By the third year of living with Armando, Debbie had been tormented ninety-nine times by his obsessive pursuer, Karylle.

The first time, Karylle deliberately ran over Debbie's leg again and again with her car until the bone shattered completely.

Debbie spent three months in a coma.

When she finally woke up, the first thing she saw was Armando sitting by her bed, whispering softly, "Debbie, Karylle is still young. She's just... playful. I already scolded her, so don't be mad, okay?"

The second time, Karylle tricked Debbie's best friend into climbing a mountain at night. When a sudden storm hit, Debbie went up to rescue her. They almost froze to death.

Armando's eyes were red when he held her tight.

"Debbie, I've already yelled at Karylle. She's just spoiled—she doesn't mean any harm."

The third time, Karylle locked Debbie in a room and tried to burn her alive.

Armando broke down the door and dragged her out, coughing from smoke—yet still defended Karylle.

"Debbie, Karylle didn't mean it! Please, forgive her one last time!"

...

She endured until the ninety-ninth time.

Under the cold glare of the shadowless surgical lamp, Debbie's wrists were bound to the operating table. Karylle stood beside her, red nails tracing Debbie's pale cheeks as her voice dripped with venom.

"Debbie, Armando is now the heir to the Robbins family. Someone like you—a pathetic insect—doesn't deserve him, or anything he cares about."

She tilted her chin toward the trembling surgeon and ordered, "Do as I said—break her legs, drain her blood, and remove her uterus. Don't worry. The Robbins family will protect you."

Just as the scalpel was about to pierce her flesh, the door burst open.

Armando rushed in, his white coat still stained with wine from the Robbins family banquet. He shoved Karylle aside and froze at the sight of Debbie's blood-soaked gown. His voice trembled for the first time.

"Save her! Save her at all costs!"

Debbie coughed blood, her trembling hand clutching his sleeve. "Armando... this time... she has to go to prison..."

His hand hovered over her wound, his Adam's apple bobbing painfully. Then, slowly, he looked away.

"Debbie, I've just been recognized by the Robbins family. Karylle... she's the fiancée they've chosen for me. The family can't afford any scandal right now."

He crouched down, his voice trembling with a rare, pleading tone.

"Please, forgive her one last time, alright? I swear, I won't ever let her hurt you again."

Debbie looked into his eyes, seeing the struggle and compromise warring within them. A hollow laugh escaped her lips, echoing through the sterile room. Blood foam spilled from the corners of her mouth, streaking down her chin and staining the white sheets beneath her in vivid red.

Her trembling fingers loosened their grip, and the light in her eyes dimmed bit by bit—like ashes fading after a final spark.

"Armando," she rasped, her voice hoarse beyond recognition, "your so-called concern has never outweighed your status as the heir of the Robbins family."

The stabbing pain in her abdomen twisted with the tight ache in her chest, forcing her vision to blur. She blinked weakly, the world spinning, and then her body went limp as darkness pulled her under.

Before losing consciousness, the last thing she saw was the fleeting panic and unwillingness that flashed across Armando's eyes when they met hers.

When Debbie next opened her eyes, voices were echoing through the corridor outside her ward.

Pain stabbed through her abdomen with every breath. The door was ajar, and through the crack, she heard Armando's calm, detached tone.

"My engagement banquet with Karylle is set for next weekend. Everything will follow Robbins family's protocol."

There was not even a single word about the woman lying half-dead in the hospital bed because of his so-called fiancée.

"Also, keep an eye on the ward. No one must take pictures of me and Debbie. The media must never find out we lived together for three years."

The assistant hesitated.

"Mr. Robbins, Miss Ingram is stable now. If she wakes up and tries to contact you..."

Armando let out a low, mocking laugh. That sound cut through Debbie's chest like a blade.

"Contact me? For what?" He paused, his tone dripping with disdain.

"Tell finance to transfer her the rent and utility fees for the past three years. After that, we're even."

Narrowing his eyes, he continued, "Remember, from now on, I don't know anyone named Debbie Ingram. She's just a nobody. I fed her, housed her, paid her medical bills—that's more than she deserves."

"B-but you once said you'd protect Miss Ingram..." the assistant murmured.

Armando interrupted him, his tone edged with impatience.

"Before is before. Now, I am the heir of the Robbins family."

His voice grew colder.

"What's the point of keeping a woman who does nothing for me—who only drags down my future?"

He turned away slightly, his tone final and merciless.

"Make sure this matter is never mentioned again. Even if it's true that I, Armando Robbins, owe Debbie—consider that debt erased!"

Inside the ward, Debbie bit her lip until she tasted blood. Only when the metallic tang filled her mouth did she finally let go. Tears streamed uncontrollably down her face.

So that was it.

The love she thought had been deep and selfless was nothing but her own delusion.

In his world of power and family politics, she wasn't even worth the dust beneath his shoes.

The pain in her abdomen was unbearable, but it still couldn't compare to the pain in her heart.

Her thoughts drifted back to when they'd first met.

Back then, Armando wasn't yet the Robbins family's heir. He was simply a man who held her in his hands as though she were his entire world.

They lived in a tiny rental apartment—less than fifty square meters. There was no heating in winter. Armando always wore a thick, old coat, yet he would still hand her the only hand warmer. His fingertips were red from the cold, but he smiled and said,

"I'm a man, I can handle it. Your hands are cold—don't let them freeze."

Once, after she stayed out late selling goods, a sudden downpour drenched her to the bone. When she finally reached home, she found Armando waiting at the entrance, holding an umbrella and a cup of warm ginger tea.

The moment he saw her, he ran toward her, tilting the umbrella so it covered her completely. Half his body was soaked but he didn't care. He nervously touched her forehead and asked, "Did you catch a cold? I made ginger tea—drink it quickly while it's still warm."

Another time, when she fell seriously ill with a 39-degree fever, she fainted in his arms. Armando had carried her for three streets to the hospital, running breathlessly through the night. His face was pale, his lips trembling, yet he never let go of her hand. He stayed by her bedside until morning, his eyes bloodshot from exhaustion. When she finally opened her eyes, he said in a hoarse, trembling voice, "Debbie, you scared me to death. Please, don't get sick again."

He used to tell her that when he got better, he would work hard and earn enough to rent a house with heating—so she'd never have to freeze again.

They once dreamed of saving enough money to get married. It didn't matter if there was no grand wedding; as long as they could stay together, that was enough.

He said, smiling gently, "The luckiest thing in my life is meeting you. As long as you don't mind me, Debbie, I'll definitely marry you."

Back then, the way he looked at her was filled with tenderness and dependence—as if she were his whole world.

But now?

Now, he stood under the dazzling spotlight, holding another woman's hand, promising her a grand wedding before the world.

He had forgotten everything—the words he once spoke, the countless sleepless nights she spent for him, the days she starved to save money for his medicine, and how she carried him through three streets to the hospital in the pouring rain.

Debbie wiped her tears with trembling fingers, her skin icy cold.

It turned out that all those beautiful moments were nothing but his dependence when he was desperate—his comfort when he was weak.

Once he stood high above the world, once he gained better choices, those past tenderness became a burden he no longer wished to remember.

After a long silence, Debbie hesitated but finally reached for her phone. Her voice was weak but resolute. "Thaddeus... I want to go home."

There was a brief pause, and then a respectful reply came from the other end.

"Yes, Young Miss. I'll come for you in three days!"

When Debbie opened her eyes again, she was no longer in the hospital.

She was in the master bedroom of the Robbins family villa.

Beside the bed sat Armando, with a gleaming luxury watch on his wrist—the one gifted by the Andrade family. The shimmer of metal on his skin made him look like a stranger, nothing like the man who once lived with her in a shabby rented apartment.

The moment he saw her awake, he stood quickly, voice soft and rehearsed in that familiar tone of gentleness.

"Debbie, you're awake? Do you feel uncomfortable anywhere?"

Gone was the arrogance he showed in the hospital.

When he reached out to touch her forehead, she turned her head away. His hand froze awkwardly in midair.

He sat down at the edge of the bed, taking her uninjured hand.

"I know Karylle went too far. But she only did it because of me. Let's just let this go, okay?"

"The Andrade family has been watching me closely. My engagement to Karylle is just a temporary arrangement. Once I gain full control of the Robbins family, I'll call it off and marry you instead."

He tried to sound sincere, rubbing her hair the way he used to, evoking the past like it could erase everything.

"I still remember when you carried me to the hospital that winter night, and when you sold trinkets to help pay for my medicine. I haven't forgotten, Debbie. I promise you, I'll give you a better life."

But Debbie pulled her hand free, her voice cold and distant, as if her heart had turned to glass.

"Enough," she intoned coldly. "I don't want to hear any of that."

Even the words she heard in the hospital now felt like nothing more than a dream.

Whether he meant them or not no longer mattered. His indifference had already become fact.

Armando's composure cracked. He lowered his voice, almost begging. "Debbie, just give me time. I'll protect you."

Hearing those words, she couldn't help but laugh bitterly. "Protect?"

Her voice trembled with sarcasm.

"Do you want me to watch you get engaged? Or do you want me to keep enduring all the pain while listening to your empty promises? Armando, we can't go back anymore. The kindness you gave me was real—but so was the pain. You're no longer the man who once cared for me."

Her eyes were filled with quiet disappointment. "Why bother pretending to be affectionate now?"

She forced herself to sit up despite the sharp pain in her legs. Her eyes were calm—too calm—like a lake long frozen over.

Armando looked at her, panic flickering in his eyes. Every excuse he had prepared suddenly felt hollow in the silence between them.

Just then, hurried footsteps echoed from the corridor. A servant's anxious voice followed.

"Mr. Robbins! Miss Andrade was making soup for you in the kitchen and accidentally burned her hand!"

"Burned?" Armando's brows furrowed at once. Whatever faint concern he had left for Debbie vanished instantly.

Without even glancing back, he turned and walked out.

Debbie sat frozen on the bed, her fingers curling weakly.

If he had only turned back for one second, he would have seen the redness in her eyes—tears she had been holding back for far too long.

Still, she forced herself to follow.

When she reached the living room, Karylle was sitting on the sofa, her eyes red, a damp towel wrapped around her left wrist. The moment she saw Armando, her voice quivered with tears.

"Arman, I just wanted to make some soup for you... I didn't expect..."

Armando crouched in front of her, his voice patient and gentle—a tone Debbie had never heard him use before.

"I told you, you don't have to do these things for me." He gently lifted the towel and frowned at the reddened burn on her skin. "You've never even cooked before—why push yourself?"

Why force yourself to do something like this?"

He picked up a tube of ointment, dipped his fingertips in, and carefully applied it to Karylle's wound, bit by bit. Between them lingered an unspoken intimacy.

Debbie stood silently at the door, her fingertips cold as ice.

It wasn't until Armando finally looked up and noticed her that he remembered her presence. He stood abruptly, his voice a little awkward.

"Debbie, actually... I still like the dishes you make best. They suit my taste more than anything else. Why don't you go and cook?"

In the past, Debbie would have smiled through her tears, washed her hands, and gone straight to the kitchen, no matter how tired or unwell she was.

But today, she just looked at him quietly. Her voice was soft—yet firmer than ever before. "There are servants in the kitchen. Let them handle it."

"After three years of playing your housemaid, I've had enough."

Silence filled the room. The air seemed to freeze around them.

Armando sensed something in her tone. The carelessness in his eyes faded as he stepped closer, trying to take her hand.

"Debbie, don't be angry. I'm just worried about Karylle."

He spoke quickly, as if to justify himself. "And I already told Karylle to stop bullying you. We only have a cooperative relationship. You're the one I truly love."

Before he could finish, Karylle's soft voice interrupted. She lowered her gaze, her tone full of gentle guilt.

"Arman, don't blame Debbie. It's all my fault. I shouldn't have caused you trouble..."

"It's only natural for her to hate me. If she's unhappy, I'll leave right now."

Armando turned to Debbie at once, his tone carrying a faint trace of reproach.

"Look at you—Karylle even said that, so don't be angry, okay? If you want to blame someone, blame me. This has nothing to do with her. We're all good friends—don't take it so seriously."

Debbie stared at him, feeling as if the man in front of her had become a stranger.

"Armando, you may be friends with her, but I'm not."

Without another glance, she turned and walked back to her room.

Night had fallen.

Debbie sat on the bed, her fingertips brushing against the rim of a cup of warm water that had long gone cold. The clock on the wall ticked steadily, marking the endless hours from midnight to dawn. Yet Armando never came back.

Before retiring for the night, the butler had explained softly, "Miss Ingram, Mr. Robbins has just taken over the company and has urgent matters to handle tonight. He may have to stay overnight at the office."

She nodded without replying, quietly turning her phone screen on and off.

It wasn't until two in the morning that a notification popped up.

It was a message from Karylle—with two photos. Both were taken at the entrance of one of the city's most exclusive bars.

In the picture, Armando slightly lowered his head, his hand gripping Karylle's waist as they kissed—deeply, inseparably. The location tag beneath the photo was nowhere near the "company" the butler had mentioned. It was halfway across the city.

Debbie's hand holding the phone didn't tremble. She rose slowly, heading toward the door. The sound of her footsteps on the floor was so soft it was almost silent.

When she arrived at the bar and found the private room from the location, the door was slightly ajar.

Inside came bursts of laughter and drunken chatter. Then, Armando's voice rang out, low and rough with alcohol, yet every word pierced straight through her.

"Debbie? She's just some street vendor girl. Who does she think she is, giving me attitude? If it weren't for the fact she waited on me like a servant for three years—cooking, cleaning, fetching tea—I'd have tossed her out long ago."

Laughter followed.

"Armando, Karylle is much more fun than her. You and her really make a perfect pair!"

Karylle's soft, sugary voice chimed in. "Arman, don't say that about Debbie. If she heard you, she'd be so hurt."

Armando sneered, slamming his wine glass onto the table. The sharp crack echoed through the room.

"Sad? She's like a wooden doll—does she even know what sadness is? Every day, she's tied to the stove. When I invited Karylle over, she'd just add more dishes and utensils—so dull! But the first time I saw Karylle... she was different. I wanted to keep her all to myself. That kind of madness, that possessiveness—Debbie never made me feel that way!"

Laughter filled the room again. Someone teased, patting Armando's shoulder.

"Armando is biased even when drunk! Debbie would cry if she heard that!"

Armando tilted his head back, gulping down more wine. His cheeks were flushed, but his eyes glinted with disdain.

"Cry? If she dares cry, I'll only find her more pathetic. If not for her fussing over me all those years, I'd have sent her away long ago. What right does she have to give me a hard time?"

Outside the door, Debbie stood still, her fingertips pressed to the cold wood. Her heart was eerily calm.

Back then, Armando had congenital heart disease. She had never let him drink, not even a sip. Every time they attended gatherings, she would watch his glass carefully, even contacting restaurants in advance to replace his wine with juice.

Now, he was sitting in a bar, drunk out of his mind, ridiculing her with every word.

And in her mind, a single thought echoed: 'The first thing the cripple did after healing was throw away the crutches that once held him up.'

Suddenly, the door swung open.

Karylle stood in the doorway, her lipstick smudged, her hair a little messy. For an instant, surprise flashed in her eyes, quickly replaced by a smug smile. She glanced deliberately toward the room.

Armando's slurred voice floated out,

"Karylle, who's at the door? Why are you standing there so long?"

Turning back, Karylle's tone turned honeyed and sweet as she spoke, deliberately raised the volume, making sure Debbie outside could hear her every word.

"No one, Arman. It's just the wind blowing the door."

Then she casually tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her fingers brushing her swollen lips, locking eyes with Debbie in deliberate provocation as if saying, 'Look, he's drunk—with only me in his eyes and heart. He doesn't even notice you standing there.'

Debbie didn't move. She just stood there, silently watching the scene inside—the laughter, the drinks, the man who had once been her whole world. She watched Armando lean close to Karylle, whispering something that made her giggle like a child.

When Karylle finally helped the drunken Armando toward the restroom, Debbie silently followed.

The corridor lights were dim. She stood before them, the light casting faint shadows across her expressionless face.

Her eyes swept over Armando, who was barely able to keep his eyes open, his steps unsteady—then settled coldly on Karylle.

Her voice was soft, but every word was as sharp as glass. "When did you get together?"

Armando felt that the person in front of him was somewhat familiar, but couldn't remember who it was, and just muttered vaguely, "Who are you...? Don't block the way..."

Karylle clung tighter to his arm, smiling, as if comforting a lover.

"We? Oh, it's been a year."

Then she leaned in, her lips almost brushing Debbie's ear, her voice dripping with mock pity and smug delight.

"For that whole year, he ate your food, spent your money—and bought me handbags with it. When you were asleep, he'd sneak out to see me. Isn't that funny?"

"You keep fighting me for a man—but with ninety nine betrayal, haven't you learned by now? The one Arman loves most has always been me."

She smiled.

"You're the obstacle between us, Debbie. So I'll remove you myself."

Armando burped beside her, barely aware of what was happening.

"Karylle... don't talk to strangers... let's go drink..."

He waved a hand dismissively, not even realizing who stood in front of him. His tone was filled with irritation, as though she were nothing more than an obstacle.

Debbie looked at them both—at the man who no longer recognized her, and the woman who had stolen everything she'd ever cherished.

Her hand rose before she even thought about it.

Slap!

Her palm struck his face hard.

"If you like picking up trash so much," she said coldly, "then I'll give it to you."

Ignoring Karylle's furious shout behind her, Debbie turned and walked away.

Every grievance, every sleepless night, every cruel word she'd just heard—each one was a blunt knife carving through her heart, cutting the last thread of attachment cleanly in two.

She walked toward the elevator without looking back, as if all the noise and laughter behind had nothing to do with her.

'So you've been lying to me all along, Armando!'