failing strength, she felt a suffocating rush of water slip into her nose and mouth, stealing her breath. Her sight wavered in and out of focus, yet she caught the glint of a black Maybach pulling to the curb, its hazard lights blinking in the rain. From the driver's side, a tall figure stepped out, umbrella already in hand, moving quickly toward her. The air carried a scent she knew too well, and through the haze, she lifted her gaze to see him kneel, his fingers curled firmly around the umbrella handle--a scar running across his thumb. The sight made her freeze. That scar was almost identical to Alexis', in both shape and placement. The memory surged back instantly. Alexis had gotten it defending her from a group of thugs who refused to back off. She had cried in terror, convinced the injury might damage his nerves and strip him of his future as a surgeon. But Alexis had only laughed, brushing her worries away as he mussed her hair. "This is my badge of courage for protecting you. If getting hurt is the price of winning my girl, I'll take it." Could such a thing really be coincidence? Her thoughts tangled, yet the warmth of his breath was suddenly close against her face. Without warning, strong arms pulled her against a steady ch**t. His forehead rested gently against hers, and his voice slipped out in the faintest whisper. "Don't be scared. I'm here." The words floated past her, muffled by the haze in her mind. All she could register was the tenderness in his tone. His features blurred, but she could still make out the mark at the corner of his eye--a crimson mole, bright against his skin. Her heart stumbled in her ch**t. Could it really be Alexis? Was it possible that the man holding her was him? Tears welled in Florrie's eyes as she seized the man's tie with trembling fingers. Her lips parted, desperate to call his name, but the world blurred into darkness, and she collapsed into oblivion. What happens next? Available chapters here are limited, click the button below to install the App and enjoy more exciting chapters (Automatically jump to this novel when you open the app) &5&

On her wedding day, the groom ran off to chase his true love. Furious, she grabbed a random disabled man--also abandoned--and married him on the spot. Turned out, he was a hidden billionaire! ===== "Felix, the wedding's about to start--you can't just leave!" Draped in an immaculate white gown, Linsey Brooks clung to Felix Wells' arm, her fingers trembling as panic filled her voice. "Move! Joanna's hurt. She's alone in the hospital, and she must be terrified. I have to be there for her!" Felix's brows were drawn together, his voice tight with urgency. Linsey's face drained of color. Today was supposed to be their day. Yet, just as the ceremony was about to begin, Felix had read a text message, turned to the crowd, and declared the wedding canceled. Joanna Saunders was Felix's childhood sweetheart. Linsey had started dating Felix five years ago. And for five years, whenever she went out with him, if Joanna so much as needed him, Felix would leave Linsey behind. He always insisted Joanna was just like a sister to him and always told Linsey to understand. And she had, again and again. But this was their wedding day. So what if Joanna needed him? Did that mean Linsey had to be abandoned by the man who was supposed to become her husband? Her voice quivered as Linsey whispered, "No, you can't go. The wedding can't continue without you. No matter what, you have to stay today. Please, Felix. I'm begging you." But his patience snapped. "Enough! Stop being so selfish! We can always reschedule the wedding. But right now, Joanna's hurt. Move!" Before she could say another word, he shoved past her. Linsey staggered, her heels slipping against the polished floor as she crashed onto it. From where she sat, stunned and breathless, she could only watch as Felix disappeared through the doors without even a single glance back. In the next second, her phone rang. Without thinking, she answered--only to be met with a woman's smug, triumphant voice on the other end. "Linsey, today's your big day with Felix, isn't it? Do you like the little gift I sent you?" Linsey's entire body went rigid as recognition hit her. Through clenched teeth, she spat, "Joanna. You did this on purpose. You lured Felix away, didn't you?" "That's right. And? What are you gonna do about it? I just wanted to remind you--in Felix's heart, I'll always come first." Joanna's tone dripped with arrogance, every word laced with mockery. "I bet you spent months planning this, huh? Such a shame. All that work, all that dreaming--gone. Honestly, I almost feel bad for you." Linsey stared down at the pristine white fabric of her gown, and for the first time, she saw the last five years for what they really were--a joke. Since she was an orphan, she had been so desperate for a family, for a love she could call her own. But Felix. he was never going to give her that. It was time to stop begging for something that would never be hers. A sharp, cold laugh escaped her lips. "Don't get ahead of yourself, Joanna. The wedding's still happening." Joanna's tone instantly soured. "Are you insane? Felix is the groom. He's not even there. How exactly do you plan on having a wedding without him?" Linsey's lips curved into a slow, mocking smile. Who said her groom had to be Felix? If he could walk away this easily, then she would find someone else--someone who actually deserved to stand beside her. Her voice turned sharp, unwavering. "Do me a favor, Joanna--pass a message to Felix. Tell him I don't want him anymore. He's not worth another second of my time. And since you're so desperate to have him, be my guest. A spineless man and a shameless woman--what a perfect match of you two!" Joanna's voice sharpened with anger. "Linsey, I'm warning you. Don't push your luck--" But before she could finish, Linsey ended the call. The wedding was set to begin in thirty minutes. She needed to find a replacement groom fast. Lifting the hem of her dress, she rushed outside. To her surprise, the entrance was swarming with men in black suits. They combed through every corner--their imposing presence sent a clear message that they were searching for something, or someone. Amidst them, a man in a groom's suit sat in a wheelchair, his posture rigid with authority. Though motionless, he radiated an icy, almost untouchable air. His voice was commanding as he addressed the bodyguard in front of him. "The ceremony is about to begin. Have you found Haven yet?" The bodyguard hesitated, his expression tense. "Mr. Riley, we've searched the entire perimeter, but there's no sign of Ms. Walton. It appears she's already fled." "Fled?" The man's voice was deep and even, but his gaze turned razor-sharp--cold and unforgiving, like a predator sizing up its prey. "If this wedding doesn't happen on time, you know what that means." Linsey caught every word, and in an instant, she understood--this man had been abandoned at the altar, just like she had. Without hesitation, she gripped her dress and strode toward him. The bodyguards reacted instantly, stepping in front of her with stiff, wary expressions. "Ma'am, what do you think you're doing?" The man in the wheelchair shifted his attention to her, his presence alone pressing down like a storm on the horizon. But Linsey didn't flinch. Her voice was steady as she met his gaze head-on. "Sir, I hear your bride has run away. What about letting me take her place? I'll be your bride." Chapter 2 I Won't Regret It Linsey's words made the man's eyes narrow slightly. His voice, laced with surprise, held a sharp edge. "Miss, are you certain about this? I'm disabled. If you marry me, you'll regret it sooner or later." Linsey didn't answer him directly. Instead, her gaze never wavered as she asked, "Would you ever abandon your wife for another woman?" "Of course not," he replied without missing a beat, his tone firm. "Then I won't regret it either," Linsey said, her resolve unshaken. "As long as you agree, I'll marry you." Seeing the sincerity in her eyes, the man replied with a slow, deliberate nod, "Alright then, let's get married." And just like that, Linsey's wedding, one that had nearly been called off, continued as planned. With the priest as their witness, they exchanged vows, their voices steady. As they exited the church, Linsey felt a strange sense of unreality. She had just married a man who, only hours ago, had been a complete stranger. Pushing her husband's wheelchair down the steps, she suddenly realized something. "By the way, I don't even know your name." "Collin Riley," he responded, his voice calm. Linsey's eyes widened in surprise. "Wait, you're Collin Riley? The eldest son of the Riley family?" Collin saw the shock on her face and smirked with a hint of mockery. "What's the matter? Now that you know you've married a man everyone else considers a loser, you're regretting it?" The story of Collin, the eldest son of the powerful Riley family, was well-known throughout the city. His mother had died in childbirth, and his father had remarried. Later, a car accident left Collin paralyzed, transforming him into what many considered a loser. When his stepmother gave birth to a son, he became even more of an outcast within the Riley family. Without his grandmother, Ivy Riley, who had always defended and protected him, Collin would have likely been discarded long ago, left to struggle far worse than someone living on the streets. In Collin's mind, no woman in her right mind would willingly marry a man like him. Unless, she was after money. He wasn't just disabled--he was the neglected son of the Riley family. He fully expected Linsey to be disappointed. He was prepared to see regret or bitterness shadow her face. To his shock, however, she looked at him not with pity or disdain, but with a deep, unspoken understanding--as if she saw him for what he truly was--another soul abandoned by those who should have loved him. Reaching out, she took his hand with gentle strength. "I've already told you. Once I've made my decision, I won't regret it. Now that we're married, I'll make sure you have a real home, one that's warm and full of care." "Is that so?" Collin's voice was laced with doubt, his skepticism clear. "Let's see then." He didn't believe her. Curious, he wondered how long she could maintain this facade once she realized there was nothing to gain from him. A car pulled up in front of them, interrupting his thoughts. "Let's go," Collin said, his tone commanding. Linsey paused. "Where are you taking me?" "Home, of course," he replied with quiet certainty. "We're married now, so naturally, we'll live together." Home? The word made Linsey's heart skip a beat. It reminded her of the home she had lived with Felix, the one she had worked so hard to build for their future together. But now that she was married to Collin, she knew she had to sever the ties to her past. With a deep breath, she turned to him and said, "I have a few things to take care of first. Could you share your contact info and address with me? I'll move in as soon as I'm finished." Collin raised an eyebrow, his gaze piercing. "You don't want me to give you a ride?" "No, it's fine," she replied, her voice firm but gentle. "I can manage on my own. I don't want to trouble you." He didn't argue. After exchanging their contact details, he got into the car and drove off. Half an hour later, Linsey stood before the apartment she had once shared with Felix. The key turned in the lock, and the door creaked open to reveal a space filled with memories. She stepped inside, taking in every familiar detail--the tablecloth, the potted plants--each piece had been carefully selected by her, making it feel like home. But now, it all felt like a prison. Without a second thought, she moved toward the decorations, ripping them down, discarding the plants, and throwing everything into the trash. She had chosen to start fresh, and that meant leaving the past behind, no matter how much it hurt. Once she had cleared out the remnants of her old life, she began packing her belongings. Lost in her thoughts, she didn't hear the sound of footsteps approaching. Felix, unable to stay away, stood at the door, his face a mixture of shock and disbelief. He couldn't hold it in any longer. "Linsey, what the hell are you doing?" Chapter 3 Don't Touch Me The apartment, once cozy and filled with warmth, now stood in disarray, its charm completely stripped away, leaving only chaos in its wake. Linsey continued packing the remaining items into her suitcase, her movements deliberate, as if determined to erase every trace of the life she had once built here. Felix stood frozen for a moment, his eyes sweeping over the wreckage, disbelief etching his features before he stormed toward her. "Linsey, are you out of your mind?" He demanded, his voice rising with frustration. "I was gone for only a little while, and you're acting like this?" He inhaled sharply, trying to reign in his temper, and snapped, "I'm giving you one hour. Put everything back where it was!" Linsey, unfazed, finished packing the item in her hands and slowly turned to face him. Her expression was cooland detached, almost as if he were a stranger. A faint, mocking smile tugged at her lips as she replied, "Felix, haven't you figured it out? Sometimes, once something is lost, it's gone forever. It can never be the same again." Felix's frown deepened, impatience growing in his eyes. "What the hell are you trying to say?" Linsey couldn't help but feel the audacity in his words. Did he truly not understand? Perhaps men like him never saw themselves as in the wrong. No. It wasn't that. His tenderness had always been reserved for one person--Joanna, the woman he had truly loved. Linsey's gaze was unwavering as she stared him down, her voice steady, yet every word seemed to carry the weight of everything she had been through. "On our wedding day, you abandoned me at the ceremony, ignoring both my dignity and my pleas. Do you have any idea how that felt? Felix, did you ever once stop to think about me? I was humiliated beyond measure, and yet you think I'm just throwing a tantrum?" She didn't blink, her eyes locked onto his, the pain she had buried deep inside flooding to the surface, her vision blurring as tears welled up. She didn't look away, her resolve as firm as steel. Seeing her like this, Felix felt a fleeting pang of guilt, but it disappeared as quickly as it came. He dismissed it entirely, just as he had done countless times before. Over the years, he had hurt her time and time again, and she had always forgiven him. He didn't see why this time should be any different. He was sure that with a little charm, she would cave, just like she always had. After all, that was how things had always worked between them. With that thought, his anger dissipated, replaced by a smug smile. "Linsey, alright, I get it. You're upset," he began, his voice patronizing. "But you shouldn't act out like this. Look at what you've done to our home." His smile softened, and he reached out to place his hands gently on her shoulders, his touch feigning tenderness as he tried to calm her down. "Come on, be good. You've vented your anger. Let's not make a scene anymore, okay? How about this? We'll pick another day, a better day, and I promise I'll give you an even grander, more luxurious wedding. What do you say?" Linsey's eyes locked onto the smile playing on Felix's lips. His words were sweet, but his eyes--those eyes--betrayed a chilling indifference. He seemed so certain that she would fall for his act. Of course, why wouldn't he think that? This was the way things had always gone in the past. Linsey let out a bitter scoff. She had given him far too many chances, and now he was convinced that he didn't need to treat her with any real respect. Her expression hardened into something cold and detached, and without a word, she shrugged off his hands as though they were nothing more than a bothersome weight. "Don't touch me. You make my skin crawl!" She said indifferently. Felix froze, his eyes widening in shock. He had never heard her speak to him like that before. Her voice was ice, cutting through the tension in the room as she continued, "Felix, that wedding is over. I have no intention of having another one. I came here today to move out." Felix, still stunned by her rejection, frowned in confusion, his mind struggling to catch up. "Move out?" Linsey nodded, her face resolute. "Yes. I'm leaving now." Felix let out a hollow laugh, as if he had just heard the most absurd joke. "And where do you think you're going?" He knew all too well that Linsey had no family to turn to, no safety net to catch her. Apart from this apartment, she had nowhere else. For the past five years, her entire world had been centered around him. He was certain she couldn't leave him. He was certain that this whole "moving out" act was nothing more than her way of trying to make him bend to her will. Shaking his head in disbelief, he opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by a voice from behind. It was Joanna. "Felix, didn't you say you'd be down in a minute after packing? What's taking you so long?" Joanna's voice echoed through the room as she stepped in. When her eyes landed on Linsey standing across from Felix, her expression shifted in surprise. "Linsey, what are you doing here?" Linsey shot Joanna a frosty look, her voice icy as she replied, "This is my apartment, isn't it? Do I need to explain why I'm here? The real question is, what are you doing here?" Joanna lowered her gaze, feigning a mixture of embarrassment and innocence. "I accidentally nicked myself with a fruit kn*fe, and Felix was so worried he insisted on staying with me for a few days." Her eyes then darted to the suitcase beside Linsey, and she gasped dramatically, her hand covering her mouth. "Linsey, what are you doing? Are you upset? If you're bothered, you can talk to me. I'll apologize if that makes you feel better. There's no need for all this." Linsey's lips curled into a cold smile as she took a slow step forward toward Joanna. "Are you really going to apologize? Do you even mean it?" Joanna, aware of Felix watching, played her part, her voice dripping with false sincerity as she nodded. "Of course. If it helps you, I'll do whatever it takes." "Alright, then. Why not?" Linsey's smile widened, but there was no warmth in her eyes, just coldness. "Since you're so sincere, I suppose I can help you out." Without warning, she raised her hand. The sharp sound of a sl*p sliced through the tension in the room as Linsey's palm connected with Joanna's face. Chapter 4 Linsey, You've Really Changed Joanna let out a shrill scream, the shock of the sl*p leaving her momentarily frozen. Clutching her burning cheek, Joanna glared at Linsey, her eyes wide with disbelief. "Linsey, how dare you sl*p me?" Linsey's lips twisted into a cold, mocking smile. "Why wouldn't I dare? You asked for it. You wanted to apologize, didn't you? But one sl*p hardly satisfies my anger. Maybe a second one will do." With that, she raised her hand again, her gaze never leaving Joanna's face. Felix, still reeling from the shock, finally snapped to attention. With a furious shout, he lunged forward, shoving Linsey aside. "That's enough! Linsey, don't go too far!" As he wrapped his arms protectively around Joanna, his voice softened with concern as he murmured to her, trying to calm her. Linsey staggered back, regaining her balance with ease, her face indifferent. She regarded them both with a clinical gaze, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "This is going too far? Joanna herself said she wanted to apologize. Felix, are you deaf? If she really meant to apologize, she should just keep quiet and let me vent. All I did was sl*p her. How is that going too far? What I've done to her is nothing compared to what you two have done to me!" Her gaze turned bitter as she continued, "You're both nothing but despicable cheats. And one day, when the truth comes out, who will believe a word you say?" Felix stood frozen, stunned by the barrage of accusations. He opened his mouth, but not a single word of defense came to him. He held Joanna close, his arm wrapped protectively around her as his eyes narrowed at Linsey with a growing frustration. After a long, tense silence, he finally spoke, his voice laced with irritation. "Even if Joanna wanted to apologize, you shouldn't have sl*pped her. An apology is just that--an apology. You don't solve things with violence. You're acting like a wild animal!" Linsey tilted her head slightly, her lips curling into a frosty smile. She flexed her wrist nonchalantly, the gesture sharp and deliberate. "I'll take that as a compliment," she replied coolly, her eyes locking onto his. "Since you think so highly of me, should I sl*p her a few more times to really live up to your glowing praise?" Felix's mouth hung open, his shock evident as he stared at her, utterly unprepared for her mocking reply. For a moment, he wondered if the woman standing before him was even the Linsey he once knew. Joanna, equally stunned, watched Linsey in disbelief, her mind struggling to process the situation. She had taunted Linsey countless times before, but this--this was different. Linsey had never fought back like this. Was she finally losing control? The tension in the room thickened, and then Joanna's thoughts shifted, her gut telling her something wasn't right. Could Linsey be doing this on purpose to get Felix's attention? She shot a quick, anxious glance at Felix, only to find him completely absorbed in Linsey, his gaze fixed on her with an intensity that sent a pang of jealousy through Joanna. She had made great efforts to take him from Linsey. There was no way she would let Linsey get him back! Panic flooded Joanna's chest, and her grip tightened on Felix's arm, pulling him back to her. With calculated sweetness, she said, "Felix, don't say that. Linsey's probably just upset. I don't mind. As long as she can stop being angry with us, I'll be fine with anything." Felix's heart swelled with sympathy for Joanna, and her words only deepened his sense of irritation toward Linsey. "Linsey, you've really changed," he said, his voice tinged with disappointment. "The Linsey I knew would never act this way. If you insist on behaving like this--" "Of course I've changed!" Linsey cut him off before he could finish, her voice sharp and biting. "I must have been out of my mind before, putting up with you. But not anymore. I've wised up. Only an id*ot would keep humiliating themselves like I did. Felix, let me make this crystal clear--we're done. Completely done!" Without another word, Linsey grabbed her suitcase and turned away, her face set in stone. Felix stood frozen, the finality in her words hitting him like a punch to the gut. He had never seen her like this before. As she walked out of the room, dragging her suitcase behind her, an overwhelming sense of panic gripped his chest, suffocating him with its intensity. For reasons he couldn't quite understand, a heavy feeling of impending loss weighed on him, as though the most important part of his life was slipping through his fingers. "Linsey!" He called out, his voice desperate, moving instinctively as if to chase after her. Joanna's eyes widened in shock. She hadn't expected Felix to react this way. Without thinking, she placed a hand over her cheek, letting out a melodramatic sob. "Felix, my face. it hurts so much. Do you think it's ble*ding?" Felix froze, his heart tightening at the sound of her distress. He reluctantly turned back to her. Joanna's cheek was marked with faint red streaks, a handprint visible beneath her skin. "Joanna, don't cry." Felix murmured, his voice full of concern. "I'll take you to the hospital. We'll get you some ointment--it's going to be fine." Joanna sniffled loudly, her tears almost theatrical. She hesitated for a moment, before her voice softened, laced with feigned concern. "Felix, Linsey's really leaving. maybe you should go after her instead of worrying about me. I'll be fine." Felix bit down on his lip, his expression torn. "Linsey's crossed a line this time. I won't indulge her anymore. Let her stew for a bit--she'll come crawling back. When she does, I'll make her apologize to you." Joanna's heart swelled with satisfaction, and she leaned into Felix's embrace, her voice dripping with sweetness. "Felix, you're so good to me." Her plan was working perfectly. The smugness bubbled within her as Joanna felt in control. Linsey was nothing but a fool, thinking she could win Felix back. But as Felix held Joanna, the warmth of her affection did nothing to settle the unease gnawing at him. A strange discomfort tugged at his chest. Why did he feel so unsettled? He pushed the unease down, attempting to smile at Joanna with forced patience. But no matter how hard he tried, his gaze kept drifting toward the direction Linsey had gone. Linsey had nowhere to go. She would be back eventually. He was sure of it. Chapter 5 Let's Make A Bet Then On the other side, after Collin returned to Vista Villa, he made his way straight to the study. Seen as disabled and worthless by society, he now stood tall, his former despondency entirely gone. He faced the floor-to-ceiling window, his expression cold and unreadable as he watched the world below. Just then, his phone rang. It was Dustin Wade, his childhood friend. "Hey, Collin," Dustin said, his voice casual. "I've looked into your wife. There's nothing shady about her. Her background checks out. On the day of the wedding, she married you because her fiancé left her standing at the altar." Dustin's tone shifted, a playful edge creeping in. "You know, all the rich young women in town avoid you like the plague. They think you're disabled, and you're cut off from your family--just the perfect picture of an outcast. But Linsey? She had the guts to walk right up to you and marry you. I gotta say, that's some serious courage." After a brief pause, Dustin added with a thoughtful sigh, "I do wonder, though. when she finds out the truth, how will she take it?" Collin's voice was steady and emotionless as he answered, "She won't get the chance. As soon as she realized who I really am, she came up with an excuse and left. She's probably gone for good." He wasn't surprised. After the accident, rejection and scorn had become part of his life. His low position in the Riley family only added to his isolation, making him numb to it all. People often said that marrying a man like him--someone with no future--was like throwing away a woman's life. But Dustin didn't agree with Collin. "I don't think she's like that," Dustin retorted with a grin. "Think about it--how many women would dare to swap grooms at their own wedding? My gut tells me Linsey's not the type to run. Since she's already married you, I don't think she'd just disappear." As Dustin spoke, his interest visibly grew, his excitement clear in his voice. "You don't believe me? Let's make a bet, then. I bet Linsey will be back soon. If I win, you hand over that plot of land on the outskirts of town. Deal?" Collin raised an eyebrow, his tone calm but calculating. "And if you lose?" Dustin let out a dismissive scoff. "I'm not going to lose, okay?" But before he could say more, Collin's icy aura seemed to seep through the phone, sending a chill down his spine. Dustin quickly backpedaled. "Fine, fine. If I lose, you can make any request of similar value. Deal?" Collin didn't believe for a second that Linsey would return. A cold snort escaped him, which Dustin took as tacit agreement. Just as Collin was about to hang up, a knock echoed at the door. The housekeeper's voice came through. "Mr. Riley, Mrs. Riley is here.". What happens next? How will Collin react to Linsey's return? 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A message lit up Stella's phone, and along with it came a bunch of photos. Clothes scattered carelessly, two people holding each other tightly, messy b**sheets. This kind of thing wasn't new to Stella. One look at the big hand holding that woman's wrist, and Stella knew it was Marc's. Her husband. The same man she'd been married to for four years. Then her eyes caught the date on the pictures, and her stomach sank. It was the same day as their wedding anniversary. Marc had promised they'd spend the evening together, but he'd vanished for three days. All she got was a message from his assistant, saying he had some urgent business to handle. "Urgent, huh?" Stella let out a cold chuckle. Clearly urgent--in someone else's b*d. She then closed the message and called someone from her contact list. The person picked up almost immediately. "Stella," came the voice on the other end. "I've made my decision to join the classified research project," she said calmly. A heavy silence stretched on the other end of the line, and then came a sharp, unwavering voice. "Don't joke around, Stella. Once you're in the classified research project, there's no turning back. You'll be officially listed as missing, and everything about your past will be wiped clean. A new identity will be created for you. So ask yourself--are you really ready to walk away from your family? From Marc?" Stella's eyes fell on the framed wedding photo hanging nearby. Marc's promises, which used to sound sweet, now felt cold and empty. "I've made my decision. I'll come by tomorrow to fill out the forms." Stella once savored Marc's devotion, yet his covert cruelty cut deep. Then she deleted her identity, signed onto a classified research mission, vanished without a trace, that same dawn Marc's empire crumbled. All he unearthed was her death certificate, and he shattered. When they met again, a gala spotlighted Stella beside a tycoon. Marc begged her to forgive. With a smirk, she said, "Out of your league, darling.". &7&

Elliana, the unfavored "ugly duckling" of her family, was humiliated by her stepsister, Paige, who everyone admired. Paige, engaged to the CEO Cole, was the perfect woman-until Cole married Elliana on the day of the wedding. Tears streamed down Paige's face. "Mom, is my dream of becoming the wife of the wealthiest man truly gone?" "Absolutely not!" Kiara's voice dripped with venom as she said, "Cole won't tolerate being trapped like this. Elliana was shoved into his life. She might not even make it through tonight." "Once Elliana's no longer in the picture, Cole will definitely come back to you. Just hold on to your place as Ublento's top socialite. You'll be his wife eventually." Since even those two m**ons, Kiara and Paige, had imagined Cole might arrange a widower scenario, Elliana, with her sharp mind, had certainly considered that possibility. Even though Elliana had never seen Cole in person until today, she'd heard every tale. People described him as cold-bl**ded, even cruel. He was the kind of man who crushed anyone who dared stand in his way. Elliana kept her head down the entire ceremony. Once they stepped into the bedroom, Elliana sank onto the edge of the bed and stayed silent. Cole slipped off his jacket and dropped onto the couch. His eyes locked on her. Hours ago, she looked like a wreck--smudged eyeliner, tangled hair, makeup that aged her ten years. But now, beneath the soft veil concealing her face, she looked ethereal in the glittering gown. Elliana was still running through her next move in her head when Cole rose without warning and swept her into his arms. Her heart lurch. "Mr. Evans, what. What are you doing?" A sly smile playing at the corners of Colea's mouth. "Tell me--what do you suppose newlyweds ought to be doing on their wedding night?" Everything tilted as he tossed her onto the b*d, his scent surrounding her completely, and she went still. With her horrible wig and makeup, was Cole seriously able to go through with it?. &7&

Her husband cheated with his secretary. She divorced him swiftly. He sneered that no one would want a divorced woman like her. But after the divorce, a powerful man spoiled her endlessly. When her bitter ex-husband showed up to confront her, the man wrapped his arm around her waist, his voice authoritative. "She's your aunt now." ===== Kayla Graham was pr**nant, but the child wasn't her husband's. She stepped out of the consultation room, her hands shaking as she held the pr**nancy test results. Her legs felt unsteady, and her mind hadn't caught up with the shock that had just hit her. Only a month ago, she had tied the knot with her boyfriend of five years. But on their wedding night, she found out he'd been cheating--his phone was loaded with inti*ate pictures of him and another woman. Devastated, she drowned her pain in al**hol, and in her haze, she stumbled into the wrong h*tel room, waking up the next morning beside a man she didn't know. That night, she hadn't gotten a clear look at his face--only the memory of his overpowering presence, nearly suffocating, and the vast room that seemed to swallow her whole. In the morning, too ashamed to stay, she slipped out in silence, never looking back. She never could have imagined that a single reckless n*ght would leave her carrying that man's child. Kayla had no idea what to do--restless, anxious, and overwhelmed. She was desperate to find a way out. Her phone buzzed just then, snapping her back. A message from her husband, Liam Graham. "Kayla, I'm outside the hospital, waiting for you." Staring blankly at the screen, she slid the phone back into her pocket and moved toward the elevator without a word. For days, the nausea and dizziness had lingered. When she could no longer brush it off, she finally went to the hospital, only to be blindsided by the news of her pr**nancy. As Kayla stepped out of the hospital, the first thing she saw was Liam's black car waiting by the curb. Drawing in a breath, she hurried toward the car. Liam got out of the car and walked around to open her door. He looked even more striking and refined in his crisp black suit. "What did the doctor say?" he asked. "Just a stomach upset," she said, voice flat. "You've always had a thing for spicy food. You'll need to ease up. It's not good for your stomach." Kayla gave a slight nod. The moment she slid into the car, a subtle trace of flowery perfume for women hit her. Liam never used air fresheners--he hated them. That scent could only mean one thing: another woman had been here. Liam reached over and gently ruffled her hair. "I'll take you home so you can get some rest. I need to return to the office for a bit." "Okay," she mumbled. While the car waited at a red light, Liam answered an incoming call. Kayla shifted slightly and felt her hand graze against something soft. She reached down and pulled out a pink silk scarf. Her eyes narrowed, fixed on the scarf--it looked far too familiaWhen Liam hung up, he turned with a warm smile. "Kayla, I'll drop you off first, then I--" When Liam hung up, he turned with a warm smile. "Kayla, I'll drop you off first, then I--" She interrupted him, raising the scarf. Her voice was sharp and firm. "Who does this belong to?" Liam's eyes flashed with a hint of panic, but he covered it up with a strained chuckle. "Must be from a client earlier today. I'll return it tomorrow." He reached for the scarf, but Kayla yanked it back and said defiantly, "Liam, I want a divorce." Liam threw back his head in disbelief. "Kayla, it's just a scarf! Why are you blowing this out of proportion? You can't throw the word 'divorce' around like it means nothing." Kayla gave a cold, humorless laugh. "How much longer were you going to keep lying? You left me on our wedding night for her, didn't you?" Liam stared at her, stunned, a rare disoriented look in his eyes. "It was a last-minute meeting. You've got it all wrong." Kayla had no interest in hearing his excuses. He had betrayed her, and now she carried another man's child. Their marriage was beyond saving. "Out of respect for the years we've shared, let's end this peacefully," she said, her tone icy. Without waiting for a response, she pushed open the door and stepped out. Liam sat motionless behind the wheel, his fingers clenched so tightly they turned white. Then, with a furious roar, he slammed his fist against the steering wheel. Kayla took a taxi home. As she stepped into the living room, her eyes landed on their wedding photo--framed perfectly at the center, the two of them beaming with joy. Now, the image struck her as bitterly ironic. On the night of their wedding, she had seen ex**icit images of Liam with Tricia Moss, tangled in com**omising poses. That single blow had shattered everything. Five years of loyalty had meant nothing. Kayla dropped to her knees, hands pressed tightly to her ch*st as the anguish she'd bottled up came crashing out in a flood of raw emotion. Tears spilled freely, refusing to stop. She didn't know how much time had passed before her sobs finally quieted. All she knew was the emptiness that followed. Liam arrived home late that night. Kayla lay still in the b*d, facing away. When he pressed against her back, she didn't flinch. Instead, she shut her eyes. His skin carried the chill of the night as he wrapped his arm around her over the blanket. "Let's stop fighting, Kayla. I'm sorry for earlier. It won't happen again. I love you." She shifted, pulling away from his touch. Liam let out a low chuckle, his voice smooth, almost teasing. He undr**sed quickly and slid toward her. "Let's have s*x tonight. Your period should be over by now, right?" Chapter 2 The Man She Had Slept With Was Her Husband's Uncle On their wedding night, Liam had come home past midnight. That night, Kayla had claimed she was on her period to avoid being int**ate with him. And now, after everything, he still believed that saying sorry would magically erase what he had done. "Get out of my room!" Kayla pushed herself upright in b*d, her tone frigid and final as she shut him down. Liam's d**ire fizzled out instantly. He ran a hand over his face, annoyed. "Can you stop overreacting? I know you're upset, but I'm not going to keep walking on eggshells. My patience has its limits." "Are you deaf? Get out!" Kayla's tone didn't change, and her expression didn't soften. Trying a gentler approach, Liam coaxed, "We're married now. Let's forget the past. I'll be better from now on, I swear." An unfaithful man was no different from something rotting on the street. Standing up, Kayla grabbed her pillow with one hand. "I'll sleep in the guest room." Liam's irritation was written all over his face. To him, she was overreacting--completely blowing things out of proportion. He had already said he was sorry, yet she treated him like his apology meant nothing. In his eyes, she should've been rational enough to let it go by now. "Fine. Go ahead. Sleep wherever the hell you want." Without another word, Kayla picked up her phone and laptop, ignoring him completely. Liam turned over in the bed, glaring at her as she walked out. "Don't forget tomorrow's family banquet. You're coming with me. We've been married for a week. It'll be a joke if you don't show up." He swore quietly under his breath and hurled a pillow onto the floor, unable to hold in his rage. Kayla didn't answer, but her expression made her feelings clear. She wasn't going because she wanted to. She was going because Liam had threatened to sell the Cooper Group if she didn't. Cooper Group was her mother's life's work--a legacy built through years of sacrifice. She had poured everything into the company, pushing herself beyond her limits, until the constant pressure finally took her life. And it was all she'd left behind. The next day, the couple visited the ancestral mansion of the Graham family--a powerful name in Trark. When Liam's sleek black car rolled to a stop in front of the mansion, the butler was already outside to stop him. "This space is for family only. Outsiders need to park elsewhere." Not even a hint of respect for Liam. But Kayla wasn't the least bit surprised--she had witnessed this kind of contempt more times than she could count. Without a word, she opened the car door and stepped out, positioning herself to the side. Although Liam carried the Graham name, he was little more than a shadow on the family tree. His mother was the illegitimate daughter of Johnny Graham, the family patriarch. Years ago, she had married a poor man, despite Johnny's furious objections. As punishment, he severed ties with her. As Liam grew older, his mother realized she couldn't give him the kind of future he needed. Desperate to change his fate, she pushed him back toward the family that had rejected her. She made him take on the Graham surname, thinking it might open a door. But it never did. Each visit to the Graham family brought nothing but scorn. Still, Liam held on to the idea that one day, he'd prove his worth. The company he now boasted about--Perennia Group--had been built off Kayla's money. It started with hundreds of thousands of dollars she gave him. And when Cooper Group later stepped in to support him, the business grew fast. In a few years, it became a name people noticed. But now, Kayla felt like it had all been a terrible waste. A reward for betrayal, handed over by her own misguided trust. Liam moved the car to a different spot, hoping to avoid further conflict, but the butler still stood firm. Finally, Liam snapped, "What, I don't even get a parking spot in my own home now?" The butler gave a slight bow, that ever-present smug smile playing on his lips. "My apologies, sir. We simply don't have room for uninvited guests." Liam's face flushed crimson, his fists clenched at his sides. He looked like he wanted to lash out but couldn't. Kayla felt a small flicker of satisfaction watching him get cut down to size. Just then, a series of sleek black sedans began pulling into the driveway. The butler's entire posture changed. Panic flickered across his face as he waved his arms. "Move the car! Move it! Mr. Jeremy Graham has returned!" Jeremy Graham, Johnny's youngest son, stood first in line for succession to the Graham family. In Trark, he ruled on the surface and in the shadows with a firm, unyielding grip, the kind of figure whose name alone could silence a room. Kayla watched as the sleek black cars approached. Without hesitation, the butler rushed forward, hurrying to open the door of the car at the center. Jeremy stepped out slowly. His crisp suit and polished shoes shone under the lights. Everything about him radiated dominance. The sheer presence he carried was enough to make anyone feel unsettled. Kayla's eyes drifted to his hand, where a ring glinted under the streetlights. Her breath caught. She had seen that ring before--in the h*tel room that n*ght. How could it be him? She looked up, heart pounding, and met his eyes--those deep-set, unreadable eyes. The man she had sl*pt with was her husband's uncle. Chapter 3 Had He Seen Her Face That Night? Jeremy towered above everyone else, his height impossible to ignore. There was something about him, a quiet intensity, polished and powerful. Even without trying, he drew every pair of eyes. He wore a sleek black suit that spoke of quiet luxury, every detail immaculate. His face was flawless--strikingly handsome, yet distant. Kayla caught her breath. The sight of him made her freeze. He was too striking. Too composed. When Jeremy's gaze brushed over her, her heart skipped and she dropped her eyes instinctively. Thankfully, his eyes moved on, and he walked off with his entourage, each step unhurried. Liam finally managed to park the car, though he had to squeeze it in near a reeking bin. "Kayla, shall we go in?" he asked, extending his hand to her. She took a step back, her tone cool. "I'll be fine on my own." He hesitated but held himself back. Causing a scene here wasn't worth it. "Alright," he murmured. The family banquet passed without Jeremy making an appearance. Kayla's shoulders loosened just a little. If he had been there, she would've been a wreck, unable to sit still. When she excused herself to the bathroom, she didn't actually go inside. Instead, she slipped out into the garden, craving air and distance. The main hall buzzed with conversation and music, but out here, the quiet pressed in from all sides. Everything about this estate reeked of power--wealth carved into marble paths and whispering fountains. No wonder Liam had tried so desperately to claw his way back. Who wouldn't? Kayla let her feet lead the way. Soon, she realized she didn't know where she was anymore. She eventually stumbled upon a pond, where she suddenly heard a commotion. A man was being hauled over by two bodyguards, his head shoved beneath the surface of the pond. He screamed in panic, swearing he didn't know anything, his voice cracking with fear. More bodyguards surrounded them--at least a dozen, their black uniforms like shadows. Kayla dove behind a bush and clasped a hand over her mouth, her heart pounding like it wanted to escape her chest. They only dragged the man out when he was seconds from drowning, then hurled him onto the ground like he was nothing more than tr**h. "Mr. Graham, I swear, I don't know who was in the room that night! I didn't see anything!" One of the bodyguards slammed a fist into his face. "Still pretending you don't know?" he growled. "I swear, I don't! I nodded off--I didn't see anything, I promise!" There was a loud crack. His scream echoed off the stone. One of his fingers had just been sn*pped clean. Kayla's entire body went stiff. She felt cold, sweat clinging to her skin. Jeremy was the man from that night. And he was clearly looking for answers. That meant he didn't know she was the woman from that night. A wave of fear surged through Kayla, tangled with a thin thread of relief. She had to get out. Now. Just as she turned to slip away, two bodyguards stepped into her path. "There's someone here," one of them said sharply. Kayla froze and forced a smile. "I was just passing by. I didn't see anything, I swear." Edwin Bailey, Jeremy's assistant, gave her a quick, assessing look before turning his head and said, "Mr. Graham, it's Liam's wife." A silence followed. Then, a deep, smooth voice answered, "Bring her here." Before Kayla could react, they grabbed her. She was hauled forward and shoved so roughly she stumbled. Her throat tightened as she stood, head bowed, too frightened to meet his eyes. He was lounging on a chaise longue. A black V-neck clung to his frame, and his loose, tailored trousers hung just right. The lighting veiled part of his face, but what was visible looked like a masterpiece. Then his eyes found her. She looked so small standing there. Fragile, even. Her long lashes trembled, her fear plain in every movement. Something about her vulnerability seemed to stir something faint in him. "Look up," he said, voice low but firm. Kayla clutched her dress in tight fists. She bit her lip before slowly lifting her gaze. Their eyes locked. His expression gave away nothing. "Why are you here?" "I got lost," she whispered. "I didn't mean to interrupt anything." "Lost?" His tone was icy. "Or did Liam send you to sniff around?" "No! Absolutely not! I swear!" She raised her hand as if taking an oath, but his stare remained cool, unmoved. Thankfully, he didn't push the issue. With a flick of his hand, he signaled the guards to let her go. Relief washed over her, but she only managed a few shaky steps before her stomach twisted violently. The nausea surged out of nowhere. She spotted a bin near his chaise longue and rushed toward it. But her balance faltered--she slipped, missed the edge, and fell hard against him, collapsing into his arms as she retched. Unbelievable. The bodyguards jolted in surprise and rushed forward, ready to pull her off him without hesitation. Jeremy's face darkened. He lifted a hand, halting them. Kayla gagged a few more times against his ch*st before the wave of nausea passed. Thankfully, nothing came up. It was just dry heaving. He pushed her off, his jaw tight. "Did Liam send you to s**uce me?" His voice was sharp, laced with ice and barely contained fury. Kayla landed on the ground, disoriented, and blinked up at him. "I wasn't feeling well. I'm sorry. You won't blame me, right? We're family." Jeremy furrowed his brow. This woman was clever--she knew how to exploit the situation. The light shifted, catching her face in full. She looked pale and scared. "I'll leave now," she mumbled, starting to rise. "Goodbye, Jeremy." But she hadn't made it far before his hand closed around her wrist. His eyes locked onto hers again--sharp, unblinking, as if he could see past the trembling exterior. Kayla's ch*st tightened. Did he know? Had he seen her face that night? Chapter 4 Divorce Liam Before Her Pr**nancy Became Noticeable "Kayla!" Liam's voice rang out from afar. Jeremy's brows knit slightly before he let go of Kayla's wrist. "You can go." She didn't wait--she turned and rushed off immediately. Edwin stepped forward, offering him a handkerchief. "Mr. Graham, what just happened?" Jeremy took the handkerchief, wiping his hands slowly, his expression unreadable. "Nothing. I thought she looked familiar--like the woman from that night--but I must have been mistaken." "Don't worry, sir. I'll figure out who snuck into your room that night. Just give me a little more time." "Alright." Jeremy's eyes drifted away, a strange look passing across his face. He couldn't forget the woman from that night. She'd seemed so untouched, tr**bling under his fingertips, tears running silently down her cheeks. He still remembered her eyes--clear and bright, drawing him in irresistibly. Meanwhile, Kayla spotted Liam scanning the area, clearly searching for her. She calmed herself and walked over. "I'm here." Liam rushed toward her, gripping her shoulders tightly. "Where were you? I thought something had happened. I was worried sick." Kayla instinctively leaned back, inching away from his hold. "I'm fine." Liam glanced over her shoulder, clearly wanting to ask more, but she'd already started walking ahead, cutting the conversation short. That night, sleep refused to come. Kayla tossed in bed, her mind haunted by Jeremy's face. She never imagined that he--the man from that night--would turn out to be Liam's uncle. The thought alone was enough to make her stomach twist. She had heard the stories. Jeremy was ruthless. The kind of man who crushed competitors without blinking. He wasn't someone you crossed. Her hand moved instinctively to her stomach. She couldn't keep this baby. If the Graham family found out, the consequences would be beyond anything she could handle. She'd go to the hospital in the morning and take care of it--quietly, before things got worse. With her decision made, Kayla slipped out of bed to grab a glass of water. As she reached the staircase, she heard Liam's voice downstairs, sharp and angry. "This project has to go through, no matter what. I don't care how you do it; find a way to fill that funding gap. We've already poured too much into it. Failure isn't an option." He sounded angry, and once the call ended, he hung up with a sharp, frustrated motion. Kayla couldn't help but wonder what had gone wrong with the company to leave him sounding so frantic. The sound of the front door opening and shutting echoed through the empty hallway. Liam walked out, started his car, and drove off. Kayla made her way downstairs, filled a glass with water in the quiet kitchen. Then, her phone buzzed with a message from her private investigator. "Mrs. Graham, Mr. Graham has gone to Tricia's. He's likely staying the night." A faint, mocking smile tugged at Kayla's lips. There was no hurt left. Only a hollow calm where disappointment used to live. The next morning, she drove herself to the hospital. She'd expected it to be simple and quick. But the doctor's words shattered every bit of that hope. "Ma'am, your uterine lining is quite thin. In your condition, undergoing an ab**tion could make it difficult, if not impossible, for you to con**ive again." Kayla sat frozen, the words echoing in her ears. She couldn't go through with the ab**tion, yet carrying the baby wasn't something she could risk either. She was trapped. The doctor's voice softened. "Maybe talk this through with your husband. This isn't a small decision--it carries real risks." "I understand," she muttered. Kayla left the room feeling like she'd just been hit by a wave. Her thoughts spun out of control. If she didn't end the pr**nancy, she'd eventually have to give birth, and there was no way Liam wouldn't find out. There was only one way forward now: divorce Liam before her pr**nancy became noticeable. Still lost in thought, Kayla didn't see the figure in front of her and ran straight into someone's chest. "Mr. Graham, are you alright?" Kayla's heart dropped. She looked up and found Jeremy standing there, tall and still as a statue, those intense eyes locked on her like she was a puzzle he was about to solve. Stunned, Kayla instinctively tucked the medical report behind her back. "Jeremy?" Jeremy didn't reply. He studied her closely, sensing something off. She'd been acting strange the night before and still was. Jeremy said lightly, "What are you hiding behind you?" At his words, Kayla nervously clutched the hem of her clothes, her heart racing.. What happens next? Available chapters here are limited, click the button below to install the App and enjoy more exciting chapters (Automatically jump to this novel when you open the app) &4&

She followed him for seven years out of gratitude, feeling lucky to marry him. When his mistress claimed she had cancer and only six months to live, he handed her divorce papers. "It's only for show. We'll remarry in six months." Her heart died. She resolved to make the fake divorce real and restart her life. ===== "Let's get a divorce. She has stomach cancer and has only six months left to live." After their in**mate encounter, Brandon Watson sat up and said in a detached voice. Millie Bennett, still breathing hard from the encounter, turned to him slowly, a wild look of disbelief in her eyes. They had been married for a year. What did he mean by suddenly saying he wanted a divorce? "Her final wish is to be my wife," Brandon added, almost offhandedly. He said, lighting a ci**rette. The sm**e rose in slow spirals around his face. Millie gawked at him, stunned. Silence spread across the room like mist. The bedside lamp glowed faintly, casting long shadows across the wall, making them seem farther apart than they were. Brandon glanced at her and gave a faint frown. "It's only to comfort her," he explained. "We'll remarry after six months. She won't be here long, Millie." His voice was steady, almost detached, like someone passing along a message that didn't concern him. Millie watched Brandon wordlessly, her eyes fixed on his profile. He spoke like his words were instructions, not suggestions. Their relationship had always been one-sided. She had chased it from the start, drawn in by youthful affection. She had stayed by his side for years, moving through each rough season without letting go. Millie still remembered that day, under the heavy rain that soaked them both, Brandon had stood between her and her stepfather, gripping a cracked stick, and said with fire in his voice, "Touch Millie again, and you'll regret it." That moment had etched itself into her heart. Even when she was weak and bl**ding, she saw him--unmoving, protective, fierce. From that point on, she was his. She loved him without pause, met his requests with everything she had, carrying them out more flawlessly than anyone else ever could. He would always pat her head, light and warm, and say in a low voice, "You did so well, Millie." But Brandon's praises never lasted, his ki**es barely stayed, and whatever affection they shared always felt just out of reach. But Millie told herself it was just how he was. Even when others called her naive, she stayed--devoted and trusting. She had given seven years of her life to him. A year earlier, Brandon's grandfather, Derek Watson, had fallen into poor health. The family, hoping to lift his spirits, decided Brandon should marry. Perhaps the joy of a wedding would give the old man something to hold on to. So Brandon went on to marry Millie. She thought it was finally their moment. But after the vows, something changed. He began to pull away. Sometimes, he looked at her like she was a stranger. "Millie, are you listening?" Brandon scowled as he caught the far-off look in Millie's eyes. "Does it have to be like this?" she asked softly. He didn't answer. Instead, he said, "She's going through so much, Millie." Millie's ch**t tightened. "And what about me?" Brandon didn't answer right away. His eyes, dark and steady, flickered with a trace of impatience. Then, after about three seconds, he said, "Millie, she's dying. Maybe you don't know, but she's in love with me. Because we were married, and she didn't want to hurt you, she never let things go too far between us. Even when I tried to make it up to her, she never let me. She's a good person. Please, let her have this. Don't make me think you're being heartless." His words, spoken so calmly, pierced her more than if he had shouted. So in Brandon's eyes, a woman in love with a married man, who promised to hold back but never really let go, was a saint. And a wife who simply wanted to keep her husband to herself was heartless. Millie stared at his face. The same face she had fallen for--intense eyes, prominent nose, beautiful lips. When had things started to crumble? Maybe it was the day the woman showed up. "Are you sure this is what you want?" Millie asked, steadying herself. Brandon said nothing, pursing his lips. Finally, he opened his mouth to respond. "Yes, you--" "Alright." Millie cut him off before he could finish. Brandon looked up, clearly surprised. He frowned, studying her closely. "Millie, you're getting clever," he said, a flicker of irritation in his voice. "You know I need your consent to go through with it. Are you thinking of using it to get under my skin?" Millie didn't answer. She just stared at the white wall, watching how their shadows stretched. Brandon put out his ci**rette andsaid no more, pulling on his clothes quickly and storming out. He didn't stop to consider how she felt. Nor did he pause to acknowledge how humiliating or painful his request was. He knew she couldn't leave him. He was utterly sure about that. The door slammed shut behind him. And just like that, Millie was alone. She sat motionless by the bed, staring at the door as if it might open again. Her phone buzzed beside her. A message lit up the screen. She picked up the phone. It was from a familiar number. "He came to see me again." The text came with a photo. Brandon's face was captured in the reflection of a glass door, a soft smile playing on his lips, eyes warm in a way Millie had never seen. She froze. Then, slowly, she scrolled upward through the previous messages. "He said he has feelings for me." "Rainy nights aren't lonely for me because he's here with me. What about you?" "The one who isn't loved is truly the other woman. Millie, you were never his first choice; you were just the one he settled for. He sees beauty the way I do, shares my taste in things, and he loves me." The messages continued that way, proving Brandon's betrayal. The man who had always treated her with distance these past seven years had apparently mastered tenderness for someone else. Millie kept scrolling until she reached the very first message. "You should know who I am. Do you like the flowers in your living room today? I sent them. He said they were beautiful." Of course, Millie knew who it was. Vivian Simpson, the famous floral designer known for filling her wealthy clients' grand villas and lavish parties with carefully and beautifully arranged blooms. Millie had shown Brandon the messages before. He'd brushed them off and said there was no proof they were from Vivian. He had even said maybe Millie sent them herself just to stir trouble. Most of the messages didn't have pictures, and the few that did were vague--taken from afar, hard to pin down. But not today's. Today's was clear. Millie thought about showing him the photo. Then her eyes drifted toward the bedside drawer. She reached down and pulled it open. There it was. The pr**nancy test result she'd gotten earlier that day. She was pr**nant with Brandon's child. At the worst possible moment. Her tears fell, soaking the paper and smudging the ink. But what did it matter anymore? Brandon's heart had been gone for a long time. Millie wiped her face dry and picked up the lighter he'd left behind. Flames flickered as she held the test result to the fire. Brandon had no idea that saying yes to the divorce would be the final thing she'd ever do for him. She had given him back what she owed--not in money, but in seven full years of her life. She would never love him again. Chapter 2 Terminate The Pregnancy The next day, parked just outside the courthouse, Brandon sat in his Maybach, quietly tapping the steering wheel with his left hand. "Brandon, you and Millie have been married for a year now. Don't you think it's time to start planning for a baby?" An elderly voice drifted from the phone's speaker. Brandon's face softened, a trace of frustration flickering through, but his patience didn't waver. "Grandma, we're still young. There's no need to rush. You and Grandpa should focus on staying healthy. He." "What do you mean by 'There's no need to rush'?" The elderly voice rose in annoyance. "Your grandfather's condition might have improved, but we're not getting any younger. We don't know how much time we've got left." "Grandma." "Don't give me that! I've heard things, Brandon. Whatever's going on, be good to Millie." Silence fell over the line for a few seconds. "Brandon, did you hear me?" the elder asked. Brandon rubbed his forehead in frustration. "I understand, Grandma." They exchanged a few more words before he ended the call. Brandon resumed tapping the steering wheel with his fingers, this time slower, more distracted. He stared through the windshield toward the courthouse. He clenched his jaw. Then, he opened the messaging app on his phone. His thumb hovered over a familiar profile picture--a simple floral image, tagged "My Love." He skipped past it and opened the thread with Millie. The last message he'd sent her simply reminded her of the time and place to meet for the divorce. She still hadn't shown up. With a scowl, Brandon sent a new message. "Where are you?" A knock on the window followed almost instantly. He turned to see Millie standing outside, her face a little pale. She opened the door and slipped into the passenger seat, giving him a blank look. He hadn't changed out of yesterday's clothes--the same ones she had picked out for him. Through the years, it had always been her--choosing his ties, picking his cologne, arranging every detail down to the fit of his tailored shirts and suits. "Why are you late?" Brandon asked. Millie looked away. "I'm not late," she said quietly. She was simply no longer the girl who would always arrive early and wait for him without thinking. Brandon's fingers stilled against the wheel. His eyes narrowed slightly as he studied her. Millie looked a little pale, maybe from a sleepless night after he mentioned the divorce last night. Still, she looked fine. "My grandma called earlier," Brandon muttered, looking away. "Don't tell them about the divorce. They're too old to handle something like that." Millie didn't respond right away. Instead, she asked, "What did your grandma say?" "She wants us to have a baby," Brandon said flatly, a flicker of irritation slipping into his voice. Silence settled in the car. After a while, Millie let out a small soft laugh. Brandon curled his hand into a fist and turned his face to the window. There were moments when he used to imagine what their child might look like. He remembered holding her from behind, pressing a hand gently over her belly, whispering, "Millie, when will you give me a baby?" But it hadn't happened. Anyway, they could always remarry in six months and start planning for a baby. There would still be enough time. Vivian, however, only had six months left. Outside, passers-by came and went. Then Millie spoke up. "Just once more, Brandon. Are you completely sure you want to go through with the divorce?" "Having second thoughts?" Brandon barked, looking genuinely upset. Vivian was still waiting for him at the studio. After confirming once more, Millie didn't say another word. She reached into her bag, pulled out a document, and handed it to Brandon. He took it with a frown, flipping through the pages. It was a property division agreement. "If we're getting divorced," she said, "we should make everything clear. I'll only take what I'm entitled to from the Watson family. And from this moment on, anything either of us earns belongs to us individually." Then Millie pulled out a pen and placed it beside him. "If that's okay with you, just sign it." Brandon's eyes stayed on the document, but his frown deepened as he read. The agreement was too simple. She really wasn't asking for much. And her signature was already there. He didn't get it. What was she trying to do? It was basically just a fake divorce. Vivian only had six months left. He planned to spend those months by her side. After that, he'd return to Millie--no one else needed to know the divorce ever happened. To him, Millie had always seemed blindly loyal. Brandon had never thought of her as someone with pride or boundaries. There was a time he'd grown bored of her, pushing her into things that chipped away at her pride on purpose. But Millie never declined. She'd still return with a soft smile, holding out the results like a trophy. "Brandon, look--I did it. Isn't it great?" She was a good wife. Meek. Obedient. For seven years, he'd seen it play out over and over. If it weren't for Vivian, their marriage probably would have gone on like that. But. A flash of memory--Vivian, weak and coughing bl**d, still trying to smile--stabbed at his ch**t. The pain was raw and unshakable. Brandon looked outside the car window again. Millie's reflection stared back at him--blank, expressionless. Was this her way of threatening him? After all, she had once faked messages to frame Vivian. She hated Vivian. Chuckling dryly, Brandon picked up the pen and signed his name. No one could force his hand. Not even her. There were two copies of the agreement. Millie calmly took her copy after he signed both. They both stepped out of the car and headed into the courthouse. Together, they filed for divorce. Next time they came back here, they would finalize everything and collect the official decree. Once all the formalities were done, the two of them stepped out of the courthouse together. The sun was already blazing, and the warmth settled on Millie's skin. Brandon scanned the people moving about. It wasn't hard to tell the couples getting married from those getting divorced. Some people chose to have their weddings at the courthouse. A couple walked by, hand in hand. The woman's smile triggered something in Brandon. He remembered that same look on Millie's face a year ago, when they first got married. Brandon glanced over at Millie, but her face was blank. "I'll keep transferring money to your account during the next six months," he said. "And don't say anything to my grandparents." He didn't wait for a reply. Just turned and walked off. Millie stood there quietly, watching his car disappear around the corner. Her cab arrived not long after. And then, the two cars went opposite directions. One turned toward Vivian Floral Design. The other headed for Crobert Hospital. Brandon walked into Vivian's studio, where she greeted him with a gentle smile. He told her, "It's done. She didn't make a scene." Meanwhile, Millie stepped into the ob-gyn wing and quietly sat opposite the doctor. The doctor reached over and pulled the curtain "Millie. are you sure you want to terminate the pr**nancy?" Her best friend and doctor, Alexia Hussain, looked at her with concern. "You were so determined to have a baby. You even worked so hard to get yourself ready for co**eption." Millie reached into her bag and placed the divorce filing receipt on the side table. "Yes," she replied calmly. "Let's terminate it. I don't want it anymore." Chapter 3 Signs Of Miscarriage Alexia stared at the filing receipt, surprised. She and Millie had been close friends for more than ten years, and in all that time, Alexia had seen just how hard Millie loved Brandon. There was a time Millie could have died for him, and nobody would have questioned it. They got married a year ago. Alexia had smiled at the wedding, even though something about their pairing felt off. But still, Millie had gotten what she wanted. That had been enough for Alexia. Now this. What had happened? "I don't love him anymore," Millie said, before Alexia could ask. She looked over and gave a small, calm smile. In that smile, Alexia caught a glimpse of the old Millie--the one from before everything collapsed, before grief carved deep lines into her, before her father's death and the fall of the Bennett family changed her. It brought Alexia a strange sense of calm. "Brandon doesn't know I'm pr**nant," Millie said calmly. "And before the divorce becomes final, I don't want to take any risks. It's better if he doesn't know." If either party changed their mind before the divorce was finalized, they could take back the application, and the procedure would no longer go through. And that was when Alexia knew that Millie wasn't playing around about divorcing Brandon. After taking it all in, Alexia did what needed to be done: she booked Millie's medical tests and then advised carefully, "Wait a few days before the surgery." Millie frowned in confusion. "Why?" "You know your bl**d type--Rh-negative. It's rare. We need time to prepare bl**d, just in case. I've already contacted the bl**d bank. They said it might take a week." Millie went quiet. The sadness in her eyes was unmistakable. She had gotten that bl**d type from her father. And now she missed him all over again. If he were still here. "Okay." Millie nodded slowly. A smile tugged at her lips, but her eyes turned red. "You also have early signs of mi**arriage. You need to be careful these next few days," Alexia added, her voice full of concern. They'd grown up together, and Alexia knew Millie's sadness too well. She held Millie's hand. "Wait for me. My shift's almost over. I'll go home with you." Millie nodded, and then went to wait in the hallway. She looked down at her stomach. Early signs of mi**arriage. Did the baby know what she'd decided and want to leave first? Pursing her lips, Millie walked toward the lab for the tests. Her phone buzzed. It was a bank notification. She had opened a new account--one that Brandon wouldn't know about. She was keeping her money cleanly separate before the divorce was finalized. Every cent she earned from now on would live in that account. A second message followed. "Payment for composition and lyrics has been completed. Finance has sent the transfer. Kindly confirm." Before she married Brandon, Millie had worked quietly as an anonymous songwriter. Music had always been her first love. Back when her father was alive, life had been generous, and she lacked nothing. As the Bennett family's only daughter, she had the freedom and the means to grow her gift. The turns her life had taken had taught her things she hadn't known she needed to learn. Maybe her father never thought that the pastime he once encouraged would one day be the very thing keeping her afloat. Millie paused, and then typed back, "Money received. Thank you." The reply came quickly. "It's what you deserve. You've written a lot of hits over the years. Why don't you return? There's a new show coming up. It fits you perfectly. I've sent details to your email. Reserved a contestant slot just for you." Millie opened her email. A new message sat at the top, inviting her to join a music competition show. The format was familiar, like others she had seen before, but this one wanted something original. She typed out a quick reply. "I'll think about it." Then she set her phone down. A light cramp curled in her lower belly. She thought of her father again. The second time today. Meanwhile, the Internet was buzzing with updates. #VivianSimpsonStomachCancer #FloristVivianSimpsonCountdown #LastSixMonths The most trending post was a video featuring a reporter summarizing the news about Vivian. "Sources confirm that the well-known floral designer, Vivian Simpson, has been diagnosed with stomach cancer. She's been given six months to live. But instead of retreating, she's choosing to document her remaining time--she wants to share her life with the world as it winds down." The video cut to Vivian. She looked at the camera with a sad smile. "In these last six months, I'll be posting updates about my life. I'm not doing it for attention. I just want to offer some comfort to others going through the same thing. I hope you all stay strong." Then the reporter came back on screen. "There have long been whispers about Miss Simpson and Mr. Brandon Watson, CEO of Watson Group. But Mr. Watson is married. It remains to be seen if he'll reconnect with Miss Simpson during her final months." In the background, Vivian seemed to have heard that part. She stepped forward, stopped beside the reporter, and gently cut in. She faced the camera. "I'm not ashamed to say I like Brandon. He's an incredible man," she said. "I'm sure I'm not the only one who feels that way. But I want to make it clear--I'm not going to break up someone's marriage. That's not who I am." Having said that, she walked off, leaving the reporter behind. She wove through the small crowd with a smile and climbed into a waiting car. The foreign caregiver from Flaville passed her a glass of water, hand paused in midair, unsure. "You look like you want to say something," Vivian said, her voice cold. "Go ahead. The driver's one of ours." The caregiver leaned in and lowered their voice. "Miss Simpson, your diagnosis. it's a stomach ulcer. Having our facility change that into cancer is already risky. But now you're sharing it with the public online?" Vivian gave a sharp laugh, startling the caregiver. "Your facility--is it a licensed medical facility?" she asked. The caregiver nodded. "And does it manage my medical record privately?" The caregiver gave another nod. "Is that what my medical record says--that I have six months left because of terminal stomach cancer?" The caregiver hesitated before nodding again. "Exactly!" Vivian leaned back with a smile. "It's official, then. No one can question it." "But you don't actually have stomach cancer. What happens later." "There are two ways out," Vivian said, cutting in. Her voice was sharper now, her eyes harder. "One: I make a miraculous recovery during treatment at your facility or somewhere else, maybe because of all the love I've received. Two: your facility gets blamed for a diagnostic error and months of wrong treatment." She turned her face fully to the caregiver, looking more intimidating. "Which option do you prefer?" The caregiver looked panicked but forced out the words. "I'm sorry, Miss Simpson. I understand. You've already thought everything through." Vivian gave a short, cold smile. "Where should we go next, Miss Simpson?" the caregiver asked in an attempt to lighten the mood. Vivian glanced at her phone. "Crobert Hospital." The caregiver stiffened. "But--" "Relax. I'm only going in for pain relief with my medical record," Vivian said, and then reached for her phone and sent Brandon a message, telling him to meet her at the hospital later. Almost instantly, he replied, "Sure." Meanwhile, Millie stood in the hospital restroom, a steady ache pulling at her lower stomach. In her hand was a tissue, the smear of bl**d clear against the white. It was an early sign of a mi**arriage. Chapter 4 She Would Have No Ties With Brandon As Vivian made her way to Crobert Hospital, the Internet was filled with comments about her diagnosis. Her name appeared across countless threads. "To be honest, I think Vivian's brave. She's clear about her feelings as well as boundaries. Quite impressive, actually." "Exactly. A lot of people like Brandon. As long as she's not wrecking his marriage, her feelings are her own business." "Her older videos and that livestream from Crest Villa gave me a glimpse into rich people's lives. It's sad she won't be around much longer." "Who's Brandon's wife, though? She should just let him be with Vivian. The girl has only six months left." "I know her. It's Millie Bennett, a musician. She stopped working after she got married and became a full-time housewife.". At Crobert Hospital, Millie's phone kept buzzing. Calls and messages came one after another. Some people acted concerned. Others wanted information. A few tried to mock her. All of it was about Vivian and Brandon. Millie had read just enough of the headlines to understand what was going on with Vivian's illness. She didn't click on anything else. It didn't matter anymore. Once the divorce was finalized, Brandon would no longer be a part of her life. She checked the time. When she looked up, she saw Alexia walking toward her. "How are you feeling?" Alexia asked, concerned. "Any pain?" She saw the strain on Millie's face and, without needing to be asked, reached out to help her rise. Millie gave a small smile and shook her head. She had made up her mind. Some things simply had to be faced. Alexia understood, but she just sighed and helped Millie up. They took the elevator. The elevator doors soon opened at the ground floor. The hospital was packed. Even more than usual. Millie noticed a few reporters scattered in the crowd. "So many people today. Probably another celebrity here for a check-up," Alexia said. "They always bring this kind of attention." She stopped at once, her face changing. She had seen something and quickly tried to lead Millie in the other direction. But there was no point. Millie had already spotted them. Brandon stood tall, striking in a way that drew attention without effort. The noise and movement around him didn't touch him--his hair perfectly in place, his suit smooth and sharp, like the chaos didn't dare come close. Vivian stood beside him. She looked small and weak, her face pale, which made her seem even more fragile. She lost her balance slightly. Brandon stepped in to catch her, shielding her from the cameras and the crowd. "Don't look," Alexia said quickly, stepping in front of Millie, her tone sharp with anger. "Alexia, let's go," Millie said, her voice calm. She had made up her mind; Brandon didn't need to know she was there, and she had no interest in crossing paths with him now. "Why should we go?" Alexia snapped, growing more furious. "You're not divorced yet. He's still your husband. And he's here holding another woman like it's nothing. It's shameless." Husband. Millie looked away, sighing. There was a time she had secretly smiled just thinking about Brandon being her husband. But not anymore. "I don't feel well, Alexia. Let's just go," Millie said, changing the topic. Alexia gave her full attention now and stopped looking in Brandon and Vivian's direction. They left. Across the lobby, Vivian glanced over. A flicker of pride passed through her face. "I'm sorry, Brandon. I didn't mean to drag you into this mess," she said, a tinge of remorse in her voice. "I know you hate being in the spotlight." "It's fine," Brandon replied. "Let's go see the doctor first." His face stayed calm, but something stirred in his thoughts--something brief, hard to name. They stepped into the consultation room. Vivian handed over her medical record to the doctor. The doctor read through it, slowly, and frowned. "This looks serious," he said. Vivian gave a faint smile. "I know," she said quietly. Then she took a slow breath. "Please prescribe something strong for the pain." "In your current condition, I suggest you stay in the hospital and begin treatment," the doctor said. "You should try. There's still a chance we can extend your life." "What's the point?" Vivian gave a sad smile. She brushed away the tears building in her eyes, and then said quietly, "I don't want treatment." Brandon's fingers curled tighter around hers. She gave a small shake of her head. "Doctor, I just want to spend the last phase of my life with some dignity," she said. "So, please prescribe some strong painkillers." The doctor sighed deeply but finally nodded in understanding. Outside, reporters were taking photos and recording videos without pause before posting them online. People watching were emotional. "Good heavens, this is a real person whose life is ending." "I cry when I'm in mild pain. I can't imagine what late-stage cancer feels like. But she still manages to smile. She's really strong." "I couldn't hold back tears when she said she wouldn't go through treatment. Only people who've faced serious illness understand this feeling." Public sympathy for Vivian reached its highest point. Vivian soon got her medicine, and as she and Brandon walked out of the hospital, Millie was sitting on a bench nearby. She was waiting for Alexia, who had gone to get the car. Before Millie could respond to what was happening, paparazzi noticed her and rushed over. The camera flashes came all at once. Brandon saw her too. He frowned and asked, "What are you doing here?" Millie stood up, glanced at Brandon, and then at Vivian's hand resting on his arm. She didn't speak yet. The crowd didn't give her the chance. "Mrs. Watson, did you come because of what's online? Are you trying to catch them together?" "What do you think of your husband being out in public with someone else?" "Mrs. Watson, what are you planning to do about Vivian?" People quickly decided that Millie had shown up on purpose--to face Vivian directly, to start something. Even Brandon thought the same. He looked annoyed. "Vivian is sick. Didn't you know?" he barked. Brandon's voice was brimming with menace. Millie felt like laughing. So that was what he believed--that she was picking a fight on purpose with someone who was ill. Brandon really didn't know her. Seeing Millie didn't answer, the reporters turned to Vivian, asking questions about breaking up someone's marriage. Brandon looked at Millie again. "Millie!" he called. He wanted her to defend Vivian. Like always, he expected her to do what he wanted. But the will to please him was gone. She was walking away from him--there was no reason left to obey. Millie placed her right hand over her stomach. The dull ache was still there. "I came to visit a friend," she said finally. She didn't want to say more. Her pr**nancy wasn't something she wanted to share--not before the divorce was finalized, not with all eyes on her. Her reply to his question earlier was simple. Having answered Brandon, Millie turned to leave. But the reporters didn't back off. They crowded in around her. "Mrs. Watson, people online are asking you to step aside and let Mr. Watson be with Vivian. What do you say to that?" "Vivian doesn't have long. Are you still going to fight her?" "Mrs. Watson--" Millie didn't bother responding; she just wanted to get away. The crowd, thrilled to see the three of them in the same place at last, had no intention of letting it end. Brandon stood still, saying nothing, and that silence gave someone the boldness to shove Millie with force. She staggered, her arms moving at once to shield her stomach. Chapter 5 To Let Go Of The Past Millie landed hard, her back hitting the ground first. Cameras flashed wildly, capturing the fall from every angle. She looked toward Brandon by instinct. But his face gave nothing--just a cold, still stare. And in that moment, she understood what he wanted her to do, and it stung her heart. He wanted her to speak for him. To tell the press it was all a misunderstanding. That Vivian was ill, and he had only come out of concern. That it was kindness, not betrayal. Clutching her belly, Millie lowered her head and let a faint smile slip across her face. The sky above was clear, and sunlight streamed through gaps in the crowd. But none of it touched her. She steadied herself and rose slowly. Then, without looking back, she said calmly, "I feel sorry for Miss Simpson. But that's all." Someone nearby, unaware, asked, "So, are you friends with her?" Millie gave a short laugh. "Friends? No. I wouldn't call someone clinging to my husband a friend." She turned and waved to Alexia, who had just pulled up. "Millie!" Brandon called after her, his face red with rage. But she didn't turn around. She stood tall and kept walking. Alexia got out and moved quickly toward her friend, scoffing as they left, "You'd think they were the married couple confronting the home-wrecker. Absolutely ridiculous." Vivian's lips parted to respond. "You." But Alexia cut in before she could say a word. "What? Tell me I'm wrong. If you're planning to use the press to scare me, go ahead. I've got nothing to hide." Vivian's face turned even paler, looking as if she might faint. Reporters scrambled, voices rising all at once. Alexia ushered Millie into the car, not sparing another glance behind them. "Don't worry," she said. "She's definitely faking it. I've seen enough of these cases to tell in a second." Millie gave her a small smile. "I'm not worried about her. I'm worried about you. What if this mess affects your job?" At a red light, Alexia grinned and nudged her. "Don't forget my dad's the hospital director." Millie raised an eyebrow. "The same dad you swore you'd never speak to again?" Alexia shrugged. "You never know when a connection comes in handy. Honestly, sometimes I wish all the powerful people out there were my dads." They both laughed, the tension slowly easing from Millie's face. As the light turned green, the car moved forward again. "I've got the afternoon free," Alexia said, stretching. "Whatever you need, I'm ready." Playing along, Millie turned to her with a sly grin. "Great. I need help with something." "What is it?" Alexia asked curiously. "Help me move." She grabbed Alexia's wrist. "You can't back out now." Alexia gr**ned but gave in. Before long, the two of them arrived at the house Millie had shared with Brandon, along with a team of movers and organizers. The house had come together quickly after their rushed wedding. Everything--furniture and layout--had felt temporary at first. But over the year, Millie had made a home out of it, filling it with warmth. At least, she tried. Alexia directed the workers while Millie moved quietly around the room, her hands light on every object. On a shelf, she spotted a bottle of Chanel No. 5. The first gift Brandon ever gave her. He'd brought it back from a business trip. He came straight to her from the airport. He had pulled her into his arms. His ki**es were quick, urgent. They had been just like any young couple in love back then. She opened the bottle and sprayed it once. The scent filled the room. She remembered how he had ki**ed her lightly after spraying it on her skin. "Should I pack this too?" Alexia asked, seeing the perfume. Millie glanced over and shook her head. "Leave it." She slipped off the wedding ring Brandon had picked without thought, placing it gently on the table. But as the movers shuffled back and forth through the space, she paused. Then, quietly, she opened a drawer and put both the perfume and the ring inside. Soon, the house had been cleared of every trace of her. Only that bottle and that ring remained. Packing up had been tiring, but once the decision was made, it moved quickly. It was the same with her feelings. The wind moved softly through her hair as the car headed toward her new place. Behind her, the mansion faded in the rearview mirror. Sometimes, to move forward, one had to leave parts of oneself behind. Millie had things to do. The fall of the Bennett family, the unanswered questions around her father's sudden death--she was going to find the truth. Her life had always been shaped by what others needed. Now it was time to live for herself. She decided to begin with the music show. It would bring in money, and more importantly, might reconnect her with people linked to her father's past. She pulled out her phone, found the right contact, and typed her message. "I'm joining the music program.". Vivian was still crying. Brandon sat beside her, muttering words of comfort. But his thoughts were filled with the image of Millie standing with her back to him, saying those words. She had known exactly what he wanted her to say. And she had chosen not to. He had sent her message after message. She hadn't replied any of them. She had been acting strangely lately. The change in her was too sharp, too sudden. She was provoking him on purpose. She had done it when they filed for divorce. And again at the hospital. Brandon remembered the look in her eyes the night before, when she asked if he truly made up his mind about the divorce. She had been sad but also calm. An unexpected fear filled his heart. "Brandon, don't be angry at Millie," Vivian said through tears. "I know she's upset. After seeing the videos online, she must've come to confront us. And I understand." She burst into tears. "After all. I'm the one who took something from her. I'm taking six months from your marriage--what's left of it. If she lashes out at me, I deserve it." As she spoke, she started coughing--hard. A second later, she spat bl**d into her hand. "Vivian!" Brandon jumped up, reaching for his phone to call for an ambulance. As for Millie's sudden change, he brushed it off as moodiness. In his mind, she wouldn't dare walk away. Vivian reached out and stopped him, still smiling faintly. "It's the cancer. It's late-stage. This happens. Don't worry." Her caregiver helped her lie back down. Brandon turned away, already thinking of confronting Millie. As soon as he left the room, Vivian calmly wiped her mouth and pulled out a small bl**d bag hidden in her cheek. She laughed. "What do you think he'll say to Millie now?" she asked the caregiver. "I'm honestly looking forward to it." Then she began to go through the news reports excitedly. The entire online community seemed against Millie. "Vivian didn't even go for life-saving treatment--she just wanted pain meds. Millie really made a scene for no reason." "Vivian's dying, and Millie still wants to pick fights?" "Mr. Watson and Vivian look perfect together. Like a real power couple." "Millie's fall was so embarrassing. I cringed." "Millie, just step aside already!" "Millie, divorce Brandon!" "Yeah, divorce Brandon!" "Divorce!" Vivian chuckled as she read the comments. Then she sent a message to a contact and gave a few instructions. "Today's move was perfect. Keep the pressure up. Make sure Millie stays where she is--down. Oh, and find out why she went to the hospital today.". What happens next? 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Her fiancé became her sister's man, yet her parents sided with her sister, planning to sell her off to an old man. To escape that fate, she accepted a proposal from a neighbor she'd spent one night with. She never expected he'd been secretly in love with her for years, spoiling her endlessly after their marriage. ===== Crack! My fiancé hit me. Two minutes ago, I accidentally broke a mug. Then, Rhys sl**ped me across the face-hard. My cheek burned like it had been seared by fire. Three minutes ago, I had been daydreaming about how to decorate our ridiculously expensive penthouse apartment, where every corner looked like it belonged on the cover of a magazine. It took a full thirty seconds before my brain restarted, slowly piecing reality back together. "Are you f**king insane?" I gritted my teeth, forcing the words through the cracks of my jaw. Rhys's lips were pressed into a cold, tight line, his expression dark and resolute. "It was just a mug with Catherine's face on it," he said, as if my reaction was an overblown performance, not the result of something horrifying he had just done. "You have got to be f**king kidding me." I stared at him in disbelief, my ch**t heaving as rage and humiliation churned violently inside me, ready to explode. For half a second-just half-something like guilt flickered across his face. Then it vanished, consumed by a storm of fury. "No, you're the insane one!" he roared. "I already agreed to marry you-what more do you want? Catherine's gone, but you still broke that mug on purpose!" His voice trembled with anger. "She was your sister! She had to leave because of you! And now you're jealous of her? You won't rest until every trace of her is erased, will you?" The hatred in his eyes cut deeper than the s**p. My cheek throbbed. My hand was still bl**ding. But nothing hurt more than my heart. I forced myself to unclench my jaw and made one last attempt to explain. "It wasn't me. I never asked her to leave." Technically speaking, I understood why someone might say that. Catherine had left behind a letter. In it, she said she'd seen my diary, realized I had a crush on Rhys, and decided to "let go," to "let him be yours." I don't think she ever understood that a diary meant privacy. I never meant for anyone to read it, but not only did she read it-she told everyone. No one cared about the pain I felt when my secret was exposed. I was dragged out, nailed to a pillar of shame, forced to pay for her so-called noble sacrifice. To my family, it was like I'd been bumped up to the starting lineup out of nowhere, replacing the golden girl-I should've been grateful. Even if Rhys had st**bed me in the gut, they'd still find a way to excuse it. It was as if my parents had always hated me. No matter how much better I did than Catherine, they always saw me as bitter, as someone who couldn't protect her fragile pride. The searing pain on my cheek intensified. My fingers clenched tightly around the engagement ring. A wave of heat-anger, humiliation, resentment-rose in my throat. Hot tears welled in my eyes, blurring my vision. I blinked fast, wiping them away before they could fall. I would not cry. I would never show weakness in front of him. I took a heavy step toward the door, struggling to move. I had to get out of there, or I would completely fall apart. Whatever shred of dignity I had left-I couldn't let it be destroyed in front of this man. Rhys suddenly grabbed my wrist and yanked me back. "Clean it up." I looked up at him in disbelief, needing to confirm I'd heard him right. "You broke the mug. You clean up the pieces." His voice was icy, absolute. He had to be insane. "No." I lifted my chin and spat the word without an ounce of compromise. His face tightened, jaw clenched. "You sure you want to do this?" "Yes. I said no." My eyes were red, but they blazed with defiance as I stared him down without flinching. If love meant I had to grind my self-respect into the dirt, then it was worthless to me. The air between us was taut enough to snap. I could almost hear it crackling. The fury in his eyes was an uncontrollable blaze, threatening to consume me. And beneath that fire, I saw something else-disbelief. The once docile little lamb had bared her fangs. He took a step closer, menace radiating from him. "Last chance. If you don't obey me, then we-" "-are over," I finished for him, cold and final. Shock froze his face. For a moment, the air went still. He hadn't expected me to actually say it. While he was caught in that moment of confusion, I wrenched my arm free from his grip. The taste of freedom hadn't yet bloomed in my ch**t when he snapped back to life, grabbing my arm again with brutal force. Now. I spun around without hesitation and raised my hand-sm**k! A resounding s**p landed hard across Rhys's handsome, arrogant face. The air froze again, thick with silence. My palm tingled slightly, but it brought a rush of fierce, unprecedented satisfaction. Rhys staggered back a few steps, his eyes wide with shock and disbelief-not from the pain, but from a world turned upside down. He never thought I would dare. After all, I had once loved him so deeply. I lowered my hand, lifted my chin, and looked calmly at his stunned expression. I gave him a faint smile. "Now we're even." Without waiting another moment, I dragged my feet away from that suffocating h**l. If I stayed even one more second, I would break down. I'd rather choke on my own tears than let him see them fall. Then-thud-I fell. High heels and emotional chaos are a terrible match. Pain shot through my palms and knees as they scraped against the hard marble. Bl**d surged out instantly, but I barely felt it. I got up, grabbed my purse, and kept walking. Home. I just wanted to go home. Away from all of this. Away from him. Like a woman fleeing the scene of a crime, I burst out of the building-only to slam into a wall of mu**le and the in**xicating scent of expensive cologne. I looked up-and saw sharp, sculpted features with an aura so commanding it could silence a room. He looked like the kind of man who, if you pissed him off, wouldn't just ruin your life-he'd erase your entire existence. Unfortunately, that only made him more attractive. For a second, I wished he would throw me over his shoulder and carry me to his lair-my face flushed red instantly. I snapped myself back to reality. "Sorry," I mumbled and rushed into the elevator of my apartment building. Back upstairs, I rummaged through my bag. My heart sank. No keys. Of course. The universe had clearly declared today The End of Mira Day. Frustration and helplessness surged in my ch**t. I kicked off my heels and shook the doorknob violently. It didn't help-but I needed to let it out. Why did everyone always choose Catherine?! Hadn't I done enough? I collapsed against the wall, sliding down to the cold floor as sobs tore from my throat. The tears came in a flood, impossible to stop. Just as I was nearly choking on my own cries, a voice-low, smooth, like black velvet-cut through the air behind me. "Your key." Fury sparked in my veins. Why did someone always interrupt me just when I was about to get it all out? Annoyed, I turned, ready to glare-only to freeze. Through tear-blurred eyes, I saw him again. The man I had bumped into downstairs-the one who looked like he had stepped out of a Renaissance painting. "Your key fell," he said, raising an eyebrow as his gaze landed on the scattered contents of my purse. "That's probably why you couldn't find it." I stared at the key resting in his elegant hand, my face flushing so hot it could've lit a match. I snatched it from him and fumbled to unlock the door, stumbling inside without a word. It wasn't until my back hit the door that I realized-I hadn't even thanked him. Great job, Mira. You absolute id**t. Hesitating, I crept toward the peephole. Through that tiny lens, I saw him calmly turn, unlock the door directly across the hall, and stroll inside. He lived across from me? He must have just moved in. With a face like that-and that aura-there's no way I wouldn't have noticed before. Wait, Mira. What are you doing? You're seriously letting a hot new neighbor make you forget the h**l Rhys just put you through? No. Absolutely not. All men are tr**h. Always. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to steady my racing heartbeat, reminding myself not to be so st**id again. But no matter how hard I tried, that sculpted face kept flashing through my mind. I needed ice-for my racing pulse, and more urgently, for the stinging pain on my cheek. Just as I forced myself up to head to the kitchen, my phone rang, shrill and sharp. One glance at the screen made my whole body go cold. Mom. I couldn't ignore the call. If I did, she would destroy my career without hesitation. She was absolutely capable of it. The moment I picked up, her voice sliced through the air-cold and merciless. "Mira, you must be insane! How dare you do something so disgraceful to Rhys! You apologize to him right now, or you're no longer our daughter!" I opened my mouth to explain, stunned-but she hung up before I could get a single word out. I gripped my phone tightly. Why was it that no matter how hard I tried, I still couldn't earn even a sliver of their love? And Catherine-she never had to do anything, yet she was their perfect, precious jewel. Enough. I thought if I worked hard enough, my family, my fiancé-they would love me. But that's never going to happen. I have to reclaim the self-respect I lost long ago. I have to break off this engagement with Rhys-no matter the consequences. Chapter 2 Plan B For the next forty-eight hours, I became one with my bed. No calls. No outside world. Just me, a pile of blankets, and the crushing weight of humiliation. That s**p from Rhys wasn't just a blow to the face. In so many ways, it was a s**p across my entire life-one steeped in desperation, delusion, and pathetic longing. It forced me awake. It made me look back on everything I'd ever done to make him notice me, everything I'd done for a fantasy called "us" that had never truly existed. God, where do I even begin? Like the time he casually mentioned he liked girls with smooth, silky hair. That night, I ordered three bottles of the shampoo he'd once praised. My scalp broke out in hives. I smiled through the pain and said, "It's fine-some allergic reactions are worth it." Or when he told me he was too busy with work to grab dinner, so I stayed up learning how to bake and brought him a box of pastries in the rain. He didn't even open the door-just had the receptionist tell me, "Don't bother next time. I don't like sweets." Then there was that night at his friend's dinner party. I forced down oysters-my most hated food-just to seem "graceful and agreeable." I spent the entire night crouched over a toilet, writhing in pain until 3 a.m. He didn't ask if I was okay. He laughed and said, "Can't even handle seafood? That's just dramatic." But the worst? That time he quoted a line from The Godfather he liked. I stayed up all night reading film essays just to casually drop the quote at a party. I got it wrong. He corrected me in front of everyone, sneering, "Don't pretend to like things you clearly don't understand." And I laughed. I laughed and said, "You've got such a good memory." What a joke. I never realized I was never the person he wanted. He never really saw me. To him, I was nothing more than a low-rent version of the "perfect and untouchable" Catherine. A cheap stand-in. I wasn't her, but I could offer him the faint illusion of having her again. That was all I was good for. I buried my face in the pillow and laughed until I shook. Not because it was funny-but because the pain had gone too deep for tears. Thankfully, after my parents delivered their final ultimatum two days ago, they hadn't contacted me again. A small part of me wondered-did Rhys intervene? Did he finally realize what he'd done? Suddenly, the doorbell rang. And it didn't stop ringing. For a full five minutes. I gr**ned into my pillow. Oh god. Social interaction. Dragging my exhausted body to the door, I opened it. Yvaine Carlisle-my best friend and the only person who had the legal right to yell at me-stood on the other side, hands on hips. Then her eyes landed on my face. Her expression froze. The light in her eyes dimmed. "What the h**l happened to you?" "I'm fine," I said, trying to sound casual. She wasn't buying it. She reached out, gently tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. Her jaw clenched. Then-silence. Not the awkward kind. The dangerous kind. The kind that comes right before something explodes. "Who hit you?" "Come inside," I muttered quickly, trying not to draw the neighbors' attention. That would be mortifying. Yvaine didn't move. She gripped my arm and spoke through gritted teeth. "Mira. Who. Hit. You?" As soon as the door clicked shut, I collapsed into her arms. My face buried in her sweater, and within seconds, the fabric was soaked. She didn't flinch. She just held me, her hand moving in calm, soothing circles across my back. I didn't know how long I cried. Long enough for my throat to burn and my nose to turn bright red like Rudolph. Eventually, I managed to force out a single word. "Rhys." Yvaine didn't move. Everyone in Skyline City knew that name. Rhys Granger wasn't the kind of man who needed to throw punches to destroy someone. One phone call to the right person, and your life would be over. Reputation, money, status-he had it all. Every move he made was deliberate, timed to perfection-like the ticking of a Rolex. When he chose to go to war, he was a nobleman wielding cruelty like fine art, probably with a glass of aged Sc**ch in hand. People called him arrogant. No one ever called him vi**ent. That's why, when Yvaine processed what I'd just said, I could practically hear the gears in her brain screaming in protest. "No way," she muttered under her breath, as if denying it out loud might somehow make it untrue. "Rhys? Your Rhys? He couldn't have." I got it. I really did. Rhys was supposed to be the gentleman. The golden boy. The flawless, elegant, untouchable good guy. "It was him," I said quietly. She exhaled sharply, then started rubbing my back again, this time slower. "Tell me what happened." I swallowed. "I was at his place. I, uh. accidentally broke a mug." Her entire body tensed. "Just a mug?" I nodded. Silence. Then she clenched her jaw and said, "I swear to God, if you tell me it was some priceless, hand-crafted, one-of-a-kind family heirloom-" "It was Catherine's mug." Yvaine's hand froze mid-pat. Everything shifted. One second, she was my concerned best friend. The next, she was a woman plotting mu**er. I grabbed her wrist before she could get ahold of something worse. "It's over between Rhys and me." "Really?" "Really. Even if the earth split in two and Skyline City sank into the ocean, I wouldn't marry him." That stopped her from storming out to commit ho**cide. "Catherine. That venomous snake-" Yvaine spat the name like it physically hurt her. "She's not even here anymore and she's still managing to wreck your life! And your parents? They just stand there watching! I swear, they could watch her light your house on fire and they'd hand her the matches. It's unbelievable!" I felt like a balloon someone had just popped-deflated, exhausted. That all-too-familiar ache settled deep in my ch**t. I knew some parents would always love their firstborn more. And there was nothing I could do about it. "I'm sorry, Mira." Yvaine sat down beside me and gave my head a firm push toward her shoulder. I pulled away and managed a weak smile. "Actually, I think it's a good thing. At least I found out what kind of man he is before we got married. Better now than after the vows, right?" She let out a long sigh, her eyes softening. "Mira, you know no matter what happens, I've got your back." Right then, my stomach growled loud enough to interrupt the moment. Loudly. Like a magician, Yvaine reached behind her and pulled out a takeout bag, giving me a look that practically screamed: I knew you'd be like this. I wanted to hug her, but I was too busy eating like a ravenous little goblin. After dinner, she pushed me into the bedroom and went off to clean up. I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, drained and overwhelmed. What now? Through the half-open door, I heard her on the phone. I didn't catch every word, but the ones I did hear. were iconic. "A pile of s**t." "Total f**king psycho." "Oh, you think that's bad? Wait till I tell you what this vi**ent ba**ard actually did-" She was probably talking to Zane Hasterton. And unlike Rhys, Zane would never raise a hand to her. The way Yvaine so instantly, so fiercely chose me-without hesitation, without question-made my throat tighten. She believed me. No one else did. But she did. This wasn't something she did lightly. Rhys's family sat at the very top of the food chain-untouchable. And I had no doubt her parents wouldn't be thrilled to see her go up against them. I curled deeper under the blanket and let out a slow breath. Why couldn't my parents love me like that? Ever since their favorite daughter Houdini'd her way out of their master plan, I became Plan B. But that didn't mean they forgave my existence. Let's be honest: the only reason they'd stopped actively berating me was because I got engaged to Rhys. That little arrangement somehow elevated me from "irreparable family di**race" to "potential saving grace." Part of the reason I agreed to the engagement-and I know how pathetic this sounds-was because I thought maybe I could finally get something Catherine had: a sliver of parental affection. A crumb of approval. But now that the engagement was off? I was disposable again. Last I heard, they were boxing up my things, ready to ship me off to some remote jungle where I'd spend the rest of my life befriending anacondas and repenting for my sins. They were absolutely capable of that. I gr**ned into my pillow. What the h**l do I do now? Unless. I married someone more powerful than Rhys. The idea was so ridiculous I snorted. Right. Because billionaires are just wandering around Skyline City hoping to marry a 23-year-old orphan with no patience for their bullshit. And yet- A face flashed in my mind. Three days ago. My new neighbor. I remembered, quite inappropriately, thinking I wouldn't mind being alone with him in his apartment where he could do all sorts of rated-R things to me. I shook my head, quickly banishing the thought. I didn't even know his name. Just that he had the kind of aura that could slice a person in half. No. Way too dangerous. I gr**ned again. If I hadn't broken that st**id mug, everything might've been okay. But it wasn't. And it's not. And there's no going back. F**k! Why am I the one trying to fix this when I wasn't even the one who messed it up?! I sat up-and bam, the door burst open. Yvaine marched in. "Sl**p is just going to make you feel worse. We're getting up, and we're going to find a d**k worth loving-one that's better than Rhys's." WHAT?! While I gaped, she had already changed me into a new outfit. Just like that, we were off to Skyline City's most exclusive club-members only. Chapter 3 Rebound Night "Is this really necessary?" I stood at the end of the line, shivering, tugging desperately at the hem of my tragically short skirt. I could practically feel it-if I opened my mouth to speak, my un**rwear would be on full display. "Sweetheart, we paid a fortune to get into this place. Of course we're going all in. Do you not get it?" Yvaine declared like a mafia queen, standing tall against the icy wind in her five-inch heels without the slightest trace of fear. "But isn't this a little too-" I didn't even get to finish before a brutal gust of wind slapped me across the face like it had a personal vendetta. I immediately zipped up my puffer jacket and curled into myself like a frozen shrimp. Yvaine let out a dramatic gr**an. "Mira, come on. We're going to a b*r, not an Arctic expedition." "I'm just glad I won't be hospitalized for hypothermia tonight, thanks," I snapped back. She rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might fall out, gave me a once-over full of disappointment-but said nothing more. Small victory. My puffer jacket was safe-for now. I'd thought we'd have to wait in line like everyone else. That was the whole reason I wore this thermal fortress of a coat. But clearly, I had underestimated Yvaine. She had zero plans to follow the rules. With the ease of someone who'd done this a thousand times, she slipped a rolled-up bill into the bouncer's hand, her palm casually grazing his rock-hard ch**t like a Bond girl who'd forgotten her martini. Ten seconds. That's all it took. We were in. Yvaine was the kind of beautiful that made men forget protocol-and ethics-in an instant. And just like that, we breezed into Roxanne. The place was thick with heat, perfume, and the effervescent scent of ch**pagne. I ripped off my coat the second we stepped inside, only to be met with an are-you-trying-to-embarrass-me glare from Yvaine. She handed her coat off to a passing server with a flick of her fingers, like she'd personally hired the man. Regal, effortless, born for this. I tried to copy her moves. Failed miserably. Nearly dropped my purse and stumbled like a hamster who'd just woken up from a freezer nap. Graceful? No. I looked like roadkill in Gucci heels. If I hadn't known each co**tail here cost about the same as my checking account balance, I might've even convinced myself I was pulling it off. "Jesus Christ!" I gasped, eyes glued to the menu like it had just in**lted my entire bloodline. Yvaine gave me a sideways glance and scoffed. "Relax. Tonight's on me." I exhaled with something dangerously close to gratitude. Considering I'd nearly broken off an engagement, risked being exiled to some remote tropical island by my parents, and needed to budget for anti-snake spray, I needed all the charity I could get. Price tags aside, the view was elite: ambitious young actors, outrageously good-looking models, and a legion of finance bros who looked like they gave TED talks while wearing Burberry. It was a glittering buffet of vanity and hormones, wrapped in velvet lighting and the illusion of power. We found a table near the b*r and hadn't even ordered drinks when a bartender locked eyes on us. Well. He was hard to miss-tall, sculpted features, sleeves rolled to the elbows just enough to show off well-trained forearms. He shouldn't be mixing drinks-he should be in the Louvre. Or at the very least starring in Dior's newest fragrance campaign. Maybe that's why this club was so expensive: even the staff had to be perfect. "Two 75s, French br**dy," Before I could even locate the cheapest drink on the menu, Yvaine had already tossed her order at the ba**ender. "Make it strong." And of course, she didn't forget to flash her signature smile-the one that balanced perfectly between s**y and innocent, chin tilted just enough to say "Oops, didn't mean to flirt." The ba**ender reached effortlessly for the g*n, giving her a half-smile. "Rough night?" "More like an engagement-level disaster," she said, casually pointing her thumb at me. "And it's wrapping up real soon." I glanced at her. "Thrilled that my personal life is now public broadcast." She patted my hand with mock sympathy. "Sweetie, this place runs on romantic catastrophes. Without bad decisions, no one would be buying drinks." Then she turned away and melted into the crowd, flipping into Social Queen Mode like someone had hit a switch. In under ten seconds, she completed a visual sweep-like a hawk zeroing in on prey-before spinning back around and pointing her perfectly manicured finger toward the edge of the dance floor. "Okay, listen. You need a rebound. Exhibit A: Six-foot-two, hair neater than your ex-fiancé's moral compass, shirt unbuttoned just enough to scream s**y without slipping into cheap. He either owns a yacht or, at the very least, a VIP card." I shook my head. "Nope." Her eyes flicked to a new direction. "Exhibit B: struggling musician. Dressed like payday hasn't happened yet, but he's hot enough you'd forgive him. You'd fund his next album and still sl**p like a baby." "Pass." She sighed, then pointed again. "Fine. Exhibit C: total dad vibes-but the good kind. Like 'books your doctor's appointment and your breakfast' dad, not 'calls the waitress 'sweetheart' and thinks climate change is a myth' dad." I gr**ned into my hands. "Yvaine, please." She didn't back down. "Mira, you cannot sit here like a decorative wall gecko. Tonight is about rebooting your life, not stitching up emotional wounds." Just as she geared up for a fourth round of rebound recommendations, she suddenly froze. It was like someone had hit mute on her entire system. Then, far too casually, she said, "Hey, want to hit the bathroom?" I narrowed my eyes. "No?" ".Or maybe let's move tables? The vibe here's weird." Her smile was tight, and her voice cracked like a pair of worn-out heels. Weird vibe? We'd only been sitting for ten minutes, and we just ordered drinks. By Yvaine's standards, we hadn't even made it past the opening credits. Then I followed her gaze. A half-private booth. Rhys. He had his arm draped around a woman. Her head rested on his shoulder, makeup flawless, smile polished and effortless. I didn't need more details. That face-I would never forget it. Four years ago, a girl vanished under mysterious circumstances. I, in all my na?ve glory, believed she had simply "stepped aside," choosing to selflessly walk away from a future with Rhys. And now, here was Catherine-perched on my ex-fiancé's lap, locked in a pose so in**mate. I had told myself I was over it. Over him. We'd broken up. It was done. Time to move on. Until I heard what came next. "Honestly, I didn't think she'd fall apart over a coffee mug." Catherine's voice was soft, full of false pity-the kind that sounded like she'd just k**led someone and was now gently tucking a blanket over the body. She gently swirled the w**e in her glass, her lips curling into a near-perfect smile. "Of course I put that mug somewhere obvious. I wanted her to notice. After all, she still doesn't know you've been seeing me behind her back. It was time she caught a little hint, wasn't it?" She looked up at Rhys, eyes glowing with admiration. "Honestly though, darling, your performance was spot-on. Even I almost believed you were worried she'd find out about us, instead of just helping me pull off the scene." "She's so st**id-of course she thought you were upset about the mug, not terrified of exposing your af**ir." Rhys chuckled softly, smug and relaxed. "I had to act like I cared. She spends every day trying to be the perfect girlfriend. If she found out all her effort still couldn't compete with you, she'd lose it." Catherine laughed under her breath and patted his ch**t. "Don't worry. Knowing Mira, she's probably still scrambling to fix things. She's the type who always believes that if she just tries hard enough, people will finally see her worth." Her laugh turned soft, laced with pity so sharp it felt like a bl**e. "But the harder she tries, the more pathetic she looks. And me? I just 'happened' to return home. Her parents don't know a thing. They didn't even get the chance to stop me. Tomorrow, I'll be seeing them in broad daylight-because she gave up the engagement herself, and you, dear, are blameless." Catherine leaned back with a triumphant sigh. "Isn't this the best ending? I never gave up on you. I was just waiting for her to step aside." Rhys nodded slowly, a small smirk on his lips. "You're right. You always are." A loud roar rang in my ears, and my heartbeat pounded against my skull like a war drum. Yvaine must've been saying something-pleading with me to stay calm, not to do anything st**id-but I didn't hear a word. I wasn't the same Mira who swallowed her pride for praise anymore. I slipped free from Yvaine's grip and turned to the bartender. "Your best red. Put it on Rhys Granger's tab." The ba**ender-bless his beautiful, rule-breaking soul-didn't even flinch. He handed me the bottle like I'd just ordered mineral water. With the bottle in hand, I had a mission. A singular, burning purpose. The bouncer moved to stop me, but one look at my face-like a vengeful goddess straight from h**l-made him wisely back off, hands raised in surrender. I marched straight toward Rhys and Catherine. They were lip-locked in some dramatic, second-rate soap opera make-out scene. I raised the bottle-and smashed it, with all my strength. Glass shattered with a sharp crack, spraying across the table. Rhys's forehead split instantly, a trail of bl**d beginning to drip down between his brows. Catherine screamed and leapt off his lap. "Mirabelle?! Are you insane?! What are you doing here?!" She scrambled to find a lie, panic rising in her voice. "You're misunderstanding, it's not what you think-" Rhys cut her off, his hand gripping her arm, his gaze dark and cold. "Don't bother explaining, Catherine. It doesn't matter. My parents will take your side, no matter what. We're just correcting an old mistake." Catherine's panic twisted into smugness in an instant. She curled into his side with sickening sweetness and cooed, "Oh, honey, your head's bl**ding. We have to get to the hospital." Before I could say anything, Yvaine rushed to my side, fury radiating from every pore. She raised her hand, ready to s**p Catherine straight back to whatever pit she'd crawled out of. "You disgusting, two-faced bi**h-!" I grabbed her wrist, steady and cold. "Yvaine, let them go. If they stay here one more second, I might lose my appetite permanently." I locked eyes with Catherine's smug little face and raised my voice deliberately. "After all, the theme of this place is premium taste, not some clearance aisle for secondhand tr**h." Catherine's smile froze on her lips. Rhys's face darkened, but they had no chance to respond. Yvaine, emboldened, lifted her chin and sneered at the bouncers. "Well? What are you waiting for? Kindly es**rt these two walking health code violations off the premises." Chapter 4 Key Guy As soon as they were gone, Yvaine dragged me out of the club. D**n it. I hated that Catherine had predicted every single thought running through my mind. Yes, I was still considering salvaging my relationship with Rhys. But now? The truth was right there, unmistakable and r*w-they'd been sl**ping together behind my back all along. And me? I was just the fo**ish, unnecessary third wheel in their twisted little story. What I couldn't figure out was-why had Catherine faked her disappearance four years ago? What exactly had she been hiding? And why come back now? My eyes stung. I tilted my head toward the sky, forcing the tears back. Fine. Catherine's back. Perfect. Now they could all reunite like a happy little four-piece family?, and I. I was finally free. "Mira. I'm so sorry. I had no idea they'd be there tonight. I didn't even know Catherine was back." Yvaine's eyes were full of regret. I gave a bitter laugh and shook my head. "Neither did I. But I heard it loud and clear-they've been screwing around for a while. To them, I was just in the way." "Those godd**n as**oles!" Yvaine hissed through clenched teeth. "You should tell your parents. Let them know Catherine's not the perfect angel they think she is. What about Rhys's parents? No way they'll tolerate a scandal like this. I was quiet for a moment. Yvaine had a point-Rhys's parents were the only people who had supported me. But he was their son. They wouldn't choose me over him. Not in the end. And my parents? I let out a breath, heavy and tired. "You know better than anyone-they only care about Catherine. No matter what I do, I'll never replace her." Yvaine grabbed my shoulders, worry darkening her gaze. "So what now? You're just going to let them humiliate you?" "Maybe." My voice dropped to a whisper, a weariness weighing it down. "Maybe if I accept it, it'll finally be over." Suddenly, Yvaine's phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, her brows knitting in frustration. "Mira, my agent just called. There's a last-minute ad shoot-I have to go now. Can you get home on your own?" I nodded, managing a faint smile. "Go. Don't worry about me. I'll call when I get back." After she left, I hailed a cab. Instinctively, I gave the driver my home address. But barely two minutes into the ride, a wave of suffocating pressure settled over me. "No, wait," I said quickly. "Take me to a b*r. Any bar. Just. far away from Roxanne." The driver didn't blink-clearly used to the erratic demands of Skyline City's broken-hearted. We eventually pulled up outside some unfamiliar ni**tclub. Velvet ropes. A crowd of influencer-types wielding selfie sticks. I didn't bother checking the name. I handed the bouncer some bills and strode inside. Straight to the b*r. "Wh**key sour. Large. Keep them coming." "Ma'am, maybe you should slow down," the ba**ender said gently, concern in his voice. I slammed my empty glass on the counter and shoved my card across. "Did I stutter? Top me off." The ba**ender sighed but obliged. "That guy's right," a smooth, magnetic voice murmured beside me. "Too much al**hol can impair cognitive function and judgment. Unless you want to wake up in a stranger's b*d tonight-" I turned, irritated-then froze. It was him. The man from last night. My new neighbor. The one who'd handed me my keys with all the casual elegance of a Renaissance statue. "Well, well. You again." I raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile tugging at my lips. "You really can't resist other people's business, huh?" He chuckled softly, completely unfazed. "Think of it as a well-developed instinct for being helpful." I gave an exaggerated sigh. "You're a hero, truly. But I don't need saving, Mr. Key Man." "I know," he said calmly, lifting his glass and taking a slow sip. His eyes were clear and sharp. "But you do seem in desperate need of clarity." I frowned. "Is this how you treat all your neighbors? First their keys, then their dignity?" He laughed-a low, rich sound. "Only when the neighbor looks like she's on the verge of self-destruction." ".But I am always self-destructing," I muttered, suddenly quieter. "Doesn't it seem kind of pathetic? Like my whole life is just one mess after another?" He didn't laugh. He didn't rush to reassure me, either. He didn't even deny what I'd just said. He just looked at me. Calm. Quiet. Like he was watching a slow-motion disaster unfold-but had no intention of stopping it. "You're not wrong," he finally said, his voice low and steady. "You are pretty good at making a mess of things. Like right now-you can't even stand properly and you're still demanding more al**hol." I froze, frowning instinctively. But he went on, his tone unhurried-like he was flipping through a book and had landed on a sentence he already knew by heart: "But strangely, you always seem to meet someone who refuses to walk away. right before everything falls apart." I stared at him, half in shock, half in suspicion. "Are you. fl**ting with me?" He gave me a slow smile, his eyes lazily curving with just the right amount of mischief. His voice came out smooth and provocative, like velvet wrapped around steel. "Does it make you feel any better?" His voice was low and warm, like wh**key being poured into a glass at midnight-just a little dizzying, just a little dangerous. He looked at me with an intensity that felt nearly uncontrollable, like he might lean in close and whisper things in the dark, on a b*d, asking if his to**h was hard enough. My heart skipped a beat. My cheeks flushed instantly. My fingertips tightened against the edge of the b*r. I had to look at him properly. Really see him. That face-it wasn't just handsome. It had the kind of quiet, devastating maturity that no amount of cologne and hair gel could fake. Not the kind you'd find among the over-groomed boys who danced to house music like they were owed the world. A wild, uninvited thought flashed through my mind. If I let him walk away tonight, maybe I was rejecting one of those rare, merciful moments when fate offered a second chance. Before I could stop myself, my hand wrapped around the sleeve of his suit jacket. I rose from the barstool, heart pounding. "So, Mr. Keys," I said, my voice hoarse but firm, "since you're so committed to helping. why not help all the way?" He clearly hadn't expected that. His brow lifted slightly, surprise flickering across his face-but he didn't step back. He didn't laugh. He simply said, calm and steady: "Of course. As long as this is something you won't deny when you're sober." "I'm sure." I answered without hesitation. Gripping his wrist tighter, I pulled him through the crowd and out of the b*r. The night wind struck us like a cleansing slap, city lights flickering above. I didn't let myself pause. No time to think, no space for regret. We crossed the street. Entered the nearest ho**l lobby. Because tonight, I needed to know if I had the courage to accept what fate had placed in front of me. It must have been one h**l of a night, because when I woke up, sunlight was spilling through the curtains, and the red LED numbers of the digital clock blinked 10:07 AM at me with the judgmental smugness of a nun catching you sneaking out of the church. The sh**ts still carried his scent-bergamot and sin-and my body buzzed from the lingering aftershocks of what we'd done. I stared at the ceiling and thought: That was absolutely phenomenal s*x. I ached everywhere-in the best, most regrettable way. But my head. my head was a battlefield. It felt like a hundred tiny jackhammers were drilling through my skull. The al**hol from last night had declared mutiny, and my brain was paying the price, like someone had jammed a red-hot poker through my temple. I had no idea how much I drank-definitely more than I should've. The details had vanished into a fog thicker than a London morning. Gr**ning, I rolled out of bed. Gr**ned again. Began gathering the scattered pieces of my clothing. The plan was simple: Get dressed. Sneak out. Pretend this never happened. I had just picked up my skirt when a voice stopped me. "Leaving so soon?" S**it. I turned-very slowly, thanks to the hangover and the shame-and saw him standing in the bathroom doorway, a towel slung low on his h**s. I stared. Unashamed. Images from the night before surged back into my brain. I suddenly felt. very, very thirsty. "We need to talk," he said. He looked at me again, then-unhurriedly-said: "Will you marry me?". What?!. What happens next? 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