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.”

I slid into the driver’s seat, slammed the car door shut, and pressed the accelerator until the engine roared.

The bar glowed like a neon beast waiting to devour me—lights flickering in dizzying colors, bass shaking the floorboards, and music pounding against my ribcage like a second heartbeat. Every vibration rattled my bones. I grabbed the first drink offered, swallowed it too fast to notice the flavor, too numb to feel the burn that scraped down my throat. My chest ached, but I kept drinking, pouring glass after glass until my thoughts blurred and everything felt muffled at the edges.

I only wanted one thing: to erase it all. To lose myself.

So I danced.

Wild. Careless. Detached. My body swayed and twisted as though it no longer belonged to me, as though someone else was moving my limbs. Heat pressed in from every side, strangers’ bodies crowding me, perfume and sweat mixing in a suffocating cloud.

I didn’t care. Let them press too close. Let the air choke. Let the world collapse into spinning lights and pounding music.

And then—my gaze caught.

Them.

Jerwin and Yvette. They had followed.

At first, he lingered at the edge of the dance floor, watching silently the way he always did—observing, calculating, detached. But Yvette, smiling sweetly, stretched her hand toward him, tugging him forward. He didn’t resist. His hand settled against her waist like it belonged there, like it had always been meant for her.

They moved together, close—too close. His lips dipped toward her ear, murmuring something low and private. She laughed, soft and delighted, the sound cutting through the music and straight into me.

I tore my gaze away.

Another drink. Stronger this time. It scorched all the way down, tasting like liquid regret. Still, it didn’t help.

A stranger slipped into the space beside me. His grin was sloppy, his words slurred, his eyes roaming over me as though I were nothing more than a prize to be won. Before I could recoil, his hand snatched mine, yanking me into his rhythm.

I hadn’t agreed. I hadn’t spoken. Silence, apparently, was enough permission for him. His hands roamed shamelessly, uninvited, his breath foul and hot against my cheek. Then his mouth crashed onto mine—hard, wet, revolting.

I shoved at his chest with both hands. “Don’t touch me.”

He staggered back, chuckling with drunken arrogance. “Didn’t look like you minded.”

I turned away, but his hand shot out, clamping around my wrist with bruising force.

Before I could scream—

A fist sliced through the air.

Crack.

The man toppled to the ground.

Jerwin.

But it was already too late. Another stranger lunged from the crowd, shouting something unintelligible. I stepped back, but bodies pressed against me on all sides. There was nowhere to run.

His arm swung. The bottle shattered against my shoulder, exploding into shards that tore through my skin. Agony seared down my arm, hot and wet, blood seeping instantly into the fabric of my dress. My breath hitched into a broken gasp.

Jerwin’s eyes locked onto mine, wide and stricken. “I’m sorry, Miss Simon.”

A laugh tore out of me—cold, cracked, laced with bitterness. “Sorry? Where were you when it actually mattered?”

His mouth opened, faltering. “Yvette needed—”

“Of course she did,” I cut in sharply, my voice slicing the space between us. “She always does.”

Blood trickled down my hand as I pressed against the wound. “Once I’m married, you can throw all your devotion at her. Guard her day and night, protect her as much as you like. Forget me completely. You’ve already been practicing, haven’t you?”

I spun away. But chaos erupted before I could escape.

Screams split the air. Glass shattered, raining down like sharp rain. Gunfire cracked, deafening and close. Panic surged—people shoved, stumbled, trampled in a desperate rush toward the exits. Tables overturned, drinks spilled, bodies collided.

And Jerwin?

He didn’t come for me.

He ran straight to Yvette.

He threw himself over her, shielding her body with his own, clutching her as though she were the only soul worth saving.

And I—

I just stood frozen, breath shallow, staring.

Until pain tore through my upper shoulder. A bullet.

My body dropped, hitting the ground with brutal force. The world spun, blurred. No one noticed. No one reached out a hand.

Then Yvette’s fragile voice pierced the din. “Jerwin… you’re supposed to be Fatima’s butler, sworn to protect her. She’s hurt… She needs you…”

For a moment, he said nothing. The silence burned more than the wound.

Finally, his voice broke. “It’s my fault… Fatima… she needs help.”

“No,” Yvette soothed, her tone breaking. “Don’t blame yourself. None of this is your fault. Even if it happened over and over again… I would still want you to choose me.”

Her words quivered. “But… why?”

And his reply came low, steady, final.

“Because I love—”

The world blinked out before I could hear the rest.

The ceiling was pale.

Blurry at first, then clearer as my eyes slowly opened. The fluorescent light buzzed faintly above me, sterile and cold. It didn’t take long for the pain to return. A sharp ache in my arm. Dull, throbbing, but alive.

My arm was bandaged, tight and stiff. The bullet hadn’t gone too deep, they said. Just a graze. Lucky.

If only I felt lucky. I turned my head slowly. Yvette sat beside me, her eyes wide and glassy with guilt. Her hair was perfect, lips tinted pink, and yet her hands trembled slightly as she reached for me.

“Fatima… are you okay?” Her voice was soft, as if afraid I’d break if she spoke too loud. “I’m so sorry… I didn’t know how it started. They’re still investigating what happened at the bar. But you… you got hurt.”

I didn’t respond.

“Fatima,” she whispered, “please… I want to take care of you. Don’t ignore me. You’re my precious sister.”

I shifted my gaze away from her. My throat was dry, cracked from disuse, but the words came out steady. “Leave me.”

Her face fell. “But… I just want to help—”

The door creaked open, and our father stepped in. “Fatima,” he said with quiet frustration, “why are you being so difficult with your sister? She’s only trying to help.”

I looked at him—cold, tired. “If she really wants to help me,” I said, voice flat, “then she should leave. I don’t want to see her again.”

I shoved Yvette’s hand away. She gasped softly, visibly shaken, but I didn’t care anymore.

Then I saw him. Jerwin stood by the door.

His jaw clenched as if trying to speak but failing. I didn’t wait.

“I don’t want to see you either,” I said sharply. “You’re fired.”

His eyes widened. “No. Don’t—please, don’t fire me.”

He stepped forward, his voice rising. “Miss Simon… Fatima, I’m sorry. I know I failed. I—I wasn’t fast enough, I wasn’t there. But I’ll do anything. Just don’t fire me.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Why?” I asked bitterly.

“Of course, to protect you.”

I laughed but there was no humor in my eyes. Still, I said, “Fine. You can stay.”

His head lifted, eyes hopeful for a second.

“But,” I added, “you’ll be punished for failing me.”

When I was finally discharged from the hospital, I didn’t waste time.

Everything was prepared. The private room I chose was quiet, the curtains drawn tightly against the world. A cold, clean space without distractions—perfect for what needed to happen.

Jerwin entered exactly when I told him to. No emotion in his eyes, no excuses on his lips. He removed his jacket slowly and folded it with precision, then stood still in the center of the room, as if waiting for judgment.

But I didn’t lift a whip. Instead, I gave a small nod to the two men stationed at the side of the room—my father’s men, now mine.

“Begin.”

Jerwin didn’t flinch.

The first punch landed across his cheek, snapping his head to the side. The second followed to his gut. He grunted, breath escaping his lungs in one sharp exhale, but he didn’t speak. Didn’t raise a hand to defend himself. He took each hit, like he believed he deserved it.

And maybe he did.

He betrayed me in silence.

In secrets.

And worst of all—he made me believe I mattered.

The punches kept coming. His knees buckled under one sharp blow, and I left the room without another word.

I went to the pool terrace to clear my head. I sat by the edge, legs dangling over the side when Yvette came.

“I heard what you did,” she said, standing beside me. “That punishment… it wasn’t just cruel—it was my fault. He only got hurt because he was protecting me.”

I said nothing.

“I should be the one who gets punished,” she added dramatically, stepping closer to the edge. “If you're angry, then hurt me instead—”

I stood and turned away. “I have no interest in you. You’re not worth it.”

She reached out again. “Fatima, I just want us to be sisters—”

“I said no,” I snapped, walking past her.

But then—I heard the slip. Her foot caught on the wet edge. Her arms flailed.

And then—a splash.

“Help!” she screamed. “I can’t swim—please! Help me!”

I turned slowly. She was thrashing, her head barely staying above water, panic splashed across her face.

And before anyone else could react—

Jerwin ran. Bleeding. Limping. Bruised.

He didn’t even hesitate. He threw himself into the pool, arms slicing through the water. In seconds, he reached her, pulling her to him as she clung to him, coughing and crying.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. I’m here… no one will hurt you again.”