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Kaelen was supposed to be my destiny. The future Alpha of our pack, my childhood love, and my fated mate. But one night, I smelled another woman on him--a sickly sweet Omega scent I knew all too well. I followed him and found them under the great oak, locked in a lover's k**s. His betrayal was a slow and deliberate poison. When his precious Omega, Lyra, staged a fall, he cradled her like she was made of glass. But when he sabotaged my saddle during a dangerous jump, causing my horse to throw me and break my leg, he called it a "warning" not to touch her. His care for me afterward was just damage control to avoid my father's suspicion. At a public auction, he used my family's money to buy her a priceless diamond, leaving me humiliated and unable to pay. I finally understood what I'd overheard on the pack's mind-link days before. To him and his brothers-in-arms, I was just a "pampered princess," a prize to be won for power. Lyra was the one they truly de**red. He thought he could break me, force me to accept being second best. He was wrong. On the night of my 20th birthday, the night I was supposed to be bonded to him, I stood before two packs and made a different choice. I rejected him and announced my union with a rival Alpha, a man who sees me as a queen, not a consolation prize. Chapter 1 No.1 Aria POV: The night air of the Silver Moon territory was crisp and clean, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. It was my territory, my home, and one day, it would be my responsibility as Luna. But tonight, all I cared about was the man walking beside me. Kaelen. His presence was a physical force, a magnetic pull that had governed my world since we were children. He was the future Alpha, chosen by my father for his unmatched strength and strategic mind. And, as everyone in the pack whispered, he was my destiny. My heart did a familiar flip as his arm brushed against mine. I breathed in, expecting his signature scent, the one that always calmed my inner wolf--the bracing aroma of a snowstorm breaking over a cedar forest. It was the scent I dreamed of, the scent of my supposed mate. But tonight, something was wrong. Underneath the familiar cedar and winter air, another scent clung to him. It was sickly sweet, like cheap candy and cloying jasmine. An Omega's scent. A scent I knew all too well. Lyra. My stomach twisted into a cold knot. Lyra, the fragile Omega he and the other warriors had been brought in with, the one he insisted on treating like a sister. "You were with Lyra," I stated, my voice flat, betraying none of the turmoil inside me. Kaelen's stride didn't falter. "She was feeling unwell. I took her some herbs." His voice was smooth, but the lie was as loud as a scream to my senses. The scent wasn't from a casual visit; it was deeply ingrained in the fibers of his leather jacket, a mark of prolonged, close contact. We continued our patrol in silence, the easy camaraderie we usually shared now replaced by a thick, suffocating tension. When we reached the edge of the ancient woods that bordered the main estate, he stopped. "I'll finish the southern perimeter. You head back." I just nodded, unable to look at him. But I didn't head back. A dark premonition coiled in my gut. I circled around, using the cover of the dense woods to shadow his path. My wolf senses, already heightened by suspicion, made me silent, a ghost in the trees. And then I saw them. Under the gnarled branches of the great oak, where pack mates often pledged their love, Kaelen stood with Lyra. Her arms were wrapped around his neck, her body pressed against his. The moonlight illuminated the scene with brutal clarity. He leaned down, and their lips met in a fierce, po**essive k**s that sent a wave of nausea through me. It wasn't a brotherly k**s. It was the k**s of lovers. My world, once a bright and hopeful place centered around him, shattered into a million icy fragments. I didn't make a sound. I just turned and walked away, the image burned into my mind. Back in the main house, the opulent halls of the Silver Moon Corporation headquarters felt like a cage. I walked straight to my father's study. Alpha Alistair looked up from his desk, his stern face softening when he saw me. "Aria. You're back early." "Father," I said, my voice eerily calm. "I want to cancel my birthday celebration." He frowned. "Your 20th birthday is more than a party, Aria. It's when you will be formally recognized with your mate." "I know," I said. "That's why I'm here. I wish to form a union with the Onyx Fang Pack. I will marry Alpha Damien." The shock on my father's face was absolute. He stood up, his powerful Alpha presence filling the room. "Damien? He is a strong ally, but Kaelen... you and Kaelen have been inseparable since childhood. He is the future of this pack. He is your... emotional anchor." A bitter laugh escaped my lips. "An anchor is meant to hold you steady, Father. Not drown you." It wasn't a sudden decision. The cracks had been showing for weeks, but I'd been too blind, too in love, to see them. Until yesterday. I had been in my training room when the Mind-Link, the psychic connection all pack members share, had flared to life. Usually, I could tune out the background chatter, but this conversation was between the pack's core leadership. It was impossible to ignore. Silas, our future Luna is getting clingier by the day. Kaelen must be sick of her, Ronan, our Beta, grumbled. I froze, my hand hovering over the weights I was about to lift. Shut your mouth, Ronan, came the smooth, calculating voice of Silas, our Gamma. She is the Alpha's daughter, after all. But I'll admit, a girl like Lyra... she makes a man feel needed. A true protector. Exactly, another warrior chimed in. We're all competing for Kaelen's spot, but it's for Lyra's sake. Who really wants to be tied to that pampered princess? Besides, Lyra isn't even his real sister. Only we know that secret. The words hit me like a physical blow, leaving me breathless and cold. They weren't his brothers in arms. They were his rivals. And I... I was just the prize they had to win to secure their position, a tool to be used. Lyra was the one they truly de**red. I remembered the day my father brought them here, seven gifted, orphaned boys, Kaelen being the most powerful. He had made only one demand: that Lyra, a frail Omega girl from the same orphanage, come with him. My father, seeing his fierce loyalty as a virtue, had agreed. Over the years, every time Lyra and I had the smallest disagreement, Kaelen and the others would rush to her side. I was always the one who was too harsh, too demanding. She was the fragile Omega; I was the Alpha's daughter who should know better. Now, seeing that k**s, hearing those mental whispers echo in my memory, everything clicked into place. Kaelen's feelings for Lyra weren't brotherly. They were possessive. He would become my mate, my Alpha, to repay my father's kindness. He would give me his loyalty, his protection, his name. But he would never give me his heart. That, he had already given to another. And I would not settle for being second best. Chapter 2 No.2 Aria POV: "He will never love me, Father," I said, my voice resonating with a finality that startled even myself. "I would rather have the loyalty of a powerful ally who respects me than the pity and obligation of a man who de**res another. Kaelen's love is a performance, and I refuse to be his audience any longer." My father, Alpha Alistair, stared at me, his sharp eyes searching my face. He saw no girlish tantrum, only cold, hard resolution. He sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of shattered plans. "If this is your wish, so be it. But Kaelen, Lyra, and the others... their betrayal runs deep." "I know," I replied. "Which is why I have a request. As the Alpha of this pack, I need you to issue a command. Freeze all their access. Their corporate accounts, their pack resources, their training privileges. Everything. Let them feel what it's like to have the ground pulled from under them." He nodded slowly, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "It will be done. And at your union ceremony with Damien, they will be officially exiled. They will learn the price of betraying a daughter of Silver Moon." A sense of grim satisfaction settled over me. It wasn't joy, but it was a start. Leaving the study, I felt lighter, as if a great weight had been lifted. As I descended the grand, spiral staircase, I saw Lyra waiting at the bottom. She was dressed in a simple white dress that highlighted her supposed innocence, her face a mask of sweet concern. "Aria!" she called out, her voice syrupy. "I was just coming to find you. Let's go to the combat training together! It's been so long since we sparred." She moved to link her arm with mine. The cloying jasmine scent I'd smelled on Kaelen now washed over me, and I felt my stomach heave. I yanked my arm away as if I'd been burned. "Don't touch me," I snarled. The force of my rejection was small, but Lyra used it. With a theatrical g**p, she stumbled backward, her eyes wide with fake shock. Her heel caught on the edge of the stair, and she let out a piercing scream as she tumbled dramatically down the remaining few steps. Before she even hit the polished marble floor, Kaelen was there. He moved like a blur, a dark shadow of raw power, catching her just before she landed. He cradled her in his arms, his eyes filled with a frantic tenderness that he had never, not once, shown me. The other warriors, who had been lounging in the great hall, were on their feet in an instant. "Aria! What is wrong with you?" Ronan, the Beta, roared, his face contorted in fury. "She's just an Omega! She meant no harm!" In Kaelen's arms, Lyra began to sob. "No, Ronan, don't blame her. It was my fault. I was clumsy. Aria didn't mean it." Her false defense only fanned the flames of their anger, painting me as the cruel, spoiled princess and her as the blameless victim. Kaelen looked up at me, his eyes as cold as a winter storm. He didn't say a word out loud. Instead, his voice sliced through our Mind-Link, sharp and unforgiving. You disappoint me. He then turned, carrying Lyra as if she were made of precious glass, and walked away without giving me a chance to say a single word. Later that afternoon, at the training grounds, I found Lyra already there, a small bandage wrapped around her ankle for show. She gave me a saccharine smile. "Oh, Aria, please don't let me get in the way. I know this is your special time with Kaelen-brother." I ignored her, focusing on my warm-ups. But it was impossible. Kaelen was glued to her side. He corrected her stance, his hands lingering on her waist. He demonstrated a defensive move, his body molding against hers. When she feigned a wince from her "injured" ankle, he immediately dropped to one knee in the dirt. "Here," he said, his voice soft. "Put your foot on my shoulder. I'll re-wrap it." She placed her delicate foot on his broad shoulder, and he tended to her with the focus of a surgeon. The sight clawed at my insides. I remembered my first real combat session years ago. I'd taken a hard fall and dislocated my shoulder. Kaelen had stood by, his arms crossed, his expression bored, until my father's voice had cracked through the Mind-Link like a whip. Kaelen! Go to her! That is an Alpha's Command! An Alpha's Command. The irresistible power in an Alpha's voice that forces werewolves of a lower rank to obey. Kaelen had flinched as if struck. He had stalked over, his movements stiff with resentment, and helped me. The humiliation and reluctance in his eyes were seared into my memory. He was forced to help me. But for Lyra, he knelt willingly. And in that moment, I knew with chilling certainty that I hadn't just made the right decision. I had made the only one possible. Chapter 3 No.3 Aria POV: My father's words echoed in my memory, spoken to a young Kaelen years ago. "A true Alpha kneels for only two: his Luna, and the Moon Goddess herself." I had been watching from the balcony, my teenage heart fluttering at the implication. I saw the blush on my own cheeks in my mind's eye, but now, I also remembered the flicker of resistance, of deep-seated defiance, in Kaelen's eyes. He hadn't wanted that rule to apply to him. Not for me. Yet here he was, kneeling in the dirt for Lyra, not by command, but by choice. The pain was a physical thing, a hollow ache that seemed to radiate from my very soul. I ripped my gaze away from them, the sight too much to bear. Blinking back the hot tears that threatened to fall, I stalked over to the stables. I needed a distraction, something to channel the storm of rage and hurt brewing inside me. I saddled Midnight, the most spirited warhorse in our stables, and rode him onto the obstacle course. The wind whipped at my face as I pushed him faster, urging him toward a series of high jumps. Air, speed, danger--that's what I needed. I lined Midnight up for the final jump, a formidable wall of timber that tested even our best warriors. We galloped towards it, a perfect union of rider and beast. He launched into the air, muscles coiling powerfully beneath me. And then, a sharp snap. The saddle's girth strap gave way. The world tilted violently. For a heart-stopping second, I was suspended in mid-air, a helpless spectator to my own disaster. Then gravity took hold, and I crashed to the earth with bone-jarring force. A blinding pain shot up my leg. Midnight, panicked and untethered, bolted, his powerful hooves churning the ground perilously close to where I lay. I was trapped, helpless. And Kaelen? He hadn't even noticed. His entire universe was focused on Lyra and her perfectly fine ankle. A guttural cry, more wolf than human, tore from my throat. It was a sound of pure agony and fury. That finally got his attention. His head snapped up. His eyes widened in horror. He moved with the lightning speed I'd seen him use for Lyra, intercepting the frantic horse and wrestling it to a standstill. But it was too late. My leg was bent at an unnatural angle. The bone was clearly broken. The next few days were a blur of pain and forced pleasantries in the pack's sterile healing center. Kaelen, to my surprise, insisted on taking care of me. He sat by my bed, changed my dressings, and brought me my meals. He was attentive, quiet, and efficient. For a brief, foolish moment, I allowed myself to wonder if I had been wrong. Maybe this was his apology. Maybe he did care. But I knew better. I could feel the difference. His concern for Lyra was a roaring fire, a living, breathing thing that came from his soul. His care for me felt like a task on a checklist, a duty performed with meticulous precision but utterly devoid of warmth. There was an unbridgeable distance in his touch, a polite coldness in his eyes. A few nights later, the healers had worked their magic, and the bone in my leg had begun to mend. I was drifting in a light sl**p when I heard voices in the hallway. I recognized them instantly. Gamma Silas and Kaelen. "You went too far this time, Kaelen," Silas said, his voice a low hiss. "A broken leg? Alistair will have your hide if he finds out." My bl**d ran cold. I held my breath, straining to hear. Kaelen's reply was chillingly calm. "I used a dagger tipped with a trace of silver to nick the strap. Just a little. It was meant to be a lesson, a warning to make her think twice before laying a hand on Lyra again." Silver. The one substance that could cause grievous, slow-healing wounds to our kind. He had used it against me. "I didn't expect the horse to bolt like that," Kaelen continued, his voice devoid of any real remorse. "I miscalculated. Taking care of her now is just damage control. I need her to recover quickly so Alpha Alistair doesn't suspect a thing." The world seemed to tilt and fade. The careful, attentive man who had sat by my bedside was a lie. The accident wasn't an accident. It was a punishment. He hadn't come to my aid because he cared. He had come to clean up his own mess. The last fragile thread of hope I didn't even know I was clinging to, snapped. The pain in my mending leg was nothing compared to the feeling of a silver blade twisting in my heart. Chapter 4 No.4 Aria POV: The morning I was discharged, Kaelen was waiting for me outside my room, his face set in a look of practiced concern. I walked right past him without a word, my gaze fixed on the man leaning against a sleek black car at the end of the hall. Silas. He pushed off the car, a charming, easy smile on his face. "Ready to escape this prison, Princess?" I managed a small, tired smile in return. Kaelen stiffened behind me, his disapproval a palpable wave in the air. "Where are you taking her?" Kaelen demanded, his voice laced with an authority he no longer had over me. "None of your business," Silas shot back, opening the passenger door for me. "Some of us know how to treat a lady after she's been through an ordeal." As I settled into the plush leather seat, I ignored Kaelen's burning stare. Silas slid into the driver's seat and pulled away smoothly. "There's a special auction tonight," Silas said, his eyes on the road. "Rare herbs, enchanted artifacts, precious stones that can soothe a wolf's spirit. My treat. Consider it a 'welcome back to the world of the walking' gift." "Spending my father's money to impress me, Silas?" I asked, a hint of my old fire returning. He laughed, a genuine, rich sound. "Hardly. I have my own ventures. Overseas investments. More than enough to keep a future Luna in the style she deserves." His blatant flattery was so audacious it was almost refreshing. I found myself smiling for the first time in days. "Fine. But I'm choosing the destination." My target was a legendary blue diamond known as the "Tear of the Moon Goddess." It was said to have calming properties, to quell the inner turmoil of a werewolf's soul. Right now, my soul felt like a raging tempest. I needed it. The auction house was a study in opulence, filled with the elite from every major pack. Silas and I took our seats near the front. Just as I was beginning to relax, a familiar chill went down my spine. Kaelen had just walked in. And on his arm, looking doe-eyed and innocent, was Lyra. My jaw tightened. Of course. He wouldn't let me have one evening of peace. I knew, with a sinking certainty, exactly what was about to happen. When the "Tear of the Moon Goddess" was presented, a hush fell over the room. It was magnificent, a flawless diamond that seemed to pulse with a soft, internal light. Lyra's hand shot up immediately, placing a bid. Then she glanced over at me, saw the desire in my eyes, and with a practiced, martyred sigh, she lowered her hand. She whispered something to Kaelen, her expression a perfect blend of longing and self-sacrifice. Kaelen's face hardened. He looked directly at me, his gaze a challenge. Then he stood up, his voice ringing through the silent hall. "My companion fancies that stone," he announced, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Whatever she wants, she gets." He then named a price so astronomically high it made the entire room g**p. The message was clear. It wasn't about the diamond. It was about humiliation. Every wolf in that room knew Kaelen was my intended. They knew he was the future Alpha of Silver Moon. And they were all watching as he publicly chose an Omega over his future Luna, using my family's own wealth to do it. The whispers started, hushed and pitying. I became the joke of the night, the jilted princess. A hot, furious shame washed over me. No. I would not let him do this to me. I raised my paddle, my hand steady despite the trembling fury inside me. I would have that diamond. I didn't care what it cost. This was no longer about a stone; it was about my pride. Chapter 5 No.5 Aria POV: The bidding war was short and brutal. I drove the price into the stratosphere, my voice ringing out with a cold fury that silenced the whispers around me. In the end, Kaelen didn't counter my final, reckless bid. He simply sat back, a smug, satisfied look on his face. I had won the diamond, but I could feel his victory hanging in the air. A flicker of triumph, however bitter, went through me as the auctioneer's hammer fell. "Sold! To the lady from Silver Moon!" But when I went to the payment desk, my card was declined. "I'm sorry, Miss," the attendant said, avoiding my eyes. "It seems all your accounts with the Silver Moon Corporation have been frozen." My breath caught in my throat. Frozen? How? Only my father or... Kaelen could do that. "Allow me," Silas said smoothly, stepping forward and handing the attendant his own platinum card. I felt a surge of gratitude, but it was short-lived. "My apologies, Gamma Silas," the attendant stammered, looking even more flustered. "Your card has also been frozen." A low murmur of laughter rippled through the onlookers. The Silver Moon Pack, the wealthiest pack on the continent, couldn't pay its bills. We were a laughingstock. My humiliation was now complete and absolute. Then, Kaelen rose from his seat. He walked to the desk with an unhurried grace, pulling out a sleek, featureless black card--his personal account, the one granting him near-limitless access as the designated heir. "I'll take care of it," he said, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear. The payment went through instantly. The attendant, relieved, placed the diamond in its velvet box and handed it to him. For a heart-stopping moment, I thought he might give it to me, a twisted kind of apology. I was wrong. In front of the entire assembly, he walked over to Lyra, opened the box, and fastened the "Tear of the Moon Goddess" around her neck. It glittered against her pale skin, a testament to my public shaming. I stood there, frozen, as the world swam around me. I could feel hundreds of pairs of eyes on me, some pitying, some mocking. I wanted the ground to swallow me whole. "He used his future-Alpha clearance to hack the system," Silas whispered, his voice tight with rage. "He did this on purpose, Aria. To break you." Kaelen shot Silas a look that was pure ice. "Without the strength to back it up, don't try to protect things that aren't yours, Gamma." The threat was unmistakable. Then his cold eyes landed on me. "You should have come with me," he said, as if it were my fault. A choked, hysterical laugh escaped my lips. I turned on my heel and walked out of that auction house, leaving my dignity scattered on the floor behind me. I didn't look back. Back at the estate, I locked myself in my suite, ignoring the pounding on my door. I just wanted to be alone, to lick my wounds in private. But even in my own room, there was no escape. I switched on the discreet listening devices I'd had installed weeks ago, a desperate attempt to understand the conspiracy brewing around me. The voices of the warriors floated up from the common room below. "Kaelen is causing too much trouble," Ronan complained. "First the horse, now this auction fiasco. Alpha Alistair is going to have all our heads." "I'm not cleaning up his mess," another voice grumbled. "And I'm certainly not going up there to soothe the wounded princess." "Nor am I," Silas added, his voice dripping with frustration. "A woman scorned is not something I wish to face right now." Then, Kaelen's voice cut through the others, low and absolute. "My woman, my responsibility. I will handle her." A heavy silence fell over the room. I saw him on the security feed, picking up a small, elegantly wrapped gift box from the table and heading for the stairs. My woman. The possessive words, meant to assert his authority to the others, felt like another brand on my already wounded soul. I shut off the monitor. I didn't see the flash of raw fury in the other warriors' eyes at Kaelen's claim. I didn't see the profound, soul-deep despair that settled over Silas's face. All I knew was that the monster who had orchestrated my humiliation was now coming to my door to "handle" me. Chapter 6 No.6 Aria POV: The click of my lock being picked was soft, but it sounded like a gunshot in the silent room. Kaelen slipped inside, closing the door quietly behind him. "Get out," I said, my voice dangerously low. "This is my room. My private sanctuary. You have no right." "It's a habit from my ro**e days," he said, his tone casual, as if breaking into my room was nothing. He moved further into the space, his presence su**ing all the air out. He sat on the edge of my chaise lounge, uninvited. "You have to know how to get into safe places." He started talking then, his voice a low, mesmerizing cadence. He spoke of his childhood, of being a ro**e--a lone wolf without a pack. He described the cold, the hunger, the constant fear. He painted a vivid picture of him and Lyra huddled together for warmth, two orphans against the world. "She's all I had," he said, his eyes distant. "She is a part of me, Aria. Like my own arm or leg. I can't cut her off. I won't." He looked at me then, his gaze intense. "I am grateful to your father. I will honor my commitment to you, to this pack. I will do anything you ask of me. But you have to accept Lyra. She will always come first. That is my one condition." A cold, dead laugh built in my ch**t. He was offering me a lifetime of being second. A true Alpha's mate is his entire world, his equal, the other half of his soul. An Alpha who cannot put his Luna first is not an Alpha at all. He is a failure. Before I could voice the venom on my tongue, his head tilted slightly. A call on the Mind-Link. From Lyra, no doubt. He stood abruptly. "I have to go." He was gone in less than five minutes, leaving a small gift box on my nightstand. Inside, I knew, would be a cheap imitation of the diamond he had given to Lyra. I picked up the box and threw it, with all my strength, into the wastebasket. I would not be a consolation prize. My 20th birthday arrived a week later, a day that was supposed to be the most joyous of my life. It was the day I would come of age, the day I would be officially bonded to my fated mate and presented to the packs as their future Luna. The estate was buzzing with preparations for the grand ball that evening. As I was getting ready, a messenger from the Onyx Fang Pack arrived. He presented me with a heavy, velvet-lined case. Inside was a breathtaking set of jewelry. A necklace, earrings, and a bracelet, all made of deep, fiery pigeon-bl**d rubies set in blackened gold. It was called the "Heart of Fire." The messenger bowed. "A gift from my Alpha, Damien," he said. "He asked me to deliver a message: 'Blue diamonds are cold and distant. Only a heart of fire is worthy of the future Luna of Silver Moon.'" A genuine smile, the first in what felt like a lifetime, touched my lips. I put on the rubies. Their weight was substantial, their fire a welcome warmth against my skin. I still had a choice. I still had Damien. As I left my suite to head down to the ball, I ran directly into Lyra. Her eyes immediately locked onto the ruby necklace, a flash of ugly jealousy marring her pretty face. "What a... vibrant set," she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "Trying a new look for your big night?" Then, she held up her phone. "Kaelen-brother wanted you to see this. A little pre-party gift." She pressed play. On the screen, a video began. It was of her and Kaelen, tangled together in his bed, the "Tear of the Moon Goddess" sparkling at her throat. Her goal was obvious: to push me over the edge, to make me cause a scene at the most important event of my life, to prove to everyone that I was an unstable, unworthy heiress. She wanted to see me break. Chapter 7 No.7 Aria POV: The sound that left my lips wasn't a scream or a sob. It was a low, feral growl. My vision tunneled, the opulent hallway fading to a red haze. All I saw was Lyra's smug, triumphant face. My hand moved on its own. The crack of my palm against her cheek echoed in the corridor. It was a full-force, open-handed slap that sent her stumbling back, a red handprint already blooming on her skin. I didn't need to look behind me. I could feel him. Kaelen had emerged from his room down the hall, and his presence was a wave of glacial fury. His eyes were locked on me, promising retribution. I had struck his precious Lyra. There would be a price to pay. I walked past them both, my head held high, the rubies at my throat feeling like armor. The entire ball was a torment. I moved through the throngs of guests, smiling, accepting birthday wishes, all while a storm of anxiety raged within me. I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for Kaelen's revenge. The evening reached its crescendo. My father stood on the grand dais, his voice booming across the ballroom as he prepared to announce my chosen mate. The crowd buzzed with anticipation, their gazes shifting between me and Kaelen. I found Damien in the crowd. He stood near the back, a silent, powerful pillar of support. He caught my eye and gave me a subtle, encouraging nod. It was enough to steady my nerves. My father raised his glass. "And now, it is my great honor to present the future Alpha of the Silver Moon Pack, the mate chosen by the Goddess for my daughter, Aria..." He never finished the sentence. Suddenly, the massive screen behind the dais, which had been displaying a serene image of a moonlit forest, flickered to life. My breath hitched. It was me on the screen. It was private footage, secretly recorded. Me, in the dead of night, practicing my shift in a secluded clearing. The video showed my first awkward, clumsy attempts, my half-formed wolf stumbling and falling. It was deeply personal, a moment of vulnerability I had shared with no one. Then the scene changed. It was my bedroom. Me, clutching one of Kaelen's old training shirts, tossing and turning in my bed, whispering his name in my sl**p like a lovesick fool. A wave of hot, suffocating shame washed over me. Laughter, at first muffled, then overt, rippled through the ballroom. My deepest secrets, my most private moments of weakness and yearning, were being broadcast for the entire werewolf aristocracy to see. This was his revenge. It was cruel. It was devastating. Tears streamed down my face, hot and unstoppable. I felt utterly, completely broken. "SHUT IT OFF!" my father roared, his Alpha voice shaking the very foundations of the hall. He lunged for the control panel, but the system was locked, unresponsive to his command. A stronger power was at work. Before anyone else could react, a black shadow streaked through the crowd. It was Damien. He didn't bother with the controls. He leaped onto the dais, and with a single, savage punch, shattered the entire projection unit. The screen went black. My father was trembling with rage. "Seal the exits!" he commanded his guards. "No one leaves this room until I find the filth responsible for this!" The guests were in an uproar, but my father's attention was solely on me. His eyes met Damien's, a silent command passing between them. Damien was at my side in an instant. He wrapped a protective arm around my trembling shoulders, pulling me into his solid warmth. He faced the stunned crowd, his voice a low, dangerous growl that commanded absolute attention. "Let me make this clear," Damien declared, his eyes sweeping the room like chips of obsidian. "Aria is my choice. She will be my Luna. Any who dare to humiliate her, answer to the Onyx Fang Pack. You have just made an enemy of us all." The bl**d drained from Kaelen's face. The other warriors looked on in stunned disbelief. They had pushed me, taunted me, and broken me. But they never, in their wildest dreams, imagined I would choose an outsider over one of them. ...... 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Après sept ans passés dans un cachot pour un crime que je n'avais pas commis, mon âme sœur prédestinée, l'Alpha qui les avait laissés m'entraîner, a enfin ouvert la porte de ma cellule. Il a annoncé que je prendrais ma place de Luna à ses côtés, non par amour, mais parce que la loi l'exigeait. Mais à l'instant où un lien mental affolé l'a prévenu que sa précieuse Séraphine - ma sœur adoptive, celle qui m'avait piégée - avait du mal à respirer, il m'a abandonnée sans un second regard. Cette nuit-là, blottie dans une cabane poussiéreuse, j'ai surpris la conversation secrète de mes propres parents. Ils projetaient de me faire exiler. Définitivement. Mon retour avait bouleversé Séraphine, et son « cœur fragile » ne pouvait supporter le choc. Je suis restée allongée dans l'obscurité, ne ressentant rien. Pas de surprise. Pas même de douleur. Juste un froid profond et vide. Ils me rejetaient. Encore. Mais alors qu'ils complotaient mon exil, un message secret m'est parvenu - une offre d'évasion. Une nouvelle vie dans un sanctuaire loin au nord, où je pourrais laisser la Meute de Sombrelune derrière moi pour toujours. Ils pensaient se débarrasser de moi. Ce qu'ils ignoraient, c'est que j'étais déjà partie. Chapitre 1 Point de vue d'Éliane : La lourde porte en fer a grincé en s'ouvrant, sa plainte résonnant dans la cellule de pierre humide qui avait été mon univers pendant sept ans. La lumière, vive et inconnue, a fendu la pénombre, m'obligeant à plisser les yeux. Mes muscles, atrophiés par une longue inutilisation et une mauvaise alimentation, tremblaient alors que je me mettais debout. Une douleur aiguë et fulgurante a parcouru ma jambe droite, un rappel permanent de l'entrave en argent qui m'avait autrefois enchaînée ici. Elle m'avait laissé une boiterie, une douleur constante et lancinante qui faisait maintenant partie de moi. « Éliane. » La voix était plus profonde que dans mes souvenirs, dépouillée de la chaleur qu'elle avait dans mon enfance. C'était une voix qui résonnait de pouvoir, un son qui semblait faire vibrer les pierres elles-mêmes. C'était la voix de mon âme sœur. Mon Alpha. Caelan se tenait en silhouette contre la lumière aveuglante de l'embrasure. Il était plus grand, plus large, sa présence remplissant l'espace exigu d'une énergie oppressante. Son odeur - un mélange puissant de pin d'hiver et de l'air vif et pur avant un orage - a inondé mes sens, une odeur qui aurait dû m'apporter du réconfort mais qui ne me semblait plus qu'une cage. « Les anciens ont accepté ta libération », a-t-il déclaré, son ton plat, dé**é de toute émotion. Il a fait un pas à l'intérieur, ses yeux sombres scrutant ma frêle silhouette avec un détachement troublant. « Selon les lois de la Déesse de la Lune, tu es toujours mon âme sœur prédestinée. Tu prendras ta place en tant que ma Luna.» Je n'ai rien dit. Mon cœur, un muscle fatigué et usé, a eu un faible battement puis a repris son rythme lent et régulier. Le lien entre nous, cette connexion sacrée que la Déesse accorde aux couples prédestinés, était un membre fantôme. Il était là, une pulsation sourde au fond de mon âme, mais il était fracturé, cicatrisé depuis le jour où il était resté là à regarder les autres m'entraîner dans ce cachot. Il a semblé prendre mon silence pour un acquiescement. « Tes parents... les anciens de la meute, n'ont pas pu être là. Séraphine ne se sent pas bien. Sa maladie cardiaque s'est de nouveau manifestée.» Séraphine. Le nom était comme de la cendre dans ma bouche. Ma sœur adoptive. Celle dont j'étais née pour prendre la place, mais qui m'avait tout volé à la place. Un rire amer a menacé de m'échapper, mais je l'ai ravalé. J'étais la fille légitime du Bêta de la meute, une descendante directe de la lignée Alpha. Pourtant, à la naissance, une prophétie erronée m'avait qualifiée d'Oméga, la plus basse des basses. Mes parents, dans leur chagrin et leur déception, avaient adopté Séraphine, la fille orpheline du Gamma, et l'avaient comblée de l'amour et du statut qui auraient dû être les miens. J'ai été forcée de tout lui céder - mes jouets, mon entraînement, ma position. Et finalement, ma liberté.J'avais porté le chapeau pour elle, accusée de conspirer avec des renégats, un crime qu'elle avait commis.Et Caelan, mon propre âme sœur, avait cru au mensonge. « Viens », a-t-il dit, me tournant le dos, supposant que je le suivrais. Je l'ai fait. Un pas lent et boiteux à la fois, je l'ai suivi hors de l'obscurité et dans le monde qui m'avait oubliée. Les membres de la meute que nous croisions détournaient le regard, leurs visages un mélange de mépris et de pitié. Des chuchotements nous suivaient comme des ombres, vifs et cruels. Nous avons atteint le centre du village de la meute, un endroit qui me semblait autrefois un foyer. Maintenant, ce n'était qu'un ramassis de regards hostiles. Le Bêta de Caelan, un loup au visage sévère nommé Marc, s'est approché de nous. Il a incliné la tête devant Caelan avant de tourner ses yeux froids vers moi. « Les anciens ont décrété que tu résideras dans les logements des Omégas pour le moment », a-t-il annoncé, sa voix assez forte pour que tout le monde l'entende. « Il est préférable que tu ne te montres pas en public jusqu'à ce que l'Alpha le juge approprié. » L'humiliation m'a submergée, une vague familière et glaciale. Sept ans dans un cachot, pour être libérée dans une autre forme de prison. Avant que Caelan ne puisse répondre, j'ai senti un faible scintillement contre mes boucliers mentaux. Un lien mental. Il était faible, affolé. « Caelan ! Où es-tu ? Séraphine te réclame ! Elle a du mal à respirer ! » Toute la posture de Caelan a changé. L'indifférence froide a été remplacée par une panique brute et immédiate. Sa tête s'est redressée d'un coup, ses yeux cherchant au loin comme s'il pouvait la voir. « J'arrive », a-t-il projeté en retour, sa voix mentale un crépitement sec d'urgence. Il ne m'a même pas regardée. Il a juste tourné les talons et a sprinté vers la grande maison ornée où vivaient les chefs de la meute, me laissant seule au centre de la place, la cible d'une centaine de regards méprisants. Je n'avais besoin de personne pour me montrer le chemin. Mes jambes, malgré la douleur, se souvenaient du sentier menant à la périphérie du village, aux cabanes délabrées réservées aux Omégas. J'ai poussé la porte de la plus petite, celle qui avait été la mienne avant le cachot. Des grains de poussière dansaient dans les filets de lumière perçant la fenêtre crasseuse. L'air était vicié, épais des fantômes de la solitude. Je me suis effondrée sur la fine paillasse, mon corps hurlant de protestation. L'épuisement, profond et absolu, m'a emportée. Plus tard cette nuit-là, j'ai été tirée d'un sommeil agité par un bourdonnement mental familier. Mes parents et ma sœur cadette, Lise, communiquaient par le lien mental. Mon s**g de loup blanc, un secret que j'avais gardé toute ma vie, me donnait la capacité de percevoir même les plus privées de ces connexions, une malédiction que j'avais appris à endurer. « Elle ne peut pas rester ici », la voix de ma mère était empreinte d'anxiété. « Séraphine l'a vue par la fenêtre. Le choc a été trop vi**ent pour son cœur fragile. Elle pleure depuis des heures. » « Père, que devons-nous faire ? » La voix de Lise, autrefois source de réconfort, était maintenant acérée d'agacement. « Sa présence est une perturbation.» « Je parlerai à Caelan », a répondu mon père, le Bêta, son ton lourd. « Pour le bien de la meute, et pour la santé de Séraphine, Éliane doit être exilée. Définitivement. » Je suis restée allongée dans l'obscurité, les yeux grands ouverts, ne ressentant rien. Pas de surprise. Pas même de douleur. Juste un froid profond et vide. Ils me rejetaient.Encore. Juste au moment où j'allais laisser l'obscurité me réclamer à nouveau, un léger tapotement est venu de la fenêtre. J'ai traîné mon corps endolori et j'ai vu un petit oiseau sombre perché sur le rebord. Attaché à sa patte se trouvait un minuscule rouleau. Mes doigts ont tremblé en le détachant. Il venait d'une vieille guérisseuse d'une meute voisine, une femme bienveillante qui connaissait ma véritable lignée. Le message était bref. Elle m'avait arrangé une opportunité, un lieu de sanctuaire loin au nord, un endroit où je pourrais tout recommencer, sous un nouveau nom, et laisser la Meute de Sombrelune derrière moi pour toujours. L'offre était pour dans dix jours. Une unique larme brûlante a tracé un si**on sur la crasse de ma joue. Ce n'était pas une larme de tristesse, mais de soulagement. C'était ça. Mon évasion. J'ai regardé le rouleau, puis la lune suspendue haut dans le ciel nocturne. Ils voulaient m'exiler. Ce qu'ils ignoraient, c'est que je planifiais déjà mon propre départ. Et cette fois, je ne regarderais jamais en arrière. Chapitre 2 Point de vue d'Éliane : Cette opportunité était comme une bouée de sauvetage lancée à une femme qui se noie. Sept ans plus tôt, j'avais été sélectionnée pour un poste prestigieux au Sanctuaire des Loups, un lieu d'apprentissage et de pouvoir pour les plus doués de notre espèce. C'était un honneur qui aurait dû cimenter ma place dans la meute, mais la fausse accusation me l'avait volé, comme tout le reste. Cette nouvelle chance, ce sanctuaire dans le nord, était mon dernier espoir désespéré pour une vie à moi.Dix jours.Dans dix jours, je serais libre. Je me suis réveillée le lendemain matin au son de la musique et des rires provenant du centre du village. Me redressant, j'ai boité jusqu'à la fenêtre crasseuse et j'ai regardé dehors. Toute la meute était rassemblée. Des bannières pourpres et argentées, les couleurs de notre meute, flottaient dans la brise.Un grand festin était en préparation. Mon estomac s'est noué. C'était une célébration. Pour Séraphine. Aujourd'hui, c'était son dix-huitième anniversaire, sa cérémonie officielle de passage à l'âge adulte. Une partie de moi, la partie faible et st**ide qui se souvenait encore d'avoir été une sœur, me murmurait de rester cachée. Mais une partie plus forte et plus froide de moi refusait de se terrer. Il me restait dix jours dans cet enfer personnel, et je ne les passerais pas à me cacher dans l'ombre. Je me suis lavé le visage avec l'eau froide de la bassine et j'ai enfilé la simple tunique élimée qu'on m'avait donnée. Ma boiterie était plus prononcée aujourd'hui, l'air humide s'infiltrant dans ma vieille blessure. Chaque pas était une nouvelle vague de douleur, mais je me suis forcée à avancer, la tête haute. Mon arrivée a jeté un froid sur les festivités.La musique a faibli. Les rires se sont tus. Tous les yeux se sont tournés vers moi, leurs expressions passant de la joie à une hostilité ouverte. J'ai vu mes parents près du centre, leurs visages crispés de mécontentement. Ma sœur, Lise, m'a fusillée du regard, sa main posée sur la poignée de la dague de guerrière à sa ceinture. Et là, debout à côté de Séraphine comme un gardien dévoué, se tenait Caelan. Il portait la tenue noire formelle de l'Alpha, ce qui le rendait encore plus imposant. Ses yeux ont croisé les miens une fraction de seconde, une lueur indéchiffrable dans leurs profondeurs, avant qu'il ne reporte toute son attention sur Séraphine. Séraphine, vêtue d'une robe blanche vaporeuse qui lui donnait l'air d'un ange innocent, a rompu le silence. Elle a glissé vers moi, son visage un masque parfait d'inquiétude. « Éliane, ma sœur », a-t-elle dit, sa voix dégoulinant d'une fausse douceur mielleuse. « Je suis si heureuse que tu puisses être là. Je m'inquiétais tellement pour toi. » Elle a tendu la main comme pour toucher mon bras, mais je me suis subtilement écartée. Son sourire n'a pas vacillé. Elle s'est tournée vers Caelan, ses yeux brillant de larmes non versées. « Alpha Caelan », a-t-elle commencé, sa voix gagnant un tremblement théâtral. « Pour mon cadeau de passage à l'âge adulte, je ne demande qu'une seule chose.Je souhaite que vous réaffirmiez votre promesse. Votre promesse de me protéger, toujours. » C'était un défi flagrant, provocateur, qui m'était directement destiné. Elle rappelait à tout le monde, et surtout à Caelan, le mensonge qui les liait - l'histoire fabriquée de sa vie qu'elle lui aurait sauvée. Un nœud froid et dur s'est formé dans ma po**rine. « Je ne serai pas témoin de cette farce », ai-je dit, ma voix basse mais claire. Les yeux de Séraphine se sont écarquillés de fausse douleur. Elle est immédiatement passée à l'Ancienne Langue, la langue formelle et ancestrale de nos ancêtres, réservée aux cérémonies sacrées et aux affaires de haute importance. « Ah, mais chère sœur, ce n'est pas une farce. C'est un serment d'honneur.Pourquoi me refuserais-tu ce petit réconfort ?» Mes parents se sont précipités à ses côtés, leurs visages gravés d'inquiétude. Mon père a posé une main réconfortante sur son épaule, lui parlant dans la même langue ancienne. « Ne fais pas attention à elle, petite. Ses années de cachot l'ont aigrie. » Ma mère a ajouté, sa voix acérée de désapprobation : « Elle a oublié sa place. Une Oméga ne devrait pas parler avec une telle insolence. » Par le lien mental, la voix de Lise a brûlé mes pensées. « Tu es cruelle, Éliane. Ne vois-tu pas que tu la bouleverses ? Après tout ce qu'elle a enduré pour cette meute ?» Ils supposaient tous que je ne pouvais pas comprendre. J'avais été élevée comme une Oméga, privée de l'éducation formelle donnée aux rangs supérieurs. Ils croyaient que l'Ancienne Langue était au-delà de ma compréhension. Caelan a simplement froncé les sourcils, son regard un avertissement silencieux pour que je ne gâche pas la journée.Un sourire amer a effleuré mes lèvres.Ils avaient tort. Mon héritage secret de loup blanc venait avec certains dons. Non seulement je pouvais sentir les plus faibles des liens mentaux, mais mon esprit absorbait la connaissance comme une éponge sèche. Je m'étais enseigné l'Ancienne Langue il y a des années, en écoutant les leçons des anciens depuis l'ombre. Je comprenais chaque mot de leur condescendance, chaque syllabe de leur pitié déplacée pour la vipère qu'ils chérissaient. « Je ne me sens pas bien », ai-je dit, gardant ma voix soigneusement neutre dans notre langue commune. « Je dois retourner à mes quartiers. » Alors que je me tournais pour partir, la voix de ma mère m'a suivie, un dernier coup porté dans l'écriture élégante et fluide de l'Ancienne Langue. « Laisse-la partir. C'est pour le mieux. Sa présence ici est une tache sur cette journée heureuse. » Je n'ai pas tressailli. J'ai juste continué à marcher, ma boiterie un battement régulier et rythmé sur la terre battue. Ils avaient tous oublié quelque chose dans leur hâte de célébrer leur précieuse Séraphine. Aujourd'hui était aussi le premier jour de ma liberté. Et je n'en avais plus que neuf à endurer. Chapitre 3 Point de vue d'Éliane : Les dix jours suivants furent un tourbillon de labeur éreintant et d'endurance silencieuse. Mon statut de « louve criminelle » et mon handicap physique signifiaient que j'étais assignée aux tâches les plus ardues dans la cuisine de la meute. Je frottais d'énormes chaudrons, transportais de lourds sacs de céréales et épluchais des piles interminables de légumes, mes mains à vif et mon dos endolori. Mais je ne me plaignais pas.Chaque morceau de pain que je gagnais, chaque bol de soupe claire qu'on me donnait, était un pas de plus vers mon départ. Dans les moments de calme, des souvenirs refaisaient surface, non sollicités et vifs.Je me souvenais d'un temps, il y a longtemps, où ma famille était unie. Avant Séraphine. Avant la prophétie qui m'avait marquée comme une paria. Mais ces souvenirs étaient fugaces, comme des volutes de fumée. Pendant la majeure partie de ma vie, j'avais été seule, luttant pour chaque bribe d'affection, chaque moment de paix, pour n'être confrontée qu'à la déception. Un soir, alors que je quittais les cuisines bien après le co**her du soleil, j'ai vu une berline noire familière garée dans l'ombre à l'orée des bois. La portière s'est ouverte et Caelan en est sorti. Mon corps s'est tendu. Je voulais faire demi-tour et m'éloigner, mais mes pieds semblaient enracinés au sol. Il a marché vers moi, ses pas silencieux sur la terre meuble. Dans ses mains, il tenait une petite boîte blanche. « Je t'ai apporté quelque chose », a-t-il dit, sa voix plus douce qu'elle ne l'avait été depuis des années. Il a ouvert la boîte pour révéler un petit gâteau, surmonté d'une unique baie des bois scintillante.« Pour célébrer ton... retour.» J'ai fixé le gâteau, ma gorge se serrant. Le gâteau aux baies des bois était mon préféré quand j'étais enfant. Il avait l'habitude de m'en donner des morceaux en douce de la table de l'Alpha quand il pensait que personne ne regardait. Il était le seul à m'avoir jamais montré la moindre gentillesse, le seul à avoir vu au-delà de mon statut d'Oméga. Il avait été ma lumière dans un monde d'ombres. Cette lumière avait été la raison pour laquelle je l'avais fait. La raison pour laquelle je m'étais jetée devant lui lors de l'attaque des renégats toutes ces années auparavant. La flèche, sa pointe enduite d'un poison à base d'argent, lui était destinée. Elle m'avait transpercé le flanc, et le venin avait ravagé mon corps, détruisant la fonction d'un de mes reins avant que les guérisseurs ne puissent me sauver.J'avais failli mourir pour lui. Et il ne l'avait même jamais su. « J'ai aussi apporté ça », a-t-il dit, sortant quelque chose de la voiture. C'était une robe. Une magnifique robe d'un pourpre profond, tissée dans une soie de pétale de lune chatoyante. C'était exactement la robe que j'avais montrée dans un catalogue de marchand quand j'étais petite, une robe que j'avais rêvé de porter. « Tu as toujours dit que tu voulais une robe rouge », a-t-il dit, un faible sourire, presque plein d'espoir, sur ses lèvres. L'amertume m'est montée à la gorge, ch**de et acide. « Je n'aime pas le rouge », ai-je dit, ma voix froide et vide. « C'est une couleur criarde. Tu dois te tromper. » Le sourire a disparu de son visage, remplacé par un air de confusion et de blessure. « Oh. Je... je suis désolé. Je pensais... » « Ça n'a pas d'importance », l'ai-je coupé. Il s'est vite ressaisi, son calme d'Alpha reprenant le dessus. « J'allais t'emmener au Lac de la Pierre de Lune », a-t-il dit, sa voix retrouvant son ton doux. « Nous n'y sommes pas allés depuis des années. J'ai pensé que tu aimerais le revoir. » Une partie de moi, la partie st**ide et pleine d'espoir que je croyais morte dans ce cachot, s'est agitée. Le Lac de la Pierre de Lune était notre endroit. C'est là que nous nous étions rencontrés pour la première fois, où il m'avait promis d'être mon ami pour toujours. Je me suis surprise à hocher la tête, lui permettant de me conduire à la voiture. Le trajet a été silencieux pendant quelques minutes, la tension une épaisse couverture entre nous. « Tu es trop maigre, Éliane », a-t-il dit finalement, les yeux sur la route. « Et ta jambe... te fait-elle encore mal ? » Avant que je puisse répondre, il s'est raidi. Ses yeux se sont voilés une seconde, sa concentration se tournant vers l'intérieur. Un lien mental. Un lien urgent, à en juger par le profond si**on qui est apparu entre ses sourcils. « Séraphine a besoin de moi. » Les mots n'ont pas été prononcés, mais je les ai entendus dans le froid soudain qui a rempli la voiture, dans la façon dont ses mains se sont crispées sur le volant. « Faites demi-tour », a-t-il aboyé au chauffeur, sa voix redevenant le ton froid et autoritaire de l'Alpha. « Maintenant ! » Le chauffeur, un guerrier de la meute, n'a pas hésité. Il a fait faire un virage serré à la voiture, repartant à toute vitesse vers le centre de la meute. Caelan ne m'a pas regardée. Il n'a pas offert d'explication ni d'excuse. Tout son être était concentré sur Séraphine, sur sa prétendue détresse. Il m'avait apporté un gâteau et une robe, offert un aperçu du garçon que j'avais connu, pour me le reprendre à l'instant où elle appelait. Comme il l'avait toujours fait. Il m'avait abandonnée. Encore une fois. Chapitre 4 Point de vue d'Éliane :La berline s'est arrêtée en crissant sur la place du village. Une foule s'était déjà rassemblée au pied du Promontoire de l'Alpha, les visages tournés vers le haut avec alarme. J'ai suivi leur regard. Là, debout au bord même de la falaise, se tenait Séraphine. Elle portait une chemise de nuit blanche et fine, ses cheveux sombres fouettant son visage dans le vent, lui donnant l'air d'une héroïne tragique d'une pièce de théâtre mal écrite. Dès qu'elle a vu Caelan sauter de la voiture avec moi juste derrière lui, sa performance a commencé. « Ma sœur, tu es revenue ! » a-t-elle crié, sa voix portée par le vent, teintée d'un sanglot convaincant. « Maintenant que tu es de retour, il n'y a plus de place pour une étrangère comme moi.C'est mieux ainsi ! » Avec une dernière fioriture dramatique, elle s'est jetée de la falaise. Un hoquet collectif a parcouru la foule. Mes parents, qui venaient d'arriver, ont hurlé son nom. Caelan a poussé un rugissement guttural et a commencé à courir vers le promontoire. Tout n'était que spectacle. Le Promontoire de l'Alpha surplombait le Gouffre Profond, une étendue d'eau si abyssale que personne n'en avait jamais trouvé le fond. Une chute de cette hauteur serait un choc, mais pas fatale pour un loup-garou. C'était un coup classique de Séraphine : un maximum de drame pour un minimum de risque. Pourtant, toute la direction de la meute, Caelan inclus, a dévalé le sentier jusqu'au bord de l'eau. Les guérisseurs de la meute, leurs sacs d'herbes et de remèdes déjà en main, étaient juste derrière eux. En quelques minutes, ils ont sorti une Séraphine crachotante et grelottante de l'eau et l'ont enveloppée dans des fourrures ch**des. Ma mère pleurait, mon père criait des ordres, et Caelan planait au-dessus d'elle, son visage un masque de terreur brute et de soulagement. Personne ne m'a remarquée. J'étais restée seule en haut du promontoire, un fantôme oublié au milieu de leur chaos. Avec un soupir qui semblait venir du plus profond de mon âme, j'ai fait demi-tour et j'ai commencé la longue et douloureuse marche de retour vers ma cabane. J'ai levé les yeux vers la pleine lune, sa lumière argentée baignant le monde d'une lueur éthérée. Caelan m'avait promis une nuit au Lac de la Pierre de Lune. Il m'avait promis un moment de paix, un retour à ce que nous avions été. Et une fois de plus, il avait rompu sa promesse. Mais cette fois, ça ne faisait pas mal. Il n'y avait pas de morsure de trahison, pas de douleur de déception. Il y avait juste... un vide silencieux. Une acceptation calme de la vérité que j'avais évitée pendant des années.Il n'était plus mon Caelan. J'ai atteint ma masure, j'ai fermé la porte et je me suis allongée sur la paillasse. Je me suis endormie presque instantanément, mon esprit merveilleusement vide. Dans mon cœur, un compte à rebours silencieux continuait. Huit jours restants.Les cinq jours suivants se sont écoulés dans un calme étrange et feutré. La direction de la meute était entièrement absorbée par la « convalescence » de Séraphine. Elle était gardée dans l'infirmerie, choyée par mes parents et constamment visitée par un Caelan rongé par la culpabilité. Ma propre existence semblait avoir été complètement oubliée, ce qui était un soulagement. Je travaillais dans les cuisines, mangeais mes maigres repas et retournais à ma cabane, barrant les jours sur un coin caché du mur. Trois jours restants. Le cinquième jour, alors que je traversais la place, j'ai vu une foule rassemblée autour de la Pierre des Annonces. Un nouveau décret avait été gravé magiquement sur sa surface, les runes lumineuses impossibles à ignorer. Je me suis frayé un chemin à travers les badauds, mon cœur se serrant à chaque pas. Le message était clair. « À la lumière de son état fragile et pour apaiser son esprit troublé, l'Alpha Caelan a annoncé une cérémonie de lien symbolique avec Dame Séraphine, qui aura lieu dans trois jours, sous l'œil vigilant de la Déesse de la Lune. » Un lien symbolique. Une cérémonie qui s'arrêtait juste avant le marquage final et permanent, mais qui était néanmoins une déclaration publique d'engagement. Il se liait à elle, devant toute la meute et la Déesse elle-même. Mon souffle s'est coupé. Le vide silencieux en moi a été soudainement rempli d'un vent rugissant et glacial. C'était une trahison que je n'avais pas anticipée. C'était une humiliation publique. Et c'était le dernier clou dans le cercueil d'un amour mort depuis longtemps. ...... Que se passe-t-il ensuite? Le nombre de chapitres affichés est limité. Appuyez sur le bouton ci-dessous pour installer notre application et lire les chapitres suivants. (Accéder automatiquement à ce livre en ouvrant l'application) &1&

My sister and I were stranded on a deserted road, eight months pr**nant and with a flat tire, when a truck's headlights pinned us in their glare. It wasn't swerving to avoid us. It was aiming for us. The crash was a symphony of destruction. As a monstrous pain ripped through my pr**nant belly, I called my husband, Kade, my voice choked with bl**d and fear. "Kade... accident... the baby... something's wrong with the baby." But I didn't hear panic. I heard his stepsister, Florence, whining in the background about a headache. Then came Kade's voice, cold as ice. "Stop being so dramatic. You probably just bumped a curb. Florence needs me." He hung up. He chose her over me, over his sister-in-law, over his own unborn child. I woke up in the hospital to two truths. My sister, a world-renowned pianist, would never play again. And our son, the baby I had carried for eight months, was gone. They thought we were just collateral damage in their perfect lives. They were about to find out we were the reckoning. Chapter 1 Gloria Carpenter POV: The first call to my husband went to voicemail. The second, too. On the third, as the headlights grew into blinding suns pinning us to the side of the deserted road, I finally understood. My marriage was a lie. Just hours ago, Charlene and I were the shimmering centerpiece of Gotham's high society pages. The Carpenter sisters, the envy of every woman who dreamed of a fairy-tale ending. We had married the Conrad twins, Kade and Carlisle, heirs to a corporate empire that could buy and sell small countries. Our lives were supposed to be set, gilded cages of comfort and adoration. Tonight, the gold had peeled back to reveal cheap, rusted iron. "They're not stopping, Glo," Charlene whispered, her voice tight with a fear that mirrored my own. Her hands, those gifted, insured-for-millions hands that could make a piano weep, gripped the steering wheel of our stalled car. I clutched my phone, my thumb hovering over Kade's name. A wave of nausea, sharp and acidic, rose in my throat, completely unrelated to the eight months of pr**nancy that made my movements clumsy. The baby inside me, a tiny, insistent flutter of life, kicked against my ribs as if sensing my panic. Pick up, Kade. Please, just pick up. The mental link between us, once a vibrant current of shared thoughts and emotions, was silent. It hadn't always been this way. In the beginning, his mind was an open book to me, full of reassurances and a fierce, possessive love I mistook for devotion. But lately, especially since his stepsister Florence returned, the connection had grown frayed, then muted, and now... nothing. It was like screaming into an empty room. The truck accelerated. It wasn't swerving to avoid us. It was aiming for us. My breath hitched. "Try Carlisle again," I urged Charlene, my voice barely a tremor. She shook her head, her knuckles white. "I did. He said the same thing as Kade. That they're busy." Busy. The word was a s**p. Busy consoling Florence because she'd had a minor argument with her ex-boyfriend. Kade's voice from his last brief, irritated call echoed in my ears. "For God's sake, Gloria, can't you handle a flat tire? Florence is having a panic attack. Her needs come first right now." Her needs. A broken nail was a tragedy for Florence. A cancelled shopping trip was a crisis. And my husband, and my sister's husband, treated her trivial dramas as matters of state security, while their pr**nant wives were stranded on a dark, forgotten highway. The headlights were inescapable now, the engine a deafening roar that vibrated through the floor of our car. There was no time to get out, no time to do anything but brace for the inevitable. Charlene screamed my name, a sharp, terrified sound that was swallowed by the screech of tires and the cataclysmic crunch of metal. My head slammed against the side window. Pain, white-hot and blinding, exploded behind my eyes. The world tilted, spun, and then everything was just a symphony of destruction-the shattering of glass, the gr**n of twisting steel, and my own ragged g**p as a monstrous force threw me against my seatbelt. The strap dug viciously into my swollen belly. A new, terrifying pain ripped through me, low and deep. It was a cramp of such impossible intensity that it stole my breath. "The baby," I choked out, my hand flying to my stomach. It was as hard as a rock. "Char... the baby." But Charlene didn't answer. She was slumped over the steering wheel, unnaturally still. A dark stain was spreading across her sleeve, and her beautiful, talented hands were twisted at an angle that made my stomach heave. The truck, its job done, sped away into the darkness without a second glance. We were alone. Bleeding. Broken. And the silence from my husband's end of our mental bond was louder than the wreck itself. I fumbled for my phone, my fingers slick with something warm. The screen was cracked, but it still glowed. I hit Kade's number again, praying to a God I wasn't sure I believed in anymore. It rang once. Twice. Then, his voice. Not concerned. Annoyed. "Gloria, I told you I'm with Florence. What is so important that you have to keep calling?" A sob tore from my throat, raw and desperate. "Kade... accident... we were hit... Charlene's hurt, I think she's unconscious. And the baby... something's wrong with the baby." There was a pause. For a fraction of a second, a st**id, naive part of me expected to hear panic, to hear him shouting orders, to feel the rush of his concern through our bond. Instead, I heard Florence's voice in the background, a pathetic, manipulative whimper. "Kade, my head hurts so much. I think I'm going to be sick." Kade's tone softened instantly, a gentle murmur meant only for her. "It's okay, Flo. I'm here. Just breathe." He came back on the line with me, his voice like ice. "Look, stop being so dramatic. You probably just bumped a curb. Call a tow truck. I can't leave Florence right now. She needs me." "Dramatic?" The word was so absurd, so cruel, it felt like another blow. "Kade, the car is destroyed! I'm bleeding! Please, you have to help us!" "You're always making things about you, aren't you? Florence is fragile. Unlike you. Handle it. And don't call again unless the world is actually ending." The line went dead. He had hung up. He had chosen her. Over me. Over his sister-in-law. Over his own unborn child. The truth settled over me, cold and heavy as a shroud. This wasn't just neglect. This was a deliberate abandonment. We weren't his priority. We weren't even on his list. A wave of agony, sharper than any physical pain, washed over me. I looked at Charlene, so still and silent, and then down at my rigid belly where the frantic fluttering had ceased. An awful, spreading wetness was soaking through my dress. Red. So much red. The child I had carried for eight months, the child I had loved with every fiber of my being, was slipping away from me. And his father didn't care. Tears streamed down my face, hot and useless. I tried to reach for Charlene, to do something, anything, but my body felt like it was filled with lead. My consciousness was fraying at the edges, the darkness beckoning. In that moment, lying in the wreckage of my car, my sister, and my life, I made a vow. If I survived this, Kade Conrad would pay. They would all pay. My last conscious thought was not of my husband, but of the child I was losing. My little boy. A silent scream for him echoed in the ruins of my heart. The world finally went black. Chapter 2 Charlene Carpenter POV: The silence in the hospital room was a physical weight, pressing down on my ch**t, making it hard to breathe. It was broken only by the quiet, rhythmic beep of Gloria's heart monitor and the sterile wh**per of the ventilation system. We lay in parallel beds, two broken dolls in a sterile, white box. I could feel the ghost of my conversation with Carlisle an hour ago still hanging in the air like toxic sm**e. I wondered if Gloria had heard it through her fitful, pain-medication-induced sl**p. I hoped not. No one should have to hear that level of vitriol, especially not now. With a grunt of pain, I pushed myself into a sitting position. Every muscle screamed in protest. My ribs were bruised, my head felt like a cracked gourd, but it was the sight of my hands that made the bile rise in my throat. They were swathed in thick white bandages, resting uselessly on the crisp hospital sheets. The doctor's words were a repeating loop of damnation in my mind: Nerve damage. Severe. Irreparable. My career. My identity. My very soul. Gone. Tears I thought I no longer had pricked at the corners of my eyes. I looked over at Gloria. Her face was ashen, her freckles standing out like tiny brown specks on a marble statue. Even in sl**p, her brow was furrowed in pain, and her hand rested protectively on her stomach. Her flat stomach. A fresh wave of grief, sharp and brutal, crashed over me. For her. For the nephew I would never meet. For the joy that had been stolen from us. "We were so st**id, weren't we?" I whispered, my voice raspy. Gloria's eyes fluttered open. They were dull with exhaustion and sorrow. She didn't say anything, just watched me. "To think any of it was real," I continued, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. "The grand weddings, the promises... 'I will always protect you, Charlene.' Carlisle said that to me at the altar." I saw a flicker of the same pained recognition in her eyes. Kade had probably fed her the exact same line. "He called, you know," I admitted, the shame burning my cheeks. "While you were sl**ping." Gloria's expression hardened. "What did he say?" "He accused me of being a drama queen. Of trying to ruin his night with Florence. He said... he said marrying me was the biggest mistake of his life and that as soon as this 'stunt' was over, he was filing for divorce." The words hung between us, ugly and final. I tried to look nonchalant, to shrug as if it didn't matter, as if my heart wasn't a shattered mess on the floor. But the tears betrayed me, spilling over and tracing hot paths down my cheeks. Gloria reached out, her fingers brushing against my bandaged hand. "Then let him," she said, her voice surprisingly steady, though laced with a pain that ran bone-deep. "Let them both go. As soon as we can walk out of here, Char, we're gone. We'll file first." I stared at her, at the raw determination solidifying in her gaze. It was a look I hadn't seen in a long time. The old Gloria. The one who fought for what she wanted, before the Conrads had smoothed her edges and quieted her fire. A choked sob escaped me, and I nodded. It was a release. A torrent of grief and rage and heartbreak I had been holding back since I woke up in this nightmare. I cried for my hands, for my lost music. I cried for Gloria, for her lost baby. I cried for the two naive girls we had been, who had truly believed they had found love. We had been so blind. The courtship had been a whirlwind. Kade and Carlisle Conrad were like princes from a storybook-handsome, powerful, charming. They had pursued us relentlessly, showering us with gifts and attention, making us feel like the only two women in the world. We fell, hard and fast. The cracks started to show after Florence Acosta, their stepsister, came back into their lives. Her own marriage had imploded, and she had come running back to her adoring stepbrothers. Suddenly, our calls went unanswered. Date nights were canceled. Kade, who used to look at Gloria like she was the sun, barely seemed to notice her. And Carlisle... he started spending his nights out, coming home in the early hours smelling of whiskey and cheap perfume, his excuses flimsy and insulting. We had thought it was just a phase, that they were distracted by Florence's drama. We never imagined the truth was so much uglier. We weren't their loves. We were their pawns. A way to get back at Florence's ex-husband, a business rival they despised. Marrying us, two celebrated and beloved figures in the city, was a public relations coup, a middle finger to their enemy. All the whispered sweet nothings, the promises of forever... they were lies. Their hearts had always belonged to Florence. We were just living in her shadow, temporary occupants of a space that was always reserved for her. The realization was a cold, hard stone in my gut. They hadn't just neglected us. They had never cared at all. "My hands, Glo," I whispered, the words tearing me apart. "They're... they're useless now. I'll never play again." Gloria squeezed my arm gently. "And I... the doctor said because of the damage... it's unlikely I'll ever be able to carry a child to term." We looked at each other, the full, devastating scope of our losses settling upon us. We had given up everything for those men. For a lie. And they had given us nothing but ruin in return. Chapter 3 Gloria Carpenter POV: The world outside my hospital window continued on, oblivious. Cars moved, people walked, life unfolded. Inside, time had stopped, frozen in a tableau of grief and antiseptic white. Three days had passed in a blur of pain, IV drips, and the suffocating silence of my husband's absence. Then my phone buzzed. A video message. From Florence. My thumb trembled as I pressed play. The image that filled the screen was a masterpiece of calculated cruelty. Florence, looking pale and fragile in a silk dressing gown, was propped up on a mountain of pillows in what was clearly Kade's bed. Kade himself was sitting on the edge, patiently spoon-feeding her soup, his expression a mask of intense concentration and concern. Carlisle was on her other side, peeling a piece of fruit with a small silver knife. "You two are just the best," Florence cooed, her voice a saccharine wh**per. She placed a hand on her still-flat stomach. "Thank you for taking such good care of me... and the baby. I don't know what I'd do without you." The camera panned slightly, showing a crowd of their friends and family gathered in the room, all looking on with adoring smiles. It was a party. A celebration. Someone off-camera asked, "Where's Gloria? Shouldn't she be here?" The question was quickly drowned out by a chorus of praise for how devoted the Conrad twins were. The video ended. It wasn't a message. It was a victory lap. A deliberate, vicious taunt. I looked over at Charlene. She was holding her own phone, her face a rigid mask of fury. She'd received the exact same video. "That's it," she said, her voice dangerously calm. "I'm done feeling sad. Now, I'm just angry." "Me too," I whispered, a cold fire igniting in my ch**t. I took a deep breath, the pain in my ribs a dull ache. "Make the call, Char." While Charlene contacted our family's lawyer, I navigated to the official government portal on my phone. My fingers flew across the screen, filling out the forms. Name: Gloria Carpenter. Spouse: Kade Conrad. Reason for dissolution: Irreconcilable differences. I hit 'submit' without a moment of hesitation. A confirmation email arrived instantly. The divorce was filed. The first official shot in our war had been fired. I forwarded the documents to Kade's personal email with a simple subject line: Signature Required. Two days passed. The silence from his end was absolute. No email. No call. No flicker of acknowledgment through our now-severed bond. It was as if I didn't exist. My patience, already worn to a thread, snapped. I dialed his number. He answered on the second ring. "What do you want, Gloria?" His voice was harsh, impatient. "Did you get my email?" "I've been busy. And frankly, after your little stunt, you're lucky I'm talking to you at all. Do you have any idea how much trouble you've caused? Dragging Charlene into your melodrama." "Did you. Get. The email." "Yes, I got the goddamn email!" he exploded. "And you can forget it. I'm not signing anything. You want to act like a child, fine. But you're still my wife. Now stop bothering me. If you keep this up, I might not want to come home at all." The sheer, breathtaking arrogance of it left me speechless. He thought this was a game. A tantrum. He thought I was trying to get his attention. The self-centered narcissism was so profound it was almost comical. Then I heard her voice in the background, syrupy sweet. "Kade, honey, who is it? Is everything okay?" He shushed her, but not before I heard him murmur, "Just business." A bitter laugh escaped my lips. "Busy taking care of Florence, I see. Is she feeling better? I know how traumatic a broken nail can be." "Don't you dare talk about her like that!" he snarled. "She's not feeling well. She's pr**nant, for Christ's sake. She needs to be taken care of. She needs rest." Pr**nant. Baby. The words were like daggers to my heart. My vision swam. All the air rushed out of my lungs. "What about our baby, Kade?" The question was a raw wound, torn from the deepest part of my soul. "Did you ever once ask about our baby? Your son?" His silence was a confession. Then Florence's voice, closer this time, oozing with fake sympathy. "Oh, Gloria, sweetie, are you still upset about that? I'm so, so sorry for your loss. Truly. But maybe... maybe it was for the best. You seem so... unstable. It's probably a blessing in disguise." A strangled sound came from my throat. My hand flew to my mouth as if to hold back the scream building inside me. The room started to spin. I couldn't breathe. Physical pain, sharp and searing, shot through my abdomen, an echo of the kick that had taken my son from me. And Kade... Kade said nothing. He let her say it. He let her call the death of his child a 'blessing'. "See?" he finally said, his voice cold and distant. "You're hysterical. Florence is right. You need to calm down." Tears streamed down my face, hot and silent. He would never get it. He would never care. To him, our child was an inconvenience. My pain was a drama. I was just a nuisance getting in the way of his devotion to her. He had already cut the mental link, but now it felt like he was severing my very soul. The connection shriveled and died, leaving a gaping, black void where it used to be. The pain was overwhelming. I dropped the phone and doubled over, a raw, animalistic sob tearing from my lungs. Charlene was by my side in an instant, her arms wrapping around me, her own tears wetting my hair. "He's not worth it, Glo," she whispered fiercely, her voice thick with rage. "He's a monster. They both are." She picked up my phone, her eyes blazing. "We're not waiting for their permission," she said, her voice like steel. "We're going straight to the Council. We'll get a mandatory dissolution. Let's see them ignore that." Chapter 4 Gloria Carpenter POV: We spent three weeks in that sterile white room, suspended in a limbo of healing and heartbreak. In all that time, not a single message came from Kade or Carlisle. No flowers, no calls, no inquiries about our well-being. It was as if the Carpenter sisters had been surgically excised from the Conrad family memory. The void of their indifference was a constant, aching presence, a wound that refused to close. The day we were discharged, we were in the hospital's administrative wing finalizing the paperwork when I saw him. Carlisle. He was rushing down the corridor, his face etched with concern, a bouquet of expensive flowers in his hand. He didn't even glance in our direction, his eyes fixed on a door at the end of the hall. The sign above the door read: Maternity Ward. A cold knot formed in my stomach. Without a word, Charlene and I followed him, keeping to the shadows of the hallway. We watched as he slipped into a private room. The door was left slightly ajar. Inside, Florence was propped up in bed, looking radiant. And next to her, Kade was gently rocking a small bassinet. A baby. Her baby. "I'm so scared, you guys," Florence whimpered, clutching Kade's hand. "Giving birth was the hardest thing I've ever done. I just feel so weak." Carlisle rushed to her side, placing the flowers on her nightstand and st**king her hair. "Shh, Flo. We're here. We'll take care of everything. You just rest." The three of them formed a perfect, sickening tableau of domestic bliss. A happy family. My hand instinctively went to my own flat, empty belly. Beside me, Charlene did the same. The phantom pain of our shared loss was so intense it was almost physical. I grabbed Charlene's arm, my nails digging into her flesh. "Let's go," I choked out, pulling her away before the scream I was swallowing could escape. Back in the safety of our rented apartment, I sent a single text message to Kade: Conrad Tower. My lawyer's office. Tomorrow at 10 a.m. Be there to sign the papers. If you are not, I will file for a mandatory dissolution and cite spousal abandonment and criminal negligence during a medical emergency. His call came less than a minute later. I let it go to voicemail. He called again. And again. A flood of angry, demanding texts followed. I turned my phone off. The power dynamic had shifted. I was done begging for his attention. The next morning, Charlene and I made one last stop before the meeting. We went to the city's central security council and filed an official report about the hit-and-run, detailing the attack, our injuries, and, most importantly, our husbands' refusal to help. The officer taking our statement looked grave. "This is a serious accusation. Why did you wait three weeks to report it?" A bitter laugh escaped me. "Because the men who were supposed to protect us told us we were being dramatic and to handle it ourselves. We were in the hospital, officer. Alone." I pushed a file across the desk. "I've already requested the phone records from that night. You'll find our distress calls, and you'll find their dismissals." His eyes softened with sympathy. He stamped the report. "We will launch a full investigation." As we left, my phone buzzed. Another video from Florence. It was a close-up of the baby, sl**ping peacefully. The caption read: He looks just like his daddy, don't you think? The message had been sent to a group chat that included half of Gotham's elite. The replies were a flood of congratulations, with people debating whether the baby had Kade's eyes or Carlisle's chin. They were publicly claiming her child, while the world remained ignorant that Kade's true son was dead. The rage was a clean, cold flame inside me. When I turned my phone back on that night, there were thirty-seven missed calls from Kade. I called him back. "Where the h**l have you been?" he roared before I could even speak. "I went to the house. It's empty. You cleared out your things. What the h**l is going on, Gloria? What game are you playing?" "There's no game, Kade." "Then what is this? And what have you done to Charlene? She won't answer any of Carlisle's calls. You've poisoned her against him!" Beside me on the sofa, Charlene, who had been listening on speaker, snatched the phone from my hand. Her voice was pure ice. "Listen to me, you arrogant prick," she snarled. "My sister didn't poison me. You and your brother did, with your pathetic, obsessive worship of that manipulative snake you call a stepsister. Marrying you was the single greatest mistake of my life, but it's one I'm about to correct. We are divorcing you because you are not men. You are pathetic, codependent little boys. And we are done with you." She hung up and immediately blocked both their numbers. The next morning, there was a tentative knock at our door. It was Florence, holding her newborn, her face a mask of practiced vulnerability. "Gloria, Charlene, I am so, so sorry," she began, tears welling in her eyes as she sank to her knees in a dramatic display of remorse. "This is all my fault. The boys... they just worry about me so much. I told them to call you back that night, I swear I did, but they were just so focused on me." She was playing the victim. Trying to manipulate us one last time. I stared down at her, my expression unmoved. "Are you here to give me your permission to divorce my husband, Florence?" Her fake tears stopped. Her eyes narrowed. "I just want us all to be a family again." "Stop," I said, my voice low and dangerous. "Stop playing the victim. We both know what you are." Just then, the elevator down the hall dinged. As the doors opened, Florence let out a theatrical g**p, clutched her ch**t, and deliberately stumbled backwards, collapsing onto the floor in a heap. Kade came storming out of the elevator. He saw Florence on the ground and me standing over her. His face contorted with rage. "What did you do to her?" he bellowed, shoving me so hard I lost my balance and crashed against the wall. Charlene caught me before I hit the ground. He ignored me completely, rushing to Florence's side. "Flo, are you okay? Did she hurt you? Is the baby okay?" After assuring himself they were both unharmed, he turned back to me, his eyes blazing with a murderous light. His gaze dropped from my face to my stomach. To my flat, non-pr**nant stomach. The fury in his eyes slowly morphed into confusion, then dawning horror. "Gloria..." he whispered, his voice trembling for the first time. "Where's the baby? Where is our son?" ...... 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) &1&

He was forced into marriage, so he resorted to any means to tarnish his family's reputation, unaware that his new wife proved stronger than she appeared. Yet as the flower of love began to bloom, dark secrets slowly unveiled themselves. ===== He wasn't coming. The hour was late, the candles on the table had burned down to nothing but stubs. My phone was still dead silent. No calls, no texts. Nothing. The waitress's eyes lingered on me too long, giving me that sympathetic look, the one reserved for the pathetic girl who had been sitting alone for hours waiting. I could feel it in my bones. Today of all days-my birthday. I stood up slowly, my legs stiff from sitting too long, my heart heavier with each second that passed. I had dressed up for him. For us. Now I looked like a f**l. I stepped out of the restaurant, the air biting against my skin like ice. I couldn't cry, not here. Not in public. But the tears were close. Too close. Maybe something happened to him. Maybe there's an explanation. Maybe... I swallowed the lies I was feeding myself, my mind too exhausted to believe them. I just wanted to go home. Sleep. Forget this night ever happened. But then, how can I? Exhaling, I dialed his number once again. One ring. Two. By the third, he picked up. "Hey babe," Clinton said, his voice strained but oddly calm, like nothing was wrong. I let out a shaky breath, relief flooding through me. "Where are you? I've been waiting at the restaurant for hours. You just... vanished." He paused, and I could hear rustling in the background. "I'm... I'm sorry, babe," he muttered, and for a moment, it sounded like he was moving, shuffling something around. "It's been a crazy day. I was on my way to see you, I swear, but-" "But what?" I cut in, my heart pounding in my ch**t. "It's my birthday and you just disappeared." "I know," he sighed, the words dragging out like he was barely holding onto the conversation. "Just that my car broke down and then my phone died. I tried to get it fixed, but everything just went to h**l. Look, I'm sorry, okay? I promise to make it up to you." I blinked. "Your car broke down?" "Yeah, on that back road near Pinewood," he said, the lie rolling off his tongue so easily, so naturally, it almost sounded true. "You know, the one with no signal? I was stuck there for hours until some guys with a tow truck finally passed by." I frowned, a chill running down my spine. "Pinewood?" I repeated. "But... you're only ten minutes from my house. You could have just..." "I know," he cut me off quickly. "I should have called sooner. I'm an id**t, okay? But don't worry, I'm fine now. I'll come by tomorrow. We'll celebrate your birthday properly. Just... relax tonight, okay?" Something felt off. His voice was too rehearsed, too smooth, like he'd practiced this story in his head before picking up the phone. "What's that noise I'm hearing?" I asked suddenly, straining my ears to catch the sound. It was faint, but I could hear something-like soft laughter or music in the background. He went silent for a beat. Too long. "That's just... TV," he quickly said. "I'm at home, remember? Trying to wind down after this whole mess." My stomach twisted, that familiar feeling of doubt creeping back in. "Are you sure about what you're saying? Because it sounds like-" "Babe," Clinton interrupted again, sharper this time, but still trying to sound calm, "I'm telling you, it's nothing. You're overthinking this. I'm just trying to catch my breath after a sh**ty day, okay?" I swallowed hard, nodding even though he couldn't see me. "Okay," I whispered, trying to force the doubts away. "I will see you tomorrow, okay? I love you, Vicky." "I love you too," I murmured back, but the words felt hollow. When I hung up, I couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something was wrong. I didn't want to be blinded by emotions. I needed to know. I couldn't go to sleep with this knot in my ch**t, this dread eating me alive. So I drove. I don't know what possessed me to do it-to check on him. Maybe it was that gnawing intuition, or maybe it was I just needed to see him to feel better. To reassure myself that I was being paranoid. I drove to his house, gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles turned white. My mind spun with all the possibilities. Maybe I would get there and find him sick on the couch, just like he said. Maybe he'd just had a bad day. But then I pulled up to his house and all my hopes crumbled. His car was in the driveway. The lights were on. And the faint sound of laughter carried through the night air. I parked down the street, my heart pounding against my ch**t like a war drum. I crept up to the house, careful not to make a sound. With every step, I could feel the truth creeping closer, like a storm on the horizon. I reached the window and peered inside. And there they were-Clinton and Marianna, my sister. Not sitting on the couch this time, but wrapped around each other, lost in each other, like I never existed. His hands were on her waist, pulling her close, his l*ps trailing down her neck. The phone slipped from my fingers, clattering to the ground with a sickening thud. He lied. Again. "Clinton...?" I muttered, opening the door and stepping into the house. The whole place made me feel sick to the point I wanted to throw up. "What on earth is happening?" "Vicky? What the h**l are you doing here?" Clinton's voice came out startled, his eyes widening in panic as he froze in place, like a child caught doing something unspeakable. My heart raced as Marianna turned to face me, her expression unfazed, almost amused. She wrapped her arms around his neck, standing on her toes to press her lips to his in a slow, deliberate k**s. "Oh, darling, did you forget to tell her?" she laughed, the sound slicing through the air. "Guess what, sister dearest-you're going to be my bridesmaid tomorrow! Surprise!" "What...?" My voice cracked. "What are you talking about?" My head started to spin, a sharp ache forming behind my eyes. "Is this some kind of joke?" Marianna's smile turned vicious, her eyes glinting with cruel satisfaction. "You're so pathetically naïve, Victoria. Clinton and I have been together for years. You've just been the sad, pitiful third wheel this whole time. Honestly, the sight of you disgusts me." Her words hit me like a punch to the gut, knocking the breath out of my lungs. I staggered back, my ch**t tightening. "But... but you're marrying into the Volkov family... what about that?" I turned to Clinton, desperation creeping into my voice. "Clinton, please... tell me she's lying." But instead of denial, Clinton's mouth twisted into a cold, condescending smile. "What's there to explain, Vicky? It's all true. I'm marrying her tomorrow. Maybe you should congratulate us." His tone was sharp, dismissive, as if my feelings didn't even register. I felt like the ground was crumbling beneath my feet. "How... how could you do this to me? After everything? After three years?" He shrugged casually, like it meant nothing. "You were just convenient, that's all." The world blurred as my tears finally broke free, rolling down my cheeks, hot and bitter. "Please... tell me this is some kind of sick joke," I whispered, my voice trembling, barely audible. Marianna's laughter was sharp, merciless. "Oh, Vicky, don't be so dramatic. You'll be fine. You always are. But do us all a favor and marry into the Volkov family, will you? That way, we'll be free to live our lives without your pathetic presence hanging around. You owe it to us, orphan." Her words were a da**er, twisting deep. My ch**t tightened painfully as I gasped for air, my hands clutching at the fabric over my heart as if trying to hold it together. Everything felt like it was shattering, breaking beyond repair. The betrayal, the lies-my own sister. How had I been so blind? Tears streamed down my face, uncontrollable now, as I stood there, feeling like my entire world was crashing down. "You... you both ruined me," I choked out. "I gave you everything." Clinton just scoffed, his eyes cold and detached. "You'll get over it, Vicky. You always do." But I wasn't sure if I ever could. "How dare you!" I screamed, my voice breaking as I swung my bag at him, tears already blurring my vision. He caught my wrists with a brutal grip, forcing me back. I lost my footing, hitting the cold floor hard. Marianne's cruel laughter echoed through the room. "Aww... begging my fiancé to make you his si**piece? How pathetic." She snapped a picture, her phone angled like I was some trophy of her victory. I forced myself to look away, my eyes burning with shame, humiliation swirling through me. My heart ached, each beat reminding me of the betrayal in front of me. "You're nothing but a worthless boyfriend stealer," Marianne hissed, her voice dripping with venom. Clinton laughed beside her, his mocking gaze cutting through me like I was nothing but ga**age. "Get out of my sight!" she screamed, picking up a glass and drenching me in water and smoothies, the icy liquid soaking into my skin. My body shivered, but it was the coldness of their cruelty that made me feel frozen in place. "Victoria, get out already!" Clinton snarled, his foot connecting with my side as he kicked me away. Pain shot through my body, but the physical hurt was nothing compared to the ache in my heart. They laughed, both of them, their laughter sharp and cruel. I could hear the clicks of their phones, recording my misery like it was some kind of entertainment. My skin burned with humiliation, my face hot with tears I couldn't hold back. Marianne leaned in close, her voice like poison in my ear. "You look so pathetic. Everyone's going to see what a loser you are." I scrambled to my feet, my dress clinging to my soaked skin. I couldn't even look at them. My heart was pounding, and I just needed to get out of there. I rushed to my car, my breath coming in ragged gasps, the world blurring from the tears that wouldn't stop. I slid into the driver's seat, my hands shaking so bad I could barely start the engine. My dress was ruined, my heart shattered, and my eyes burned from crying. As I sped away, the laughter and taunts still echoed in my ears, the reality of what had just happened sinking deeper with every mile. I felt like my whole world had just crumbled. And all I could do was drive. "No! No! No!" I screamed, gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white. The car swerved slightly, and I could barely focus on the road. "Concrete... You have to...the road... my hands... they're shaking!" My voice trembled, and I gasped for air, trying to keep control. "Ahhh!" I let out a broken cry, my vision blurring with more tears. "Why?! Why me?!" My ch**t felt tight, and my breath came in short, desperate g**ps. I slammed my fist against the steering wheel, sobbing uncontrollably. The pressure in my ch**t was unbearable, like I was drowning in my own pain. The car jerked to the side as I pulled over, unable to drive any further. My whole body was shaking, tears streaming down my face as I pounded the steering wheel again. "It wasn't supposed to be like this!" I wailed, my voice raw and cracking. I leaned my head back against the seat, crying so hard I could barely breathe. I pressed the pedal to the floor, my heartbeat matching the engine's roar as I hurtled toward the bridge. The dark water below promised an escape. An end. But then my phone rang. Once. Twice. I clenched the wheel, refusing to look. Nothing could stop me now. On the third ring, I glanced down, the name Unknown flashing on the screen. And then came the text. "I'm watching you. Don't even think about it." My bl**d ran cold. I slammed the brakes. Chapter 2 VICTORIA WASHINGTON'S POV--MARRIED TO A STRANGER "You can't do that!" I glared at my father, my heart filled with anger. After everything I explained to him, he still chose to side with his precious biological daughter, Marianne. "Why? Why did you even adopt me if you were going to treat me like this?" I shouted, tears streaming down my face. "Victoria, you're doing this for the family. Think of it as paying back for all the food, the credit cards, the house-everything we've given you," my father said, his voice cold and indifferent. I g**ped in disbelief. "Payback? Is that all I am to you? A debt you need to settle? Fine, I'm just an orphan you brought in to clear your conscience. But what about Clifton and Marianne? How long has this been going on? They're getting married tomorrow, and no one-no one told me!" "Were you blind?" My mother's voice cut through, and I turned to face her. She was dressed in a sleek red gown, her hair styled perfectly, as if none of this chaos affected her. "How pathetic were you to think Clinton would stay with you?" I wiped away my tears and scoffed. Everything made sense now. My family treated Clinton so well because he was really dating their daughter, not me. "I don't want to get married in someone else's place! The deal was with the Volvok family, and if you're going to treat me like I'm just some orphan, then your daughter should be the one getting married!" I shouted, and then a hard s**p landed across my face. "How dare you!" Mother yelled, throwing her glass of red w**e into my face. I g**ped as the li**id splashed across my skin, burning more from the humiliation than the al**hol. "You think my precious daughter should marry into the Volkov family? Those monsters? Never!" Father stepped forward, his expression cold and indifferent. "Victoria, you should know how arranged marriages work by now. This is your duty to the family. You don't get to back out." I clenched my fists, biting back more tears. The wedding was in two days. Two days to marry Vincenzo Volkov, a man I barely knew, someone with a dangerous reputation. I felt trapped, like I had no choice but to follow their plan. "You're nothing but a burden," Mother continued, her voice sharp. "We took you in, gave you a home, raised you. And this is how you repay us? By trying to ruin everything? You should be grateful we're giving you a chance to marry into a powerful family." I looked at her, my heart aching. "Grateful? For what? For being used? For being treated like a pawn?" Father's voice cut through, colder than before. "Enough. You will marry Vincenzo Volkov for the good of this family, and that's final. You're doing this, whether you like it or not." I stared at both of them, feeling the weight of their words sink in. They didn't care about me. To them, I wasn't family. I was just a tool to secure an alliance. No matter how much I wanted to run, I knew I had no other option. Two days. Two days until my life was no longer my own. I stood there, gathering every bit of strength I had left. My voice shook as I spoke, but I kept my head high. "When I get married into the Volkov family, I want you to disown me. I'll leave and never come back. And after that, I'll find my real parents. Is that a deal?" Mother scoffed, swirling the w**e in her glass. "You think anyone cares? Your real parents didn't want you either, that's why you ended up here. You're worthless to them, and to us." She gave me a mocking smile. "Honestly, you're lucky anyone's marrying you at all." Father nodded in agreement, his cold eyes scanning me with disdain. "She's right. No one else would ever want you, Victoria. With your looks and your attitude, you should be thankful we're even bothering with this arrangement." Tears welled up in my eyes, but I blinked them away. They were tearing me apart piece by piece, making me feel small, like I was nothing. Ugly. Unwanted. My ch**t tightened painfully as the words sank deeper. Unable to hold back my tears any longer, I turned and ran upstairs. My legs carried me faster as their voices echoed in my ears, making me feel like I was suffocating. I burst into my room, slamming the door behind me and collapsing onto my bed. My body shook with sobs as I pressed my face into the pillow. How could they say such things? All my life, I had done everything they asked, tried to fit in, tried to be the daughter they wanted. But nothing was ever good enough for them. Nothing. After crying for what felt like hours, I slowly sat up, wiping my tears away. The sadness in my heart was turning into anger, and then, into resolve. Fine. If they didn't want me, I wouldn't want them either. The night crept in before I even realized it, and I hadn't moved an inch. I sat there, staring blankly at the wall, my mind spinning. I bit my lower lip so hard I could taste bl**d, but I didn't care. The silence in the house was suffocating, and the emptiness around me only reminded me of how alone I really was. No one came. Not to check on me. Not to say a word. It was like I didn't exist to them anymore. I waited, hoping for something-anything-but the night just passed quietly. And just like that, it was morning. I blinked slowly, my eyes heavy and sore. I felt like a wreck. My body was stiff, and I was sure I looked terrible-like some version of Shrek. My eyes had to be swollen and dark from all the crying. I didn't even recognize myself in the mirror anymore. I didn't get to wash my hair, nor brush my teeth, nothing at all. Moving my legs, I slowly opened the door, walking out. Everywhere was silent, I heard no one's voice. "Young Miss Victoria, you're awake! Should I bring you something to eat?" Miss Beatrice, the head maid, rushed over, her eyes filled with pity as she spoke. I glanced around, feeling disoriented. "Where is everyone?" I muttered, gripping the railing as I looked downstairs. The house felt eerily quiet, almost too still. That's when I noticed it. The usually lively sitting room was empty-completely deserted. It felt strange, unsettling even. Miss Beatrice hesitated for a moment before speaking. "It seems you've forgotten. Today is Marianne and Sir Clinton's wedding day." Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. My stomach churned, and for a moment, I thought I might actually throw up. The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. My heart clenched, but no tears came this time. Instead, a strange numbness settled over me. I felt hollow, like I'd been drained of every emotion For a moment, I just stood there, staring blankly into the distance. Of course, it was their wedding day. How could I forget? After everything that had happened, of course they would go ahead with their perfect little ceremony. Without me. Miss Beatrice stepped closer, her voice softer now. "You deserve more than this, Miss Victoria. Far more than what they've put you through." I looked up at her, my ch**t tightening. Deserve more? Maybe once I believed that. Now... I didn't know anymore. "I believe the Volkov family would treat you well!" Miss Beatrice said, trying to lighten the mood. I managed a small, inward smile at her optimism. "Treat me well? I don't even know who this person is!" I replied, my voice tinged with disbelief. "What if he's ugly, short, or even crippled? I haven't seen or heard a single thing about him!" Miss Beatrice chuckled softly, shaking her head. "You can't judge someone by their appearance alone, Miss Victoria. Sometimes, it's about what's inside that truly matters." I rolled my eyes, not convinced. "That's easy for you to say. You're not the one who's supposed to marry a stranger." She stepped closer, her expression earnest. "I understand this feels unfair, but think of it this way: you might find someone who surprises you. Someone who respects and values you for who you are. You deserve that, Victoria." I spat, "Whatever!" and stormed to my room, slamming the door behind me. I sank onto my bed, my heart racing. Minutes bled into hours. What was my next step? Should I ignore the message from last night and just end it all? The thought of marriage terrified me. What if he cheated? What if he was a monster? The clock ticked like a metronome of my impending doom. Suddenly, my door burst open, and my mother stormed in, her face twisted in disgust. To her, I was nothing but a burden. "Here." She tossed a delicate fabric toward me. "This is a Va**ntino wedding dress. You'll wear it tomorrow. Marianne and Clinton have already left for their honeymoon!" Her irritation dripped from every word. I nodded, my heart sinking further. "Sure they would," I murmured, retreating into the bed softness as if it could shield me from the truth. "Honestly, I hope you die!" she spat, her voice sharp as she stormed out, leaving. And just like that, the day arrived-my wedding day-a day meant for celebration, yet here I was, about to marry a man I didn't know. The doorbell chimed softly, followed by the sound of footsteps entering my room. Miss Beatrice, stepped in, flanked by two other maids carrying trays of makeup and other bridal essentials. Their cheery expressions did little to ease the tension that clung to me. "Good morning, young Miss. How was your night?" Miss Beatrice asked, her voice gentle, but full of forced politeness. I sighed, burying my face deeper into the pillow. "Night? I'm not sure that's a thing anymore." My voice was barely above a whisper as I hugged the pillow tighter, seeking some sense of comfort in its softness, anything to ground me. "It all feels like one long nightmare." I felt the maids exchange glances, their hesitation thick in the air. Miss Beatrice cleared her throat softly. "We're here to help you get ready. It's... it's a special day." Special. Right. A day that was supposed to be one of the happiest in my life, and yet, here I was, practically paralyzed by dread. My body felt like lead, unwilling to move. I wanted nothing more than to disappear beneath the covers and never come out. Still, despite everything, I found myself slowly sitting up. What was the point in resisting? This day was inevitable, whether I was ready or not. Miss Beatrice gave a small nod, gesturing to the other maids to begin. They moved with delicate precision, preparing the bath. The sound of water running filled the silence, while one of them laid out the Va**ntino wedding dress-a breathtaking gown, one-of-a-kind, designed exclusively for me. A gown that, on any other day, might have made my heart race with excitement. Today, it felt more like a chain. "Let's get started," Miss Beatrice urged gently, her eyes soft as though she could sense my reluctance. They led me to the bath, the water warm and fragrant with soft rose petals floating on the surface. The maids worked quickly, washing and pampering my skin, brushing my hair with meticulous care. I stood there, allowing them to move me as if I were a doll, unfeeling and distant. They worked with swift efficiency, scrubbing away what felt like the weight of the world clinging to my skin. My body was clean, but my mind remained clouded. By the time I emerged from the bath, the room was filled with the scent of luxurious perfumes. The maids wrapped me in plush towels, drying every inch of me with a gentle touch. They applied makeup, turning my face into the image of a perfect bride-a flawless illusion hiding the storm raging inside me. As they helped me into the Va**ntino gown, the fabric glided over my skin, hugging my figure in all the right places. The dress was stunning, crafted with intricate lace and delicate pearls, its soft ivory hue glowing against my skin. The veil was placed atop my head, and I stared at myself in the mirror. I barely recognized the girl staring back. Her face was calm, her eyes vacant, as though all the life had been drained from them. "There," Miss Beatrice said, stepping back with a satisfied smile. "You look perfect." Perfect. The word echoed in my mind like a cruel joke. I stood, gazing at my reflection, trying to summon some feeling-any feeling. But all I felt was the growing pit in my stomach, a sense of dread that gnawed at me like a beast waiting to be unleashed. And yet, I knew I had no choice. With a heavy heart, I gave a slight nod. "Let's get this over with." Miss Beatrice opened the door, and a cool breeze slipped in, carrying the weight of the day ahead. I stepped forward, my heart pounding in my ears. One step. Then another. But just as my foot crossed the threshold, I paused. I wasn't ready. Not for this. Not for him. With a deep breath, I looked out at the world waiting for me... and knew everything was about to change. Chapter 3 VICTORIA WASHINGTON'S POV--DEVIL'S PROMISE "Keep a straight face and smile, Victoria!" Mother glared at me as I stepped out of the car. We had been on the road for the past hour before arriving at St. Louis Catholic Church, the largest church in Russia. There was something powerful about it. "Yes, Ma'am," I replied, walking inside while some maids helped with my gown. Since it was a small family wedding, I didn't expect many people-just the Washingtons and the Volkovs. As soon as the big doors opened, my heart started racing like it would jump out of my ch**t. I was trembling with fear, each step feeling heavy and forced. To my right, I noticed men in black suits. They looked dangerous, and something told me I shouldn't cross them. The church's grand interior was dimly lit, with soft light shining through the stained glass, casting shadows on the pews. I could feel my pulse in my throat, and my breathing became uneven as I kept moving forward. The Washingtons and Volkovs sat on either side of the aisle, their faces unreadable. There was tension in the air, like everyone was waiting for something bad to happen. I kept my eyes ahead, avoiding their stares, but I could feel them watching me, judging me. The dress felt heavy, dragging with every step, and the silence in the church felt suffocating, like it was holding its breath. At the altar, I saw him-the man I was about to marry. His back was to me, his broad shoulders straight in a perfectly tailored suit. I wondered if he felt as trapped as I did, or if this was just another business deal for him. This wasn't a wedding of love-it was about power. My hands shook under the veil, and I gripped the bouquet tighter, hoping no one would notice. The priest beside him gave me a serious look, like he could see the fear I was hiding. Taking a deep breath, I stood beside my soon-to-be husband, preparing for whatever was coming next. The man, my soon-to-be husband, turned slightly and looked at me for the first time. His face was blank, cold, but there was something darker in his eyes that sent a chill down my spine. Was he as scared as I was? Or was this all part of their plan? The priest cleared his throat, snapping me back to reality. "On this special day, the Washington and Volkov families have come together to witness the union of two people-Victoria, our beloved daughter, and Vincenzo," the priest said, his voice echoing through the church. I exhaled deeply, trying to calm my racing heart. My hands trembled beneath the veil, and I couldn't shake the feeling that this was all a nightmare. I glanced at Vincenzo, but his expression was cold and unreadable, as if none of this mattered to him. The priest continued speaking, but his words felt distant. All I could focus on was the sinking weight in my ch**t, the knowledge that this wasn't a marriage of love-it was a transaction. Power was the only thing binding us together, and I was just a pawn in their game. "Victoria, do you take Vincenzo to be your lawfully wedded husband?" the priest asked. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to speak. "I do," I whispered, barely audible. The priest then turned to Vincenzo. Without hesitation, he responded, "I do," his voice flat and emotionless. The priest smiled and declared us husband and wife, and though the words were meant to mark a new beginning, all I felt was a deep, sinking dread. "You may now k**s the bride," the priest announced. Vincenzo stepped closer, lifting my veil. His icy eyes bore into mine, and just before he leaned in, he spoke in a low, chilling voice, so only I could hear. "I don't care how much my family paid you to ruin my life, but I'll make sure you regret ever setting foot here." His words sent a cold shiver down my spine, freezing me in place. Then, without waiting for a reaction, he pressed a quick, emotionless k**s to my lips. It was nothing more than a formality, as cold as the look in his eyes. I wondered why he hates me already, I have done nothing wrong to deserve this. I mean I was literally forced into this so-called marriage. The polite applause echoed in the church, but I couldn't hear it. My world had turned to ice. As we turned to face the crowd, I forced a smile, but all I could think about was Vincenzo's threat. And I knew he meant every word. "Oh, my beautiful daughter, I'm so happy for you!" Mother exclaimed, her eyes brimming with joy. I bit my tongue, holding back the sarcastic words I desperately wanted to say. "Vincenzo, isn't it wonderful? You'd better take good care of my daughter, okay?" She turned to him with a hopeful smile, and he nodded curtly, his face unreadable. "Beautiful Damsel!" A graceful, fair-skinned woman took my hands gently as I stepped down from the altar. She looked like she was in her late fifties, but her elegance and beauty were undeniable. "I'm Mrs. Gabriel, Vincenzo's mother and now your mother-in-law. You can call me Gabby." She smiled warmly, and I forced a smile in return, hoping to hide the tension building inside me. Just then, a man with the same face as Vincenzo appeared, grinning from ear to ear. "Yoo!! I can't believe my twin brother is married! Man, you're the luckiest guy alive-she's gorgeous! Hi, I'm Lorenzo, his twin, and his better half!" he said with a wink. I stared at him in shock. They were nearly identical, down to the smallest detail. I blinked, trying to process the uncanny resemblance. "Hi, I'm Victoria," I managed to say, my voice slightly shaky. They all smiled, and then two men and a stunningly beautiful woman approached, a baby nestled in her arms. "Don Nikolai!" Lorenzo said, giving a respectful bow. My mother and Gabby had already stepped outside to discuss something. "Hello," I muttered, feeling slightly overwhelmed. "Hello," the man said in a smooth, commanding voice. "I'm Nikolai Volvok, the first son of the family, and this is my lovely wife, Cassandra." I recognized her immediately-Cassandra Volvok, the woman who had trended online for an entire week. Her tragic story was well-known. Ab**ed by her brothers and father, she had survived horrors, yet here she stood, looking composed and regal. At that moment, I realized we weren't so different. She, too, had suffered behind closed doors. "And this is Mr. Roberto, our father," Nikolai added as the older man approached me with a warm smile, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Welcome to the Volvok family," Roberto said, taking my hands in his firm grasp. "I have a feeling you're going to be my favorite!" He chuckled, and the others joined in. We started talking a little, exchanging names and getting to know each other briefly before everyone began leaving for their cars. I stood there, watching as my mother and father left. In the blink of an eye, it was just me, two of my maids, and the close family members of the Volvoks. The driver opened the door, and Vincenzo stepped into the car first. My maids helped me inside, struggling with the heavy gown as I settled in. "Your bags are already at the Volvok house. Safe journey, sweetie. And remember to always smile," Miss Beatrice said, and tears filled my eyes. I hadn't seen her at the wedding and didn't even notice she had come. Now, seeing her here made me feel a little better. "Thank you so much, ma'am. I really appreciate everything you've done for me," I said, and with that, the car pulled away, leaving the church behind. I didn't move or say anything. I wanted to look at the man I had just married, but I felt frozen in place. Something about him made me feel powerless. His scent filled the car-rich, expensive, and luxurious. I knew they were wealthy, but I didn't realize just how wealthy they truly were until now. Vincenzo didn't say a single word to me, nor did he even glance in my direction. It was like I didn't exist. He probably hates me. The drive felt endless, probably around two hours, and I swear I was getting sleepy, especially since I hadn't slept in two days. I checked my phone, but there were no missed calls or messages. After about two and a half hours, we finally arrived at a massive, grand estate. It was like something out of a dream-or maybe a nightmare-a gigantic house that looked like an old-money castle. The property was so large, it seemed like it would take an hour just to walk from the house to the front gate. As the gates opened, my heart started racing again. The car continued driving past several other buildings, security checkpoints, and armed guards. The place felt like a fortress, ready for a battle at any moment. Finally, we reached the main house-a breathtaking, magnificent mansion. I couldn't take my eyes off it, completely awestruck by its sheer size and beauty. As I arrived, I saw a line of maids waiting for me, each standing at attention. One of them opened the door for me, offering a steady hand to help me out. I stepped out, the weight of my gown feeling like chains around my legs. Vincenzo, on the other hand, remained silent. He didn't offer a glance in my direction, his expression cold as he walked off to greet the staff. I watched him go, feeling the heavy isolation sink deeper into my bones. "Welcome to the Volvok family, Mrs. Victoria! Right this way, please!" one of the maids said with a bright smile, motioning for me to follow her into the house. Her cheerfulness felt out of place-almost mocking-like she was welcoming me into a cage with silk walls. I forced my legs to move, trailing behind her as I passed through the grand doors. The interior was stunning-an opulent display of wealth-but it felt empty, lifeless, like a gilded prison. Every step I took echoed in the vast halls, but the further I walked, the heavier my heart became. I stole a glance at Vincenzo, who was already surrounded by the staff, speaking in low tones that I couldn't hear. He looked like he belonged here-confident, in control. I, on the other hand, felt like a stranger in my own skin. My heart pounded in my ch**t, and for a brief moment, I wondered if this house would be my grave. Would I survive this marriage? Or would I disappear behind these walls, like so many other women before me? The maid led me up a sweeping staircase, her voice breaking through my thoughts. "You'll have a room prepared for you. Everything you need is ready, Mrs. Victoria." I nodded, though the words felt hollow. A room? I didn't need a room-I needed a way out. As we reached the top of the stairs, I hesitated, glancing back at the massive doors we had just entered through. Freedom was somewhere out there, beyond the gates, beyond the walls. But it felt so far away now, as if the very act of crossing that threshold had sealed my fate. Vincenzo had made it clear-this wasn't a marriage. It was a war, and I was already losing. And as I followed the maid into the lavishly furnished room, I knew one thing for certain: I would have to find a way to survive in this world of power, wealth, and danger. I wasn't going to let them crush me. Not yet. ...... 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&

A noite já ia alta enquanto Rosanna permanecia de**ada, of**ante. Oliver, seu marido, havia voltado de mais uma reunião regada a bebida -- dessa vez, com uma energia incomum. Nos três anos de casamento, ele sempre fora cuidadoso, e Rosanna, no começo, também não pensava muito em filhos. Mas nos últimos seis meses, algo dentro dela mudara. Ela havia se apaixonado por ele. O de**jo de ter um bebê com ele surgiu como uma chama silenciosa. No entanto, o carinho de Oliver para com ela só aparecia na c**a. "Não se esqueça de tomar as pílulas an**concepcionais. ", Oliver disse, a arrancando de seus pensamentos. Neste momento, o silêncio foi interrompido pelo toque agudo de um celular. "Oliver, alguém está me as**diando. Por favor, venha me buscar. Estou no Clube Zero...", a voz de Millie, visivelmente aflita, ecoou do outro lado da linha. "Estou indo. Vou pedir para um amigo ir na frente. Se tranque em algum lugar seguro. Chamou a polícia?", Oliver respondeu, sério, enquanto se dirigia ao closet. Ao mesmo tempo, Rosanna tremia de raiva. Millie, a secretária de Oliver. Que supostamente largara um emprego de ouro em Klenridge apenas para trabalhar ao lado de Oliver. Os rumores diziam que eles eram am**tes. Cerca de um mês antes, a perna de Rosanna ficou machucada. Apavorada, ela ligou para Oliver. Apesar de ouvir seus soluços, ele disse friamente: "Se está conseguindo ligar, não deve ser tão grave." Em seguida, ele desligou sem pensar duas vezes. Mas agora, ali estava ele, correndo para os braços de Millie, mesmo bêbado. Com o celular ainda no ouvido enquanto murmurava palavras reconfortantes, Oliver vestiu o casaco e caminhou até a porta. Rosann parando na frente da porta para impedir a saída do marido: "Você be**u demais. Não pode dirigir assim." "Guarde sua falsa preocupação", Oliver retrucou, a soltando sem qualquer carinho. Rosanna no chão, sentindo uma amargura que parecia lhe retorcer as entranhas. Em seguida, ela o encarou com firmeza, "Vamos nos divorciar." &7&

My husband and son were pathologically obsessed with me, constantly testing my love by showering attention on another woman, Kassandra. My jealousy and misery were their proof of my devotion. Then came the car accident. My hand, the one that wrote award-winning film scores, was severely crushed. But Jacob and Anton chose to prioritize Kassandra' s minor head injury, leaving my career in ruins. They watched me, waiting for tears, anger, jealousy. They got nothing. I was a statue, my face a placid mask. My silence unsettled them. They continued their cruel game, celebrating Kassandra' s birthday lavishly, while I sat in a secluded corner, watching them. Jacob even ripped my deceased mother' s gold locket from my neck to give to Kassandra, who then deliberately crushed it under her heel. This wasn't love. It was a cage. My pain was their sport, my sacrifice their trophy. Lying on the cold hospital bed, waiting, I felt the love I had nurtured for years die. It withered and turned to ash, leaving behind something hard and cold. I was done. I would not fix them. I would escape. I would destroy them. Chapter 1 Alexia Bell's husband and son were pathologically obsessed with her. They had a strange way of showing it. Jacob Cummings, her husband, a tech mogul, and Anton, their ten-year-old son, constantly tested her love. They would feign indifference, showering attention on a young, ambitious executive from Jacob's company, Kassandra Jacobson. They needed to see Alexia in pain. Her jealousy, her misery-it was proof of her devotion. It was the only way they knew how to feel her love. Alexia understood their sickness. For years, she had patiently endured it, believing she could fix them. Believing her love could heal their twisted way of needing her. She was wrong. The cycle of cruelty had been escalating. It started with small things, cancelled dates, "forgetting" her birthday while publicly celebrating Kassandra's promotion. Then it grew. The breaking point arrived on a rainy Tuesday. It was a car accident. A bad one. Alexia was driving, with Jacob and Anton in the car. Kassandra was in the passenger seat, a space that used to be Alexia's. A truck ran a red light, T-boning their side of the car. The world was a mess of shattered glass and screeching metal. When Alexia came to, the side of her body was numb. Her right hand, the hand that wrote award-winning film scores, was trapped, crushed against the door. Kassandra was screaming, a gash on her forehead bleeding dramatically. The paramedics arrived. One of them looked at Alexia' s hand, then at Kassandra' s head. His face was grim. "We have to get you both to the hospital, now. Ma'am," he said to Alexia, "your hand is severely crushed. It needs immediate, specialized surgery to save the nerves." He turned to Jacob. "But the other young lady has a head injury. We need to prioritize." The doctor in the ER was even more direct. "Mr. Cummings, we have one surgical team ready for this kind of trauma. Your wife's hand requires intricate nerve microsurgery. Any delay significantly reduces the chance of a full recovery. Ms. Jacobson has a concussion and a deep laceration. It's serious, but not as time-sensitive." He was asking Jacob to make a choice. Before Jacob could speak, Anton, his small face a perfect copy of his father's cold expression, stepped forward. "Help Kassandra first." The doctor stared at the boy, shocked. Jacob looked down at his son. A flicker of something-pride?-crossed his face. Anton looked straight at Alexia, his eyes wide and earnest, but his voice held a chilling logic. "Mommy loves us the most. She'll understand. If she sees how much we care about Kassandra, she'll be jealous, and that means she loves us more. She'll be okay with waiting. She always is." It was their twisted game, laid bare in the sterile, unforgiving light of the emergency room. Jacob placed a hand on Anton's shoulder, a silent approval. He looked at the doctor, his voice devoid of emotion. "You heard my son. Take care of Ms. Jacobson first." Alexia watched them. Her husband. Her son. The words echoed in the ringing of her ears. The physical pain in her hand was nothing compared to the cold void that opened in her ch**t. It wasn't just a choice. It was a statement. Her pain was their sport, her sacrifice their trophy. As they wheeled her away, she saw Jacob and Anton hovering over Kassandra's gurney, their faces masks of performative concern. Lying on the cold hospital bed, waiting, Alexia felt the love she had nurtured for years die. It withered and turned to ash, leaving behind something hard and cold. In the haze of pain and medication, a decision formed, clear and sharp. She was done. She would not fix them. She would escape. She would destroy them. Hours later, she came out of surgery. The doctor's face was somber. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Cummings. We did everything we could, but the delay was too long. There's significant, permanent nerve damage." He didn't have to say the rest. She knew. Her career was over. The hands that had created worlds of sound, that had brought stories to life with melody, were now just hands. The magic was gone, severed by the people who claimed to love her most. The next few days in the hospital were a blur. Jacob and Anton visited, always with Kassandra in tow. They would fuss over Kassandra, who milked her minor injuries for all they were worth, while barely glancing at Alexia. They watched her, waiting for the tears, the anger, the jealousy. They got nothing. Alexia was a statue, her face a placid mask. Her silence was a language they didn't understand, and it unsettled them. The day she was discharged, her lawyer was waiting. She had called him from the hospital, using a burner phone she' d kept hidden for years. "Everything is ready," he said, handing her a folder. She took it with her good left hand. Back at the mansion that felt more like a prison, she walked past the living room where Jacob, Anton, and Kassandra were laughing. They went silent as she entered, watching her, but she ignored them. She went straight to Jacob' s private study, a room she was never allowed to enter. The door was locked, but she had learned his habits. The key was in the hollowed-out book on the shelf, The Art of War. Inside, the room was what she expected. Dark wood, leather, a massive desk. But behind a bookshelf, she found what she was really looking for. A faint seam in the wallpaper. She pushed, and a hidden door swung open. The room was a shrine. To her. Every wall was covered with photos of Alexia. Candid shots, taken without her knowledge. Alexia sl**ping, Alexia composing, Alexia crying. It was a timeline of her life with him, documented through a stalker's lens. On shelves, there were items. A ribbon from her hair. A broken teacup she' d once used. A program from her first concert. It was the collection of an obsessive. A flashback hit her, sharp and painful. Their first meeting. He had seemed so distant, so uninterested. She had spent years chasing him, trying to earn his affection, mistaking his cold possessiveness for deep, unspoken love. She saw a small, locked box on a pedestal. It was Anton' s. Inside, she knew, would be similar "treasures." A lock of her hair he'd snipped while she sl**t. A pen she'd lost. He was his father's son. For so long, she had told herself this was just their way. That her patience, her endurance, would eventually heal this sickness. The hospital had shattered that illusion. This was not love. It was a cage. With cold resolve, she walked out of the shrine, leaving the door open. She went to her own room and began to pack, not clothes, but memories. She took the wedding album and threw it in the tr**h. She took the framed photos of them and smashed them, one by one. She was erasing them. Later, Jacob, Anton, and Kassandra came home. They walked right past her, their laughter echoing in the hall. They were still playing their game. Anton saw her and announced proudly, "Kassandra is staying for dinner. She's our special guest." He looked at his father, who nodded, his eyes fixed on Alexia, waiting for her reaction. They expected a scene. They were disappointed. Alexia just looked at them, her expression blank. Their smiles faltered. This wasn't part of the script. Her lack of pain was unnerving to them. Kassandra, never one to miss an opportunity, started pointing at the furniture. "Jacob, darling, I think that blue sofa would look much better over there. And these drapes are so dreary." "Whatever you want, Kassie," Jacob said, his voice loud, meant for Alexia to hear. He was trying to get a rise out of her. Alexia simply turned and walked toward the dining room. The changes to her home, her space, meant nothing anymore. Kassandra shot her a look, a mix of triumph and unease. "Don't you have an opinion, Alexia?" Jacob answered for her. "Her opinion doesn't matter." Dinner was a performance of cruelty. Jacob and Anton fed Kassandra bites from their plates, praised her meaningless chatter, and treated Alexia like a ghost at the table. Alexia ate mechanically, her mind elsewhere. Then, a piece of steak lodged in her throat. She couldn't breathe. She gasped, her hands flying to her neck. For a second, panic flashed in Jacob' s and Anton's eyes. Jacob started to rise from his chair. "Ouch!" Kassandra cried out, dropping her fork. "I think I cut my finger!" She held up her hand, where a tiny, almost invisible scratch was welling with a single drop of bl**d. The spell was broken. Jacob and Anton' s attention snapped back to their game. Their moment of genuine concern vanished, replaced by the familiar script of calculated cruelty. Jacob rushed to Kassandra' s side. "Are you okay? Let me see." Anton ran to get the first-aid kit. Alexia was choking, her vision starting to blur at the edges, and they were fussing over a paper cut. A violent cough wracked her body, and she spit bl**d onto the white tablecloth. Then, she collapsed, her head hitting the floor with a dull thud. The last thing she heard before the darkness took her was Jacob's voice, laced with theatrical annoyance. "Look what she's done. Anything for attention." She woke up on the floor, the metallic taste of bl**d in her mouth. The house was quiet. They had left her there. She pushed herself up, her body aching. She looked at the bloodstain on the pristine tablecloth. She met Jacob's eyes as he walked back into the room. He had been watching from the doorway. "That was quite a show," he said, his voice cold. "You're pathetic," Alexia whispered, her voice raw. He denied it, of course. "We were worried about Kassandra. You were just being dramatic." Alexia was too tired to argue. She closed her eyes. "When are you going to stop?" she asked, the question a ghost of a breath. "When will this game be over?" Chapter 2 Jacob stared at her, a flicker of confusion in his eyes. "What game, Alexia?" Before he could continue his act, Kassandra's voice called from the living room. "Jacob, honey, can you come here? My finger is still throbbing." Without a second's hesitation, Jacob turned and walked away, leaving Alexia on the floor. The next few days were an escalation. Jacob and Anton were relentlessly attentive to Kassandra, a constant, brutal performance for an audience of one. But their audience was no longer watching. Alexia had become numb to it. The pain they so desperately wanted to see was gone, replaced by an icy calm. The culmination of their efforts was Kassandra' s twenty-fifth birthday party. Jacob threw a lavish event at the mansion, inviting a hundred of the city's elite. The air buzzed with whispers. "Look at him, he dotes on her." "She's just an executive, but he treats her like a queen." "I've never seen him treat Alexia like this. Not once." Alexia heard it all. She sat in a secluded corner, nursing a glass of champagne, a bitter smile on her lips. It was ironic. They were trying so hard to prove her love through jealousy, but all they were doing was killing it faster. Their love, if you could call it that, was a weapon, and she was tired of being its target. Kassandra was the center of attention, a smug smile on her face as Jacob and Anton flanked her. Jacob presented her with a brand-new sports car, the key dangling from a diamond-studded chain. Anton gave her a custom-designed necklace. As they celebrated, their eyes kept darting toward Alexia's corner, searching for the reaction that would validate their efforts. They found nothing. Alexia sat quietly, her expression as still as a frozen lake. Jacob's jaw tightened. Anton's smile faded. Their failure to provoke her soured their victory. Kassandra, feeling their attention wane, decided to take matters into her own hands. She strutted over to Alexia. "Well, Alexia? Aren't you going to wish me a happy birthday? Where's my gift?" "I don't have one for you," Alexia said, her voice flat. Kassandra's face fell into a practiced pout. "Oh. I guess you're still not happy that I'm here." Her eyes scanned Alexia, then landed on the simple gold locket around her neck. It was the last thing Alexia' s mother had given her before she died. "That's pretty," Kassandra said, her voice dripping with greed. "I'll take that as my gift." Alexia's hand instinctively flew to the locket. "No." "Don't be so selfish, Alexia," Kassandra whined, turning to Jacob, who had followed her. "Jacob, she won't give me a gift." Jacob's face was a cold mask. "Alexia, give it to her." "It was my mother's," Alexia said, her voice trembling for the first time that night. "It's all I have left of her." Anton joined them, his small face a mirror of his father's cruelty. "It's just a piece of metal, Mom. Don't be so cheap. Kassandra likes it." "It's not just metal!" Alexia's voice cracked. "It's irreplaceable." Jacob's patience snapped. He reached out and ripped the pendant from her neck. The chain scratched her skin, leaving a raw, red line. "I'll buy you a hundred of them," he said, his voice dismissive. "You can't!" Alexia cried, her composure finally breaking. "You can't replace her!" For a moment, Jacob hesitated. His fingers, holding the locket, trembled slightly. But the moment passed. The need to prove his point, to see her break, was stronger. He turned and handed the pendant to a triumphant Kassandra. "Here you go, birthday girl." Anton clapped. "See, Mom? Dad loves Kassandra more." Alexia stared at them, her heart shattering. This wasn't a game anymore. This was pure, unadulterated cruelty. "Are you happy now?" she whispered. "Is this what you wanted?" Kassandra, admiring the locket, "accidentally" let it slip from her fingers. It hit the marble floor with a dull clatter. "Oops," she said, with a fake g**p, before deliberately stomping her stiletto heel down on it. The soft gold crumpled with a sickening crunch, the tiny photo of Alexia's mother inside torn. Time stopped. Alexia stared at the broken pieces of her last connection to her mother. A strangled sob escaped her lips. She dropped to her knees, frantically trying to gather the wreckage, a sharp edge cutting into her palm. "What do you think you're doing?" Jacob grabbed her arm, pulling her up. "It's just a necklace. Stop making a scene." She pushed Kassandra away. "You did that on purpose." The broken metal in her hand dug deeper into her palm, drawing bl**d. The physical pain was a dull echo of the agony in her soul. Jacob held her back, his grip like iron. "Apologize to Kassandra. Now." Chapter 3 Alexia didn't fight him. She didn't say another word. The will to argue was gone. She went back to her room, the crushed gold and torn photograph clutched in her bleeding hand. She laid the wreckage out on her vanity, trying to piece it back together, but it was impossible. Like her marriage. Like her family. It was broken beyond repair. She carefully wrapped the broken pieces in a silk handkerchief. She would find a master craftsman to fix it. It was a fool's hope, but it was all she had. A knock on the door. It was Kassandra, leaning against the frame, a smug, victorious look on her face. "He'll never love you, you know," Kassandra said, her voice a low taunt. "He and Anton, they love seeing you hurt. It's the only thing that makes them feel anything." "You're a fool if you think they love you," Alexia replied, her voice tired. "You're just a tool. A disposable one." Kassandra laughed. "Maybe. But right now, I'm the one he's using. And soon, you'll be out of the picture completely. You should just leave. Make it easy for everyone." Alexia had had enough. She stood up to leave, but Kassandra blocked her path. "Where do you think you're going?" "Get out of my way," Alexia said, her voice dangerously low. She tried to push past, but Kassandra grabbed her arm. Alexia shoved her away, harder than she intended. Kassandra lost her balance, her eyes wide with theatrical shock. She let out a piercing shriek as she tumbled backward, falling down the grand staircase. The crash echoed through the silent mansion. Seconds later, Jacob and Anton were there, running to the bottom of the stairs. "Kassie!" Jacob cried, cradling her in his arms. Kassandra was already sobbing. "She pushed me! Alexia pushed me down the stairs! She said... she said she wouldn't let me get close to you and Anton." Jacob looked up the stairs at Alexia. His eyes weren't angry. They weren't disappointed. For a split second, Alexia saw it again-that flicker of dark, possessive glee. Her jealousy, her "violence," it was exactly the proof he wanted. He quickly masked it, his face becoming a mask of cold fury. "Get her to the car. We're going to the hospital." He turned to the two bodyguards who had appeared. "And as for her," he said, nodding toward Alexia, "she needs to be taught a lesson about consequences." "What are you doing?" Alexia's bl**d ran cold. "You pushed Kassandra down the stairs," Jacob said, his voice chillingly calm. "It's only fair you experience the same thing." He was insane. They were all insane. "No! I didn't push her! She's lying!" Alexia screamed, backing away as the bodyguards advanced. "She wouldn't lie," Anton said, his voice small but firm, standing beside his father. "You're just jealous, Mom. This is your punishment for not loving us enough to let us be happy." The bodyguards grabbed her. She fought, she kicked, she screamed. "You're monsters! All of you! You'll regret this!" she shrieked, her voice raw with desperation. They dragged her to the top of the stairs. For a moment, her eyes met Jacob's. He was watching, a faint, terrifying smile playing on his lips. Then, they let her go. The world turned upside down. Pain exploded through her body as she hit the marble steps. A sickening crunch echoed in her ears. As her vision blurred, the last thing she saw was Jacob and Anton. They were smiling. Truly smiling. "She's in so much pain, Dad," she heard Anton wh**per, his voice filled with a disturbing sort of happiness. "That means she really, really loves us." Jacob's low chuckle was the last sound she heard as darkness consumed her. Her heart didn't just break. It was ripped out, torn to shreds, and stomped into the ground. It was all a game. Her pain was their prize. She woke up in a hospital bed, a familiar, sterile prison. Every inch of her body screamed in agony. A nurse was checking her IV. "You're awake. You gave us all quite a scare. Your husband was so worried. He's been here all night." Alexia's fingers twitched. He was a good actor. A brilliant one. "He just stepped out a few minutes ago, when he saw you were about to wake up," the nurse continued, oblivious. "He said he was going to check on the other young lady. Such a caring man." Alexia felt a bitter laugh rise in her throat, but it came out as a pained cough. Of course he left. The performance was over. The audience was awake. She refused to let the nurse call him. She knew where he was. He was with Kassandra, continuing the charade. She spent the next few days in the hospital, recovering alone. The physical pain was immense, but the emotional hollowness was worse. When she was discharged, her lawyer was there again, this time with a divorce agreement. She signed it without a second thought, her hand shaking from the lingering nerve damage, but her resolve firm. In the hospital lobby, she saw them. Jacob, Anton, and Kassandra, looking like a happy family. Kassandra's arm was in a sling, a purely decorative accessory. Alexia clutched the signed papers in her hand, took a deep breath, and walked toward them. She held out the folder to Jacob. Chapter 4 Jacob took the folder, his brow furrowed in confusion. "What's this?" "It's just her discharge papers, honey," Kassandra said, not even glancing at the documents. "Just sign them so we can go home." Anton chimed in, "Yeah, Dad, hurry up. Kassie needs to rest." Without reading a single word, Jacob scrawled his signature on the line. He handed the folder back to the lawyer who stood silently beside Alexia, and then turned his back on her, ushering Kassandra and Anton toward the exit. They left her standing there, alone in the middle of the bustling lobby. A strange emptiness filled her. The searing pain was gone, replaced by a cold, hollow ache. It was the feeling of a limb that had been amputated. It still hurt, but it was no longer a part of her. "How long until it's finalized?" she asked the lawyer, her voice a monotone. "With his signature, we can file it immediately. A few weeks for the cooling-off period, then you'll be officially divorced." Alexia nodded and put the copy of the agreement in her bag. She turned to leave, but a luxury car pulled up to the curb in front of her. Kassandra rolled down the window. "Get in, Alexia. We'll give you a ride home." Her voice was sickly sweet, a victor's magnanimity. "No, thank you," Alexia said. From inside the car, she heard Jacob cough lightly. His eyes met hers in the rearview mirror, a silent command. Kassandra got out and grabbed Alexia's arm. "Don't be silly. Jacob wants you to come with us." Alexia looked from Kassandra's fake-sympathetic face to Jacob's impassive one in the mirror. It was another test. Another pathetic attempt to control her, to force her into their twisted family portrait. The whole situation was so absurd, so tragic, it was almost laughable. She let Kassandra pull her into the car. The ride home was suffocating. Jacob and Anton continued their performance, fussing over Kassandra, occasionally glancing at Alexia to gauge her reaction. She gave them none. She stared out the window, her expression a perfect blank. The city lights blurred past, streaks of color in a grey world. Suddenly, the driver slammed on the brakes. A truck had swerved into their lane. The car jolted violently, and Alexia' s head slammed against the window. The world spun. Through a haze, she saw Jacob lunge across the seat. For a wild, insane moment, she thought he was coming for her. Their eyes met. Then he swerved, twisting his body to shield Kassandra from the impact. The last sliver of hope in Alexia's heart turned to ice. "I'm sorry, Mr. Cummings! The roads are slick," the driver stammered. Jacob was already checking on Kassandra. "Are you hurt? Are you okay?" "I'm fine, Jacob. You protected me," Kassandra purred, her voice a little shaky. Then she gasped, pointing at Alexia. "Oh my god, Alexia! Your head!" Blood was trickling down Alexia's temple. Jacob finally turned to look at her, his face a mess of conflicting emotions. "Should we go back to the hospital, sir?" the driver asked. Jacob's jaw worked. He looked at Alexia, then at Kassandra. The game, always the game. "No," he said, his voice hard. "She can take care of it herself when we get home." Anton nodded in agreement. "She's strong. She'll be fine." Alexia closed her eyes. The exhaustion was bone-deep. Back at the mansion, she went to her bathroom and cleaned the cut on her head herself. She applied the antiseptic with a steady hand, not flinching from the sting. She didn't cry. The tears had dried up long ago. She stayed in her room for days, nursing her wounds, both visible and invisible. One evening, she went to take out the tr**h. As she stepped out the back door, something hard hit the back of her head. The world went black. She woke up in a cold, dark space. The air smelled of rust and decay. An abandoned factory. Her hands and feet were tied to a chair. A digital timer was strapped to her waist. It was a bomb. It read: 10:00. Across from her, Kassandra was also tied to a chair, sobbing hysterically. Alexia immediately started working on a knot binding her right wrist, her fingers clumsy and weak from the nerve damage. Suddenly, the factory doors burst open. Jacob and Anton rushed in, their faces pale with panic. Jacob's eyes locked onto Alexia. He took a step toward her. "Jacob! Help me!" Kassandra shrieked, her voice cutting through the tense silence. Jacob froze. His gaze flickered between the two women. The internal struggle was plain on his face. Love, or what he called love, versus the game. The game won. He turned to Kassandra. "I'm coming, Kassie." He ran to her, his back to Alexia. "Just hold on, Alexia. I'll be back for you." His words were a death sentence. The timer on her waist read: 02:17. Her heart, which she thought couldn't break any further, was squeezed in a vise of absolute despair. He untied Kassandra in seconds. He pulled her to her feet and rushed her toward the exit. As they ran past, Kassandra turned her head and gave Alexia a triumphant, tear-stained smile. Alexia watched them go, a chilling realization washing over her. This was just another performance. A life-or-death test of her love. And she had failed. Or perhaps, she had finally passed. ...... 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) &1&

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? 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) &3&

Meu noivo há sete anos, o herdeiro de uma dinastia do crime organizado, alegou ter amnésia três semanas antes do nosso casamento, esquecendo apenas de mim. Então, eu o ouvi rindo em uma videochamada, chamando isso de "passe livre" perfeito para do**ir com uma influenciadora antes de se amarrar. Ele exibia seu caso, me abandonou com um braço quebrado após um acidente de carro forjado para salvá-la de um arranhão, e planejou me deixar sem teto. Ele me chamou de sua "propriedade", uma boneca com a qual ele podia brincar e colocar de volta na prateleira quando terminasse. Ele pensou que eu estaria esperando por sua "recuperação milagrosa". Em vez disso, eu desapareci, deixando para trás seu anel e um bilhete simples: "Eu me lembro de tudo. Eu também." Capítulo 1 Ponto de Vista: Sofia O homem que amei por sete anos alega ter amnésia, esquecendo apenas de mim -- até que eu o ouço em uma videochamada, rindo sobre como isso é o passe livre perfeito para tr**sar com uma influenciadora antes do nosso casamento. Meus dedos traçam a renda delicada do véu estendido sobre nossa cama. É parte de um traje de casamento que custou mais que o meu primeiro carro. Um símbolo. Não de amor, mas de um noivado político de sete anos destinado a unir duas das famílias mais poderosas de São Paulo. Uma união perfeita. Uma vida perfeita. Exceto que Heitor Bastos, meu noivo e herdeiro da dinastia da família Bastos, não se lembra de nada disso. Pelo menos, é o que ele diz. Três semanas atrás, ele sofreu um ferimento leve na cabeça. Uma queda durante uma sessão de sparring, seu braço-direito, Léo, me disse com a cara mais séria do mundo. Supostamente, isso apagou sua memória. Seletivamente. Ele se lembrava de seu nome, sua família, seu papel como o futuro Don. Ele só não se lembrava de mim. Passei todos os dias desde então tentando juntar os pedaços dele. Nossa cobertura duplex nos Jardins se tornou um museu do nosso amor, ou do que eu pensava ser nosso amor. Fotos cobrem as paredes. Eu toco a obscura música indie que deveria ser nossa primeira dança em loop, esperando que uma única nota possa destravar algo dentro dele. "É cativante", foi tudo o que ele disse ontem, seus olhos distantes, frios. Eu me recusei a desistir. As famílias contavam com isso. Eu contava com isso. Esta união não era apenas um casamento; era um tratado. Uma maneira de acabar com uma guerra silenciosa antes que ela começasse. Minha melhor amiga e advogada, Maya Rodrigues -- minha Consigliere pessoal -- havia me avisado. "Isso cheira mal, Sofia. Uma lesão na cabeça que apaga apenas a noiva? Parece enredo de novela mexicana, não um diagnóstico médico." Eu ignorei o aviso dela. Eu tinha que ignorar. A esperança era tudo o que me restava. Esta noite, procurando por um álbum de fotos antigo em seu escritório, encontro a porta entreaberta. Seu notebook está aberto na mesa, uma videochamada ainda ativa. E então eu ouço. Um som que eu não ouvia há semanas. A risada de Heitor. Uma risada profunda, genuína, arrogante. Eu congelo. Minha mão na maçaneta. "Ela está engolindo a história toda", a voz de Heitor ecoa, cheia de satisfação presunçosa. Ele está falando com Léo. "Toca a nossa música o dia inteiro. Fica me olhando com aqueles olhos grandes e tristes. É quase patético." Meu estômago se contrai. Minha respiração fica presa na garganta. "Você é um canalha, Heitor", diz Léo, mas ele também está rindo. "Só pela Yasmin Ferraz? Ela realmente vale todo esse drama?" Yasmin Ferraz. A influenciadora com milhões de seguidores e um corpo construído por cirurgias e ambição. Uma associada da família, útil para lavar dinheiro através de suas marcas, mas não uma de nós. Nunca uma de nós. "É um passe livre temporário, cara", diz Heitor, inclinando-se para trás em sua cadeira, o couro ge**ndo em protesto. "Protocolo da família, o noivado, a Omertà... é uma po**a de uma jaula. Essa 'amnésia' é a minha chave. Eu consigo alguns meses de liberdade e, logo antes da temporada de casamentos começar pra valer, terei uma recuperação milagrosa." Omertà. O sagrado código de silêncio. Foi a primeira regra que aprendemos quando crianças. Nunca falar dos negócios da família com estranhos. Nunca trazer vergonha ao nome da família através de indiscrição pública. Era a base de todo o nosso mundo, a cola que mantinha as famílias unidas. E ele estava usando isso como desculpa para trair, distorcendo seu significado para construir sua própria jaula de mentiras. Ele toma um gole de uísque, o gelo tilintando em seu copo. "A Sofia vai ficar tão aliviada que vai perdoar qualquer coisa. Ela tem que perdoar. Ela é minha propriedade. Faz tudo parte do acordo." As palavras me atingem como um soco no estômago, sugando o ar dos meus pulmões. Meu mundo inteiro, os sete anos de devoção, o futuro no qual eu apostei minha vida -- tudo era uma mentira. Um jogo. Um maldito passe livre. O amor em meu coração se transforma em algo frio e cortante. A dor é tão imensa que parece um buraco negro, mas do outro lado dela, um plano começa a se formar. Um plano frio, duro e belo. Eu, lenta e silenciosamente, fecho a porta. O clique da trava é o som de uma porta de jaula se fechando, mas desta vez, é ele quem está dentro dela. Ele só não sabe disso ainda. Ele acha que sou sua propriedade. Ele acha que sou um peão em seu jogo. Tudo bem. Eu vou jogar junto. Mas quando isso acabar, não será ele quem vai vencer. Capítulo 2 Ponto de Vista: Sofia Na manhã seguinte, o cheiro de panquecas enche o apartamento. As favoritas dele. De leitelho com gotas de chocolate. Coloco o prato na frente dele, meu sorriso tão falso quanto sua amnésia. Parece frágil, como um pedaço de vidro prestes a se estilhaçar. "Pensei que talvez isso te lembrasse de algo", digo, minha voz um veneno açucarado. Ele apenas resmunga, os olhos no celular enquanto enfia a comida na boca. A dor no meu pe**o é uma pontada surda e constante, um punho apertando meu coração. Eu a empurro para o fundo, enterrando-a sob camadas de gelo. Assim que a porta se fecha atrás dele, o sorriso some do meu rosto. Ligo para a Maya. "Você estava certa", digo. Sem rodeios. As palavras são secas, mortas. Há uma pausa, depois uma série de palavrões em português do outro lado da linha que eu sei que são reservados apenas para as traições mais hediondas. "O que você vai fazer?" "Vou embora", digo, as palavras soando sólidas e reais pela primeira vez. "Mas preciso fazer isso direito. Preciso desaparecer. Ele é o futuro Don, Maya. Se ele pensar que eu simplesmente fugi, ele vai me caçar. Uma Vendetta por tê-lo envergonhado. Tem que parecer que eu simplesmente... sumi." Vendetta. Vingança. Não era apenas uma palavra para nós; era uma promessa sagrada, encharcada de sa**ue. Olho por olho, vida por vida, honra restaurada através da violência. Um Don que foi publicamente envergonhado não tem escolha a não ser declarar uma. Eu não tinha a menor intenção de estar do lado que recebe. "Limpeza de identidade", diz Maya, sua voz agora totalmente profissional. "É complicado, mas não impossível. Ele tem olhos em todos os lugares. Precisamos de um novo nome. Uma nova vida." Olho pela janela da cobertura para a cidade que se estende abaixo. Uma jaula de concreto. "Laura. Laura Costa." Naquela tarde, abro uma nova conta bancária em meu próprio nome, transferindo a pequena quantia de economias pessoais que tenho. Começo a aceitar trabalhos de design gráfico freelancer por dinheiro, pequenos serviços pagos anonimamente através de plataformas online. Cada real que entra parece um tijolo na fundação da minha fuga. Florianópolis, Santa Catarina. O nome veio a mim em um sonho. Uma cidade conhecida por suas praias e natureza, a mais de setecentos quilômetros do alcance da rede da família Bastos. Um território neutro. Meu destino anônimo. Naquela noite, empacoto cada vestígio dos nossos sete anos juntos. Fotos, cartas, o estúpido urso de pelúcia que ele ganhou para mim em um parque de diversões. Selo as caixas e as enfio no fundo do meu armário. Parece que estou enterrando um corpo. O meu corpo. Estou cortando o cordão, pedaço por pedaço doloroso. Uma semana depois, estou esperando por Maya em nossa cafeteria de sempre quando o sino da porta toca. Minha cabeça se vira bruscamente. Heitor entra. Minha respiração falha. Ele não está sozinho. Yasmin Ferraz está agarrada ao seu braço, rindo para ele, seus lábios ainda inchados dos be**os dele. Eles são um espetáculo. Um f**a-se público para o nosso noivado, para a honra de sua família. Ele estava desfilando com uma associada, um enfeite de braço descartável cujo único valor era sua utilidade temporária, enquanto sua noiva -- a chave para uma aliança política que garantiria o poder de sua família por uma geração -- estava sentada a seis metros de distância. Não era apenas desrespeito. Era uma declaração pública de que as regras, a própria estrutura do nosso mundo, não se aplicavam a ele. Os olhos de Heitor encontram os meus do outro lado da sala. Por uma fração de segundo, vejo um lampejo de algo -- culpa? irritação? -- antes que seu rosto se assente novamente em uma máscara de confusão educada. Ele me dá um aceno pequeno e sem graça, como se eu fosse uma conhecida distante. Yasmin, no entanto, não é tão sutil. Seus olhos brilham com triunfo enquanto ela deliberadamente se solta de Heitor e caminha em direção à minha mesa, seus quadris balançando. "Sofia, certo?", ela diz, sua voz escorrendo falsa simpatia. "O Heitor me contou tanto sobre... bem, sobre como isso deve ser difícil para você. Eu só queria dizer que, se houver algo que eu possa fazer para ajudá-lo a superar isso, é só me avisar." A provocação é tão descarada que é quase patética. Ela quer uma reação. Ela quer lágrimas, uma cena. Ela quer solidificar sua posição como a nova mulher na vida dele. Eu olho para ela, meu rosto uma tela em branco perfeita. Não ofereço um sorriso. Não ofereço nada. "Não será necessário", digo, minha voz seca e fria como uma pedra de gelo. Ela pisca, pega de surpresa pela minha falta de emoção. Ela esperava um passarinho engaiolado. Ela encontrou outra coisa. Eu os observo sair, o braço dele agora possessivamente em volta da cintura dela. A cena não me causa mais dor. É apenas combustível. Minha determinação se transforma em aço. Eu não sou mais Sofia Almeida, a noiva obediente do Don. Eu sou Laura Costa. Meu único objetivo é escapar. Capítulo 3 Ponto de Vista: Sofia Alguns dias depois, meu telefone toca. É Heitor. Sua voz está carregada de um pânico ensaiado que me dá arrepios. "Sofia, é a Yasmin", ele diz. "Houve um... acidente. Ela caiu, bateu a cabeça. Estamos a caminho do pronto-socorro." Uma demonstração da família que deu errado, eu suponho. Uma mensagem enviada a um rival que atingiu de raspão uma associada. Eu sinto um nada profundo e arrepiante. "Ela está bem?", pergunto, minha voz uma imitação perfeita de preocupação. Eu me tornei uma atriz muito boa. "Eu não sei. Preciso que você me encontre lá", ele diz. "Por favor." O apelo faz parte do show. O noivo preocupado, recorrendo ao seu amor esquecido em um momento de crise. Eu vou, porque o papel que estou interpretando exige isso. Eu o encontro na sala de espera, andando de um lado para o outro dramaticamente enquanto Yasmin é examinada. Ele está fazendo um show para as enfermeiras, para seus soldados à espreita perto das portas, falando sobre como ela é uma "amiga" querida. Ele está tentando elevar o status dela, fazê-la parecer importante o suficiente para justificar a presença do futuro Don. Meu celular vibra. Um lembrete do calendário. "Heitor - Acompanhamento Neurológico." É uma consulta de rotina para qualquer membro de alto escalão da família, um check-up em seu bem mais importante: sua mente. Uma mente que deveria estar danificada. Eu caminho até ele, mantendo minha expressão suave. "Heitor, você tem sua consulta com o neuro em uma hora." Ele acena com a mão, dispensando. "Cancele. Não posso deixar a Yasmin. Isso é uma emergência." A lealdade é tudo em nosso mundo. A Supremacia da Lealdade não é uma sugestão; é um mandamento. Lealdade à família, ao seu papel, ao futuro. Ao escolher seu caso em detrimento de seus deveres como herdeiro, ele estava cuspindo nesse mandamento. Ele estava dizendo a seus soldados, a seu pai, a todos, que seus caprichos pessoais eram mais importantes que a própria família. Mais tarde, sentada na cadeira de plástico duro da sala de espera, meu celular começa a acender. Uma série de mensagens de um número desconhecido. Fotos. Heitor e Yasmin se be**ando em seu carro. Heitor e Yasmin em uma boate, as mãos dela por todo ele. Elas têm data e hora das últimas semanas. É um ataque deliberado e cruel, orquestrado por ele e executado por ela. Eu encaro as imagens, meu rosto impassível. Então, metodicamente, apago cada foto e bloqueio o número. Parece varrer cacos de vidro com as mãos nuas. Mas mais tarde, sozinha no meu carro, o cheiro estéril de antisséptico ainda grudado nas minhas roupas, uma memória surge. Heitor, dois anos atrás, quando eu estava com gripe. Ele ficou comigo por três dias, me dando sopa, lendo para mim, sua preocupação tão real, tão terna. Isso também foi uma atuação? Alguma parte daquilo foi real? Uma dor aguda e torturante aperta meu estômago. Essa dor não é pelo homem que ele é agora, mas pela garota estúpida e confiante que eu costumava ser. O passarinho engaiolado que acreditava nas canções que ele cantava para ela. Pela primeira vez desde que ouvi aquela ligação, uma única lágrima rola pelo meu rosto. Está quente de raiva. Não é uma lágrima por ele. É uma pira funerária para a tola que eu fui. Uma semana depois, Maya me arrasta para a abertura de uma galeria. E, claro, eles estão lá. Heitor e Yasmin, grudados, a risada dele ecoando pela sala branca e estéril. Ele a está exibindo, um desafio direto à autoridade de seu pai e à minha posição. Ele passa por mim para pegar uma bebida no bar. "Vi**o tinto para você?", ele pergunta, um reflexo, antes de se corrigir. "Ah, desculpe. Eu esqueci." Mas ele não tinha esquecido. Não de verdade. Sou alérgica a vi**o tinto, um detalhe enterrado sob sete anos de memórias que ele supostamente não tem. Por um momento, meu coração vacila. Um palpitar estúpido e esperançoso. Então ele se vira para Yasmin, entregando-lhe a taça, seu rosto mais uma vez uma lousa em branco de confusão educada. Não importa. Um lapso de língua não muda nada. A manipulação dele é um jogo que eu não estou mais jogando. Capítulo 4 Ponto de Vista: Sofia Aquele momento fugaz de memória não significou nada. Eu sabia disso. Era apenas um fantasma, uma falha em sua mentira cuidadosamente construída. Enquanto Maya e eu esperamos por um táxi do lado de fora, o som de uma risada familiar e rouca vem de um beco próximo. Eu olho, meu estômago se transformando em gelo. São Heitor e Yasmin, pressionados contra a parede de tijolos. As mãos dele estão sob o vestido curto dela, os ge**dos dela ecoando no espaço estreito. Isso era outra violação da Omertà. O código não era apenas sobre não dedurar para a polícia. Era sobre discrição. Honra. Não se comportar como um bandido de rua comum em um beco, especialmente não com sua am**te quando sua noiva está bem ali. Ele não estava apenas sendo um babaca traidor; ele estava envergonhando o nome da família, mostrando uma fraqueza e falta de controle que seus inimigos aproveitariam. A visão me enche de um nojo frio e limpo. Não há mais ciúmes, apenas uma profunda sensação de repulsa. Assim que nosso táxi para, o sedã preto de Heitor freia bruscamente ao lado dele. Ele sai cambaleando do beco, abotoando a camisa, o rosto corado. Yasmin está logo atrás dele, um olhar presunçoso no rosto. "Precisam de uma carona?", ele pergunta, sua voz casual, como se eu não tivesse acabado de testemunhar ele profanar nosso futuro da maneira mais humilhante possível. Contra meu bom senso, e o olhar silencioso e furioso de Maya, eu digo que sim. Não sei por quê. Talvez eu precisasse de um último empurrão final. Mais um olhar para o abismo antes de pular. A viagem de carro é densa de tensão. Yasmin, presunçosa no banco do passageiro, fala sobre sua nova parceria de marca -- um empreendimento que sei ser financiado com dinheiro da família Bastos de suas operações ilegais. Heitor continua me olhando pelo retrovisor, tentando avaliar minha reação. Ele ainda tem a audácia de me perguntar sobre nosso passado. "Então", ele diz, sua voz leve. "Como nós éramos?" Antes que eu possa responder, o mundo explode. Ele puxa o volante com força. O carro desvia, os pneus cantando, e colide com um caminhão estacionado com um barulho ensurdecedor de metal se contorcendo. Não foi um acidente. Foi uma mensagem. Uma demonstração para uma família rival, e nós éramos os adereços. Minha cabeça bate contra a janela. Dor, aguda e ofuscante, dispara pelo meu braço. O mundo fica embaçado. Através do zumbido em meus ouvidos, ouço sirenes. As luzes piscantes de uma ambulância pintam a cena em flashes nítidos e aterrorizantes. Os soldados de Heitor já estão lá, materializando-se das sombras como espectros. Seu poder absoluto em plena exibição. Um paramédico se inclina para dentro do carro. "Quem está mais ferido?" Eu posso sentir o gosto de sa**ue. "Meu braço", consigo dizer. "Acho que está quebrado. E minha cabeça..." Mas Heitor já está apontando para Yasmin, que está soluçando histericamente por causa de um arranhão na perna. "Ela", ele diz, sua voz fria e imponente. "Leve-a primeiro. Ela precisa ir agora." Ele está escolhendo sua associada, sua am**te, em vez de sua noiva, a futura mãe do herdeiro. Ele está fazendo isso na frente de seus homens, na frente de estranhos. É a humilhação pública definitiva, uma declaração da minha inutilidade. Eles tiram Yasmin do carro, amarrando-a em uma maca enquanto ela continua a chorar. Fico sozinha no metal retorcido, a dor no meu braço uma pulsação surda em comparação com o nó frio e morto que se forma em minha alma. Eles me abandonaram. A família me abandonou. Enquanto a ambulância se afasta, sua sirene uivando na noite, sei com uma certeza arrepiante que o que quer que restasse entre Heitor e eu agora está oficialmente acabado. Está morto. Enterrado nos destroços deste carro. ...... O que acontecerá a seguir? O número de capítulos exibidos aqui é limitado. Por favor, clique no botão abaixo para baixar nosso aplicativo e ler mais capítulos. (Ao abrir o aplicativo, você irá automaticamente para este livro.) &1&

Eighteen years of pretending to be mediocre: acting like a "foolish girl" in front of her fake family, working as an "errand runner" in the lab, even hiding her healing skills. She wasn’t weak—she was waiting: waiting to master dark web medicine, waiting to solidify her racing connections, waiting for the signal from her wealthy family’s search. Now she bursts onto the scene with three identities—are all those who bullied her ready for the ultimate downfall? ===== "How could you do such a thing? What kind of sister would wish harm on her own brother?" he said, his words splintered by a violent cough. "I should've listened to Stacey. She warned me about the poison!" Nicolas Kirk's hand trembled as he flung the bowl at Rylie Kirk's feet, the crash ringing out across the room. Bl**d stained his lips while fury contorted his face. Rylie's expression flickered as she looked down at the ruined medicine, disappointment shadowing her features. "I keep telling you, Nicolas, there's nothing deadly in the medicine. It contains an ingredient that purges the old bl**d, which you need if you ever want to recover," said Rylie. Watching the medicine soak into the carpet, she winced inwardly, knowing how much effort and money she had poured into finding the right remedy for her eldest brother. Stacey Kirk, the adopted daughter of the Kirk family, stood at Nicolas' side, her arms wrapped protectively around the medical text that she always carried. She raised her voice, tears prickling at her eyes. "Please, Rylie, just stop making excuses. Leland ran tests on your concoction, and the results were dangerous. It's full of toxins!" Cold skepticism crossed Rylie's face as she met Stacey's gaze. "You complete f**l," Rylie said. "There isn't a medicine in this world that's entirely safe, especially not for what Nicolas is suffering from. The only way to fight back is with a powerful dose. There's nothing mild that could work on him." Stacey could barely contain her tears, her voice quivering as she pleaded with Rylie, "He's spitting up bl**d right in front of us, and you're still insisting this is the only way? We're just medical students, Rylie, not miracle workers. Don't put your pride above Nicolas' life." Taking a shaky step toward Rylie, Stacey continued, her words thick with emotion, "I found a well-known specialist. He's already written a prescription that might actually save Nicolas. Admit you were wrong and let us try. Please." Nicolas doubled over, hacking up bl**d, and fixed Rylie with a glare that burned with outrage. "It wasn't enough that you fed me that mystery medicine, now you turn on Stacey too? If you had even a fraction of her compassion, things wouldn't have come to this," Nicolas snapped. "Apologize to her, right now!" Rylie straightened her shoulders and faced Nicolas with an unflinching stare. "All I ever wanted was to help you. I have done nothing that warrants an apology. I owe her nothing." Desperation twisted Nicolas' features as he scrambled to his feet, snatching a whip from the wall in a blind rage. "That's it! You're going to push me into an early grave! Why can't you ever listen?" he shouted. "Get out! I don't want you here!" Before the whip could lash out, Rylie shifted away, nimble and unafraid. From the upper landing, someone's measured steps echoed, and a battered backpack landed at her toes. Leland Kirk, her second brother, stood at the base of the stairs. His tone cut through the air. "Let's lay it out plainly. You're just an outsider, and Stacey is our true sibling. We've kept this secret for your sake, hoping you wouldn't resent her, but today, we see just how cruel you can be. If you refuse to admit your mistakes, pack your things. We'll announce Stacey as our one and only sister. Your fortune goes with your name -- you'll have to go back to your birth family and live as they do." Such a threat didn't faze Rylie. Years of living in the Kirk household had worn down her patience. However, the revelation that she was not bound to them by bl**d came almost as a blessing. Her ch**t felt unburdened, lighter than it had in years. There was no need to waste any more of her knowledge or talent on a house that never valued her. The thought had struck her as odd -- she always wondered why she stood out among siblings who never seemed to measure up. "That suits me just fine." Rylie's voice held not a hint of regret. With quick fingers, she snatched up the backpack, plucked a candy from the bowl, and let it dissolve on her tongue as she strode for the door. Left in the hallway, Stacey could not hold back a grin of satisfaction. Five years of plotting had finally paid off. With Rylie gone, she would be the Kirk family's prized daughter, adored and indulged by her brothers. Still, she could not resist a final performance. She darted after Rylie, her voice ringing out. "Rylie! Don't leave like this! You'll always have a place here! Please, don't make me feel like the villain. I'm begging you!" Nicolas interjected sharply, "Enough, Stacey! Let her go. A heart as cold as hers belongs to her own impoverished family. She never deserved this home." A cold laugh escaped Rylie when she overheard him. Was everyone in the Kirk family so easily fooled? Did they genuinely believe that it was sheer luck that had brought Nicolas back to health, gotten him out of bed, and made him able to walk again? Without her hands and her medicine, they'd see soon enough just how far good fortune could take him. Drawing the hood over her head, Rylie let the breeze whip strands of hair across her vivid lips, a flicker of scorn glinting in her eyes. ... Far away, inside the bustling capital city of Kouhron, the imposing Owen Mansion stood as a symbol of influence and wealth. Within that opulent hall, Kendrick Owen struck his ornate cane against the marble floor. "You all promised she'd been located. Why is she still not here?" Arrayed around him stood his three grandsons -- each a commanding presence in his own right, men whose names carried enough weight that even the highest government officials paid their respects. Yet, despite their stature, the shadow of their missing youngest sister dimmed their confidence, and their faces bore deep lines of worry. "Our search stalled in Crolens. According to the latest report, she spent some years in a mountain village, but after being trafficked, her whereabouts vanished from every record." Agony creased Kendrick's expression. "For eighteen years, that child has been gone. Imagine the hardships she's endured in a place like that." "Grandfather, there's been progress. One of the kidnappers came forward and claimed she was later sold to a rich woman in Crolens. We only need a bit more time -- her discovery is within reach." Relief softened Kendrick's features. No trace of irritation remained as he rose from his chair, hope radiating from his gaze. "In that case, let's not delay. I'm coming with you. We'll search together." Chapter 2 Versatile Rylie A heavy backpack slung over her shoulder, Rylie walked out of the Kirk residence without a backward glance, heading directly to the parking lot where her prized, limited-edition motorcycle waited. Years of downplaying her skills and masking her sharpness for the sake of the Kirk family's fragile peace were finally behind her. Freedom now tasted real. Down the city streets, her motorcycle roared, slicing through the afternoon air until she arrived at the imposing entrance of a gated community near a military compound. At the checkpoint, security protocols ran tight as always, but the instant Rylie's motorcycle appeared, the guard broke into a broad smile and opened the gate wide. "Miss Kirk, your visits are always a welcome surprise." With a practiced motion, Rylie flipped up her visor and gave a polite nod. Inside, cherry blossom petals scented the breeze, and several retired officers meandered beneath the blooming trees. Spotting her approach, they made their way over. "Look who's back -- Rylie, I was just about to see you. I've run out of those pills you mixed up for me last time." Her motorcycle came to a halt as she peeled off her helmet, her gentle features drawing nods of approval. "You can swing by the clinic tomorrow. I'll be here all day if you need a refill." Catching sight of another familiar face, she gestured toward an elderly man still sporting a neck brace. "As for you, I've told you before that brace is only making things worse for your neck." An embarrassed grin spread across his face as he removed the brace. "Would you at least allow me to try a few easy exercises?" "Take it slow, and don't do anything reckless," said Rylie, stepping inside an apartment building. Long ago, her connection to this community began unexpectedly. During a visit to the Military General Hospital to buy medicine, she had encountered an elderly man suffering from epilepsy. With a prescription that targeted his condition at the root, she gave him relief that no other doctor had managed. That stranger turned out to be a celebrated, now-retired clinical specialist. Awed by Rylie's abilities, he insisted on calling her his savior and offered her an apartment in the community as thanks. Easy rapport filled the community, and its prime location made life peaceful and convenient. In time, Rylie had come to see this place as the home that she had always needed. As soon as she stepped inside her apartment, lights flickered on and a soft, familiar mechanical voice greeted her. "Welcome home, Rylie. You've been gone for three days. There are two encrypted voicemails waiting, your email inbox has new messages, and your bath is ready." Her backpack landed with a thud on the floor, sending the zipper flying open. A thick bundle of cash spilled out, scattering across the entryway. She stared at the pile of bills, guessing that it must total around ten grand. The sound that escaped her lips was half a chuckle, half a sneer. Was that really all the Kirks thought she was worth, tossing money her way like she was some beggar? "Play my messages," she said. Britton Davies' voice filled the room first, recorded late the previous evening. "Hey, Rylie, registration for the relay's almost up -- two practice runs down already! Are you honestly still clinging to the Kirks? For real? I've been wiping the floor with Phillip these past few days!" A slight arch in her brow gave away her recognition. Phillip Kirk, her third brother, ran one of the most exclusive racing clubs in the world, churning out champions and stacking up prize money. Long nights spent behind the wheel were her secret, pushing his team to one victory after another. Yet each season, as the finals approached, Phillip would swap her out for Stacey, handing over the glory and the gold. Year after year, her skills powered their success, but when the spotlight appeared, Stacey was ushered in for the celebration, leaving Rylie invisible to the crowd. Trophies meant little to her. In those days, protecting her family's ego mattered more. But now... A grin spread across her face as she called Britton. "I want half of the prize money." Whatever disappointment Britton had felt vanished at once. "Done! Phillip's team doesn't scare me. I've mapped out every move they make, but when you're behind the wheel, nobody can keep up. I never lose to him, Rylie -- I always lose to you!" A small laugh escaped Rylie as she let out a soft sigh. "You've noticed it too. Funny how obvious it is, but they still manage to overlook everything I do." Curiosity lit Britton's voice as he switched topics. "By the way, something else came up. There's been chatter on the dark web about the Owen family -- the wealthiest folks in Kouhron. Word is, they're here in Crolens, searching for their missing daughter and throwing around serious money for information. Think we should get involved?" Without hesitation, Rylie answered, "No interest. I have finals coming up, so I'll pass. See you." On Britton's end, confusion crept in. Of all the reasons to bail, exams were the last thing that he would expect from Rylie. As far as he could recall, she never even showed up for tests. The truth was, she was the one who wrote them. Chapter 3 Invitation Rylie moved on to the next voicemail, which turned out to be from Rory Carter, one of the most respected physicians at the Military General Hospital. A note of flattery colored Rory's tone as he spoke. "Rylie, I'm really in a bind. One of my old friend's sons has battled a rare illness for years, and his health is declining again. Those special pills you provided aren't helping him any longer. Is there any chance you could stop by and take a look?" Pulling out her phone, Rylie dialed him back. "I'll come to the clinic after classes tomorrow evening. Tell him to swing by then." Rory cut in with an apologetic sigh, saying, "He's stuck in the VIP wing at the hospital, and strict protocols mean he can't leave." Drumming her fingers on the tabletop, Rylie pressed for details. "Enough stalling, Rory. Who's the patient?" After a pause, Rory's voice dropped to a whisper, saying, "It's Brad Morgan. Yes, the grandson of General Sean Morgan. This isn't just any case -- the Morgans have discreetly reached out to top doctors nationwide. They're offering twenty million dollars to anyone who can cure him." An arched eyebrow was all the reaction Rylie gave. The Morgan family was legendary, led by Sean Morgan, a formidable general. He was a man even the President deferred to. The name Brad Morgan brought back memories -- she remembered reading about him in the news. Only thirty and already hailed as the youngest admiral of his era, his string of military victories made headlines everywhere. That revelation puzzled Rylie. Something could actually bring down a man like Brad? Her next move was to check her encrypted contract inbox, and sure enough, there sat an official invitation from the National Healthcare Department. Working under the codename "Healing Hand" on the dark web, she had built a reputation for tackling medical mysteries, and eventually gathered an elite team of her own. It seemed natural that the government would come looking for her. Keeping her composure, Rylie responded, "I see the message. That reward would tempt anyone. I'll take the case." Meanwhile, word of the Morgan family's urgent call reached the Kirks as well. Leland sprang into action, already strategizing and dialing contacts in hopes of getting their foot in the door. Always just out of reach of the upper society, the Kirk family saw this as their shot. Healing Brad would mean acceptance into the highest social circles at last. Another rumor had set the city abuzz: the wealthiest family in Kouhron landed in Crolens, promising a mind-blowing sum to anyone who could lead them to their missing daughter. People all across town had dropped everything, desperate for a piece of the reward. ... The next day. The shrill ring of her phone yanked Rylie from sleep. She stretched and dragged herself out of bed. On the other end was Timothy Powell -- her research advisor -- barely masking his irritation. "Rylie! I told you to handle the data organization, but you're nowhere in sight. Are you trying to get yourself kicked out of my research group? Stacey was here right at dawn. I expect you here immediately!" She offered no answer, choosing instead to end the call and glance at the clock. The digits read ten o'clock. Her mind flashed back to the previous night. Lost in old medical texts, she'd worked long hours sorting through ancient prescriptions, and now she had overslept, letting Timothy's task slip her mind. A yawn escaped as she flipped open her laptop, sent off a quick email, and hurried to get ready. Backpack in tow, she stepped out the door. Her motorcycle zipped through city streets until she pulled up in front of the university lab. After finding a spot, she strode toward the entrance. She pulled out her pass and swiped it, only to watch the screen blink and flash a denial -- her access had been revoked. At that moment, the lab doors swung open and out came Stacey, flanked by two upperclassmen from the research team. A mocking smile twisted one guy's lips as he spotted her dilemma. "So, Rylie, you think you're special? Turning up late, ditching your work -- looks like you finally pushed Professor Powell too far. Lab access is locked, and your days here are over!" Chapter 4 I'm Expelling You Stacey tugged at the man's sleeve and said with a hint of grievance, "Rylie was late because she was in a bad mood. You should go and plead with Professor Powell on her behalf. If she's kicked out of this project, how will she maintain her reputation at school? No professor would risk taking her on, and she'd never graduate." Even as she spoke, excitement flickered in Stacey's eyes, barely masked by her sympathetic tone. The prospect of Rylie's downfall was almost too delicious to hide. If Rylie really got expelled, surely she would have no choice but to come back pleading. But the scene didn't play out the way Stacey had hoped. Rylie's answer was blunt and left no room for argument. "That's perfect. I never intended to stick around. I'm out of the project. I already sent my withdrawal report to Professor Powell this morning. Tell him to approve it." Her trip here wasn't for the team -- it was to collect her carefully developed Nexo-7 compound, the key ingredient that she had been growing for months for a rare genetic remedy. Stacey's face faltered at that. "You're quitting the group?" Without missing a beat, Rylie nodded and stepped past them, but Stacey's grip shot out, latching onto her wrist. "Please don't let impulse get the better of you, Rylie! We're nearly done with this phase, and the medical competition's coming up. This isn't just about you -- there's a team counting on you! You can't just walk away." The man cast Stacey a critical look. "You shouldn't give her special treatment just because you're related, Stacey." Rylie turned her gaze on Stacey, arching a brow. "Is your concern for me genuine, or is this just another act?" "Absolutely, I am really concerned," Stacey insisted, nodding eagerly. The urge to laugh nearly escaped Rylie, her tone laced with derision. "Be serious. You've seen what your team can do even with my help -- and it's not much. Six months, and you haven't achieved a thing. You're all lost causes, so of course I'm leaving." Everything about the research group's progress came down to Rylie -- her organization, her direction, her experimental designs. Without her, Timothy's grand ambitions in clinical medicine and AI were just wishful thinking. The others fumbled through experiments, never getting close to real breakthroughs. With a dismissive snort, Rylie reached out and tapped Stacey's cheek, her words cold. "Don't fool yourself. You're not family, and I'm not here to babysit incompetence in the lab." A surge of tears filled Stacey's eyes, her voice tight with shock. Ever since Rylie had been shown the door at home, she had turned into someone unrecognizable -- brazen, stubborn, completely unwilling to listen. It drove Stacey mad. "Rylie! Don't flatter yourself -- the research doesn't revolve around you. You wouldn't even be part of this team if Stacey hadn't vouched for you in the first place!" Patience snapping, the man lunged at Rylie, intending to shove her aside. But Rylie moved first, gripping his wrist and twisting it sharply. "Ah!" A cry of pain erupted from him as he doubled over, hand clutching his now-dislocated arm, disbelief written all over his face. Rylie merely dusted off her hands and shot the group a cold glance. "Aren't you all future doctors? Surely setting a joint isn't beyond your skills." Without wasting another word, she brushed past them, entered the lab through the open doors, and collected her prized compound. While inside, she fed the latest core AI research notes into the shredder, ensuring that her work would not be stolen. Moments later, Rylie stepped back out, vial in hand, just as Timothy stormed into the hallway. One glance at the scene -- a student whimpering, the others shaken -- and Timothy's anger boiled over. He jabbed a finger at Rylie. "You're always scraping by in class, using the lab for naps, and now you're assaulting your own teammates? Do you honestly believe my research team has any need for someone like you? From now on, you're no longer a member of the team! And I--" Growing impatient, Rylie interjected, "Didn't you read my email? I already sent in my resignation." Timothy hesitated, then fumbled for his phone and scanned his inbox. Sure enough, there was Rylie's formal withdrawal. He scoffed, shaking his head as if the idea was ridiculous, "You must be out of your mind, Rylie. Do you know how many students would k**l for a place on my team? Let me make this clear: you don't get to quit -- I'm expelling you. I'll post the official notice on the university website for everyone to see." Timothy had expected her to back down, maybe beg for another chance. But he had clearly misjudged her resolve. Rylie shrugged, tossing out a dismissive, "Whatever," and was halfway out the door when sudden shouts erupted nearby. A frantic voice cut through the noise. "Somebody just collapsed!" Instinct overriding her exit, Rylie pivoted toward the commotion. A small knot of medical students clustered around the person sprawled on the floor. She wasted no time barking instructions. "Give him space -- don't crowd, let some air in." These were all medical students, and certainly, they knew this knowledge. Immediately, they stepped back, forming a loose circle. Dropping to one knee, Rylie sized up the unconscious man. His face, pale but striking, caught her attention for only a second before her hands moved to assess his condition. Her fingers quickly found his trachea -- shifted, not where it should be. She was about to examine his ch**t when Timothy charged onto the scene, voice booming. "Out of the way! Let me through!" Without hesitating, Rylie grabbed her portable medical kit, but Timothy shouted at her, "You have no business treating anyone! You're just an inexperienced student, not a doctor!" Stacey hustled over, siding with Timothy. "Rylie, listen to Professor Powell. If something goes wrong, it's on you. He's the expert here, not you." Chapter 5 Anything But Ordinary Rylie ignored Timothy and Stacey and busied herself with the medical kit. She took out a decompression needle, felt the patient's ch**t, and unbuttoned his shirt to prepare for the procedure. Her calm defiance caught Timothy's eye, prompting him to step directly in her path. "Look at him -- clammy skin, ghostly complexion, and he collapsed in this sweltering heat. This is textbook heatstroke, maybe worsened by heart trouble. The right call is CPR. Bring him back that way!" Stacey didn't waste a moment piling on. "Rylie, for once, just do as Professor Powell says. You nearly k**led Nicolas with the wrong medicine yesterday. If you keep going like this, you'll end up in court!" With Stacey stirring things up, murmurs rippled through the crowd. Hidden among the onlookers, some of Stacey's friends chimed in about Rylie's supposed poor grades, spreading doubt and fanning resentment. At the edge of the crowd, a team from the nearby bio-research institute took notice and started moving closer. Rylie's expression chilled as she seized Timothy's hands, halting his attempt at ch**t compressions. "This man's not drawing a single breath, and his trachea's off-center. He's got a tension pneumothorax. If you start CPR now, you'll just make things worse." Such a challenge to his expertise -- especially in front of his students -- left Timothy red-faced. Yet, several research group members rallied around him, echoing his diagnosis. "Rylie, stop spreading nonsense. Professor Powell's the expert here, not you!" Unfazed, Rylie shook off Timothy's grasp, disinfected her instruments, and replied, "Cold sweats, pallor, collapse -- pneumothorax can look just like heatstroke. But if you bother to check for a shifted trachea or a drum-like ch**t, you'll see the difference. Guess that's lost on a quack." Her sharp words prompted a few medical students to lean in and study the patient themselves, curiosity overtaking their doubt. "It looks like Rylie's diagnosis holds up," one student admitted, and Timothy's expression turned even grimmer. Back straight and voice steady, Timothy retorted, "You're nothing more than a glorified assistant who just files paperwork, yet you think you're an expert? If you can revive him with that needle, the mentor's chair is yours!" Rylie didn't waste another word. She finished sterilizing, deftly inserted the decompression needle, and with a sharp hiss, trapped air rushed out. Color crept back into the patient's face as his breathing returned at once. "She was right all along! He had a pneumothorax!" a student shouted, awe coloring every word. Recognition dawned across the faces in the room as those with medical training pieced together what had just happened -- Timothy's assessment had been mistaken. One student voiced what everyone was thinking. "If Rylie hadn't stood her ground and Professor Powell had pushed on with CPR, we would have had a disaster on our hands." Even so, Timothy scrambled for justification. "Well... you've all misunderstood me. I actually recognized it was pneumothorax all along." In an attempt to salvage his authority, he looked down at Rylie and the group, adding, "My intention was only to test Rylie. She has a reputation for cutting corners, after all." Before she could get a word out, the patient -- still weak, yet now radiating a quiet power -- interrupted from the floor. "Did you risk my life just to prove a point with your student? That hardly qualifies you as a doctor, let alone a teacher." Despite his lingering frailty, this man rose, his commanding presence impossible to ignore. Those striking features, combined with an unmistakable force of will, made Rylie sense that his identity was anything but ordinary. She regarded him calmly and gave a simple instruction. "Save your strength and let the campus hospital run further tests." The man nodded and, with a hoarse voice, said to Timothy, "You should apologize to my savior." When he heard this, Timothy's composure slipped. "Excuse me? What did you just say?" Not missing her chance to gain approval, Stacey chimed in quickly, "Rylie, Professor Powell's intentions were good. He cares about your growth. A kind teacher like him shouldn't have to apologize." "And why shouldn't he?" A sharp retort cut through the crowd... ...... 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) &13&