My mother—once radiant, admired, unstoppable—shattered the day she discovered my father’s mistress and their illegitimate child, Yvette. Yvette was three months younger than me, yet she was brought into our home with shameless pride.

At the same time, my mother was carrying my little brother. But grief consumed her, crushing her until she went into labor far too soon. Neither she nor the baby survived.

From then on, loneliness became my shadow. I abandoned schoolwork, lost my smile, and spent nights slipping into clubs—drinking until memory blurred, dancing until my body ached, anything to drown the emptiness.

And that was where I first noticed him. Jerwin.

He wasn’t like the others prowling the bar. Something about him was magnetic. I fell too fast, too hard.

I tried everything to catch his eye—laughing louder than I felt, brushing against him “accidentally,” asking for help with the strap of my dress just to feel his hands, stumbling so he’d steady me, letting perfume linger in the air between us. I wore skirts shorter, heels higher, smiles sharper, even let my head fall against his shoulder once when the alcohol blurred my sight. But no matter what I did, he never looked at me the way I desperately wanted.

I should have let him go. But fate decided otherwise. When my aging butler grew too ill to serve, a replacement appeared.

It was Jerwin—introduced as the butler’s son.

I thought destiny was finally being kind. That this was my chance. But truth rarely spares illusions.

One late evening, after an event, I overheard him in the garden, speaking quietly on the phone.

“Jerwin, come home already,” the voice urged. “Stop pretending you’re the butler’s son. You’re the heir of the Andersen family.”

“I can’t,” Jerwin replied, his tone heavy but tender. “Yvette’s here. I fell for her the moment I saw her. I can’t leave now. She’s delicate. I’ll protect her, earn her trust, and when the time is right, I’ll tell her everything.”

“And Fatima?” the caller asked.

Jerwin laughed, the sound like glass cutting through me.

“Oh, her? She’s nothing but a tool. A stepping stone.”

Something in me snapped that night. That was when I resolved to accept the arranged marriage—and to let Jerwin be handed over to Yvette. Because no matter how I begged, he’d never look at me the way he looked at her.

When I stumbled back to my room, my stomach twisted painfully. I hadn’t eaten all day. Weak, I drifted toward Jerwin’s quarters.

“I’m hungry,” I muttered flatly. “Get me something to eat.”

He blinked, expression bored. “I’m off duty.”

I frowned. “And what does that matter?”

“It means you’re no longer my responsibility,” he answered coolly, brushing past me as if I were invisible.

I stood frozen. Smaller than I’d ever felt. Then fate twisted the knife deeper.

“I’m not feeling well…” Yvette’s soft voice drifted from her doorway. She leaned against the frame, pale, fragile.

“I think I have a fever,” she whispered. “And I’ve been craving that soup you made… Could you…?”

Jerwin turned instantly, warmth flooding his voice.

“I’ll make it for you. Stay inside.”

I stiffened, retreating before my tears betrayed me. Wrapping my arms tight around myself, I wondered how a body could feel so hollow yet so unbearably heavy.

Hours later, starving, I rose to fetch food myself. Passing Yvette’s room, I slowed. Her door was ajar, a strip of light spilling out.

There was Jerwin. Jacket discarded, sleeves rolled. Sitting at her bedside, watching her fever-flushed face with a reverence that tore me apart.

Then he leaned in, brushed a strand of hair away, and pressed his lips against hers.

Yvette murmured faintly, stirring. And Jerwin whispered, voice full of possession:

“You’re mine, Yvette. Always mine. I’ll give you everything… even if it means discarding Fatima someday, just to see you happy.”

Then he climbed into bed beside her, pulling her fragile frame close against him.

When I opened my eyes, it felt as though a heavy weight was pressing down on my entire body.

My skull throbbed with a dull ache, and my stomach churned emptily, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten anything since the previous day. But worse than hunger was the heaviness lodged inside my chest—the echo of last night’s conversation, bruising me from the inside out.

Slowly, I forced myself upright. The early light of morning slipped in through the curtains in soft, golden stripes that fell across the floor. My throat was parched, but thirst was the least of my concerns. What hurt more was the ache in my heart.

Not because I hadn’t eaten.

But because of the voices I had overheard in the hallway.

“I’m feeling much better now,” Yvette’s voice rang lightly from the other room, followed by the gentle trill of her laugh. “Thank you for keeping me company last night.”

“I only wanted to be sure you were alright,” Jerwin answered, his tone calm, deep, and protective. “You were burning up with fever. I couldn’t just walk away.”

“You’re always there for me,” she whispered softly. “I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you.”

My hands curled into tight fists around the blanket.

So, he stayed in her room the entire night.

Even after I had stood in the hallway—starving, humiliated, desperate—he had chosen her. Always her.

I reminded myself of the original arrangement. Jerwin had been hired to protect me. Not Yvette. Me. That was the agreement from the start.

And at first, he had done exactly that. He shadowed me wherever I went—quiet, dependable, solid as a wall. For a while, I foolishly let myself believe his constant presence meant something more—that maybe he cared.

But now? That illusion had shattered.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror. No tears. No cracks. Only a mask of stillness. After steadying myself, I dressed and walked out of my room.

Jerwin was already standing in the hallway, as though waiting for me. When his eyes met mine, the first words out of his mouth were, “Did you eat the meal I left in your room?”

I kept my expression cold. “No. I threw it away.”

His brows knit together. “Why are you being so melodramatic?”

I raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“This is about last night, isn’t it?” he pressed. “Look—when I’m off duty, I’m free to do as I please. Your sister wasn’t well, and I stayed with her because she needed me. You, on the other hand? You were just hungry. Couldn’t you have made something for yourself?”

Each word landed like a slap, sharper than I wanted to admit.

But I didn’t argue.

I didn’t explain myself.

I simply stared at him for a long, suffocating moment until the silence thickened between us, unbearable.

Then, without a word, I turned and started to walk away.

“Where are you going?” he called after me.

I halted, but I didn’t turn back. “Why does it matter to you? When you’ve made it clear you don’t care at all.”

And with that, I stepped out the front door.

The morning air was crisp, the cool wind brushing against my skin like a fleeting comfort. I began to jog—not for fitness, not to exercise, but to escape. To outrun the thoughts clawing at me, thorns lodged too deep to pull free.

I was just finding my rhythm when a familiar voice carried behind me.

“Fatima!”

Yvette.

I didn’t slow down.

“Can we jog together?” she asked, appearing at my side, her tone bright and cheerful as though nothing had ever been wrong between us.

I said nothing.

She matched my pace anyway, jogging alongside me with a persistence that gnawed at my nerves.

Barely a minute later, she slowed and turned to Jerwin, who had followed close behind. “Why does she hate me so much?” she said with a pout. “I only want to be close to her. She’s my sister…”

I caught Jerwin’s response, low but steady. “Don’t trouble yourself over it. If she refuses to accept you, I’ll be here. I’ll never leave your side.”

That was enough.

I pushed harder, lengthening my stride until I left them behind—pretending I hadn’t heard, pretending it didn’t matter.

But they followed anyway.

Our path twisted through the back roads of the estate until we stumbled into the unfinished construction site—an expansion project my father had demanded months earlier.

The area was hushed, filled with skeletal beams and scattered piles of materials. I slowed to a walk, lost in spiraling thoughts, blind to my surroundings.

I didn’t notice the loose metal plank underfoot until it shifted.

“Fatima!” someone shouted.

But it was already happening. My foot slid against the unstable surface. The screech of metal scraping against stone split the air as the plank tilted beneath me. My balance faltered, and in an instant, everything stretched into a slow, nightmarish blur.

Gravity yanked me downward. Pain shot through my side as debris struck me, dragging me into a helpless fall. The sky whirled above me. The breath ripped from my lungs.

And just before darkness swallowed me whole, I caught movement in the corner of my eye.

Jerwin.

He was running.

But not toward me.

Not to catch me.

Not to shield me.

He was running to Yvette.

He pulled her tightly into his arms, dragging her behind a steel beam, his entire body shielding hers from the shower of rubble. His expression—etched with pure panic—was turned only to her.

Even as I plummeted.

Even as I screamed silently into the collapsing world.

I was the one left bleeding, shattered, forgotten.

And he had already chosen the person who mattered most.

Pain ripped through me, searing, unbearable—until everything blinked away into silence.

And then there was nothing.

Only darkness.

Pain was the first thing that greeted me.

It spread through my body like fire licking along nerves, as though I had been dragged across concrete until nothing but rawness remained. My arms and legs felt stiff, every joint resisting movement, while each attempt at a deep breath sent flames tearing through my ribs. But even with all that, it wasn’t my body’s agony that cut the deepest.

“Miss Simon,” a voice said gently.

I shifted my gaze and saw a nurse at my side, clipboard tucked against her arm. Her smile was polite, professional, practiced. She checked the monitor briefly before lowering her eyes to me. “You’re awake now. That’s very good news.”

I tried to swallow, though my throat felt like sandpaper. My voice came out strained. “Where’s… Jerwin?”

Her expression flickered, but she answered with a small nod. “He left earlier this morning. He arranged for our staff to monitor you while he attends to Miss Yvette. She also sustained injuries during the incident, and he has been by her side.”

The silence that followed felt suffocating.

Then a sound escaped me—something like laughter, but hollow, jagged, empty of all joy. It scraped through my throat like broken glass.

I was the one who had fallen. I was the one who had been knocked unconscious, the one with bruises blooming across bone and skin. But she—she was the one he ran to first. She was the one he stayed with.

And now, instead of watching over me, he left strangers to handle it while he sat by her bedside, probably brushing hair from her face, whispering soothing words, making her smile.

It was absurd.

I leaned back into the pillow, releasing a long breath through my nose. A part of me considered lying still, letting the weight of betrayal crush me, letting this hurt dig its claws in.

But no.

I refused.

Even though my body trembled in protest, I shoved the covers off and lowered my legs over the edge of the bed.

The nurse gasped and rushed forward. “Miss Simon, please, you shouldn’t—”

“I’m fine,” I cut her off, my tone sharp, cold, absolute. “I don’t need anyone’s help.”

It was a lie. My first one that day.

I stepped into the hallway, one palm braced against the wall for stability. The corridor stretched before me, dimly lit, lined with muted green doors. Vases of flowers stood neatly arranged along tables, their colors too deliberate, too staged to feel real.

I hadn’t meant to pause.

But I did.

Right outside the room next to mine.

The door was slightly ajar, and voices floated out into the corridor.

“It’s all because of me,” Yvette murmured, her tone trembling just enough to sound fragile. “You were hurt because of me.”

“No,” Jerwin replied, his voice softer than I’d ever heard it—gentle, careful, almost tender. “It doesn’t matter. I’d make the same choice again. I don’t mind being hurt if it means you’re safe.”

My nails cut into my palms.

“But… what about my sister?” Yvette whispered, her words almost too delicate, like lines rehearsed for a script. “You’re supposed to be her butler, her guardian.”

“She’ll be alright,” he said without hesitation. I could imagine his expression: calm, steady, utterly devoted. “Fatima’s strong. She doesn’t need me the way you do.”

Something twisted deep in my chest.

Strong.

That word again.

It was the excuse they all leaned on whenever they wanted to abandon me. Fatima’s strong. She doesn’t cry. She can manage alone. She’ll endure.

But no one ever stopped to ask if I wanted to be strong.

Movement stirred inside the room. I edged closer and caught sight of several men in black suits filing in, each carrying velvet-wrapped boxes.

“Who are they?” Yvette asked, her voice a mix of shock and curiosity.

One man stepped forward and gave a respectful bow. “Miss Yvette, these gifts come from Young Master Andersen. He heard of the accident and wished to send tokens of comfort to brighten your day.”

Her lips parted in astonishment. “Wait—what? I don’t even know him personally!”

The man smiled knowingly. “Even so, he has admired you quietly, from afar.”

Her eyes widened, sparkling like she had stumbled into a fairy tale. “Do you really think I deserve something like this?” she asked, turning to Jerwin as though his opinion was the only one that mattered.

“Of course,” he said instantly, no pause, no doubt.

“And do you think… maybe he likes me?” she added with a shy giggle.

Jerwin gave a single, steady nod. “Without question.”

I didn’t need anyone to spell it out.

I already knew the truth.

Young Master Andersen was Jerwin. Hiding behind another name, another mask, so he could shower her with gifts while pretending it came from someone else.

I turned, intent on slipping down the hall unnoticed. But her voice reached me before I could escape.

“Oh my goodness—Fatima!” Yvette gasped, eyes wide as she caught sight of me. “Look at all these presents Young Master Andersen sent for me. Aren’t I the luckiest girl?”

I kept walking, lips sealed.

But she wasn’t done. She hurried after me, the sharp click of her heels chasing me down the hallway.

“Wait! Are you upset? Is it because you’re jealous?” she asked, almost breathless.

I stopped.

Turned.

“I would never be jealous of you,” I said, each syllable like a shard of ice. “Now. Let. Me. Go.”

She reached for my arm, and I shoved her back—not hard, but enough to free myself.

“Careful!” Jerwin’s voice cut in as he appeared behind us. He darted to Yvette’s side, shielding her with his presence. “She’s not fully healed. You shouldn’t push her. Apologize.”

Apologize?

I stared at him, empty and cold, for what felt like forever.

And then… I did.

“Sorry,” I murmured, flat, devoid of any meaning.

Sorry for what? I couldn’t even say. The word came out simply because I no longer had the strength to fight.

I turned away, walking down the corridor—past the nurses, past the vases of too-perfect flowers, past walls painted in colors meant to calm.

Behind me, his voice floated faintly. “Let her be… she’s only overreacting.”

And Yvette, ever sweet, ever clinging, chimed in, “I’m still worried. Let’s follow her.”