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!'

The next day, the engagement banquet sparkled with luxury.

Armando stood at the center of the hall, his hand wrapped tightly around Karylle's delicate fingers. Surrounded by laughter and champagne toasts, they accepted blessings from the guests—everyone praising how perfectly matched they looked, a talented man and a beautiful woman.

Karylle rested her arm proudly against his, her smile radiant with triumph. But Armando's eyes drifted—again and again—toward the far end of the villa.

Upstairs, behind a locked door, Debbie was being "taken care of" by the housekeeper he had arranged.

The butler entered the bedroom with a tray in hand, his tone polite but nervous.

"Miss Ingram, Mr. Robbins asked that you drink this warm milk and get some rest. He said he doesn't want you to tire yourself out."

Condensation still beaded the rim of the glass. It looked harmless.

Debbie stared at it, her fingers curling slightly, and said softly, "Leave it. I'll drink it later."

The butler hesitated but dared not press further. He set the milk down and quietly backed out of the room—then clicked the lock behind him.

Not long after, the door opened again. Armando entered, the scent of alcohol and Karylle's perfume still clinging to him from the banquet.

He walked to the bedside and lightly touched Debbie's cheek—his fingertips carried a trace of warmth, but his tone was full of false tenderness.

"Debbie, I've wronged you."

"I only have you in my heart, but I can't let go of the Robbins family inheritance. Karylle can help me now, but it's just temporary. Once I have full control of the family, I'll end the engagement and bring you away from here. Trust me, okay?"

He gazed at the "sleeping" Debbie, a flicker of struggle crossing his eyes. But in the end, he hardened his heart, turned around, and left.

As soon as the door closed, the woman on the bed slowly opened her eyes.

She had never touched the glass of milk—she'd only been pretending to sleep.

By sheer coincidence, when Armando had locked the door earlier, the lock hadn't clicked properly. With a light push, it opened.

Debbie leaned against the wall for support, forcing herself up through the stabbing pain in her body, and made her way toward the banquet hall.

When she appeared at the entrance, the once noisy hall suddenly fell silent.

Gasps erupted seconds later.

"Who's that?"

"Why is she dressed like that?"

"Does anyone know her?"

The guests began whispering among themselves, all eyes turning toward Debbie.

Armando's face changed instantly. Shock flickered in his eyes, followed by fury. He barked out, "Who let her out? Get her out of here!"

"Wait."

A cold, commanding voice cut through the noise.

Madam Robbins rose slowly from the sofa, her elegant dress glimmering under the chandelier. Her sharp eyes settled on her son with open disgust.

If her legitimate heir hadn't drowned years ago, she would never have allowed this illegitimate son to step foot in the Robbins household.

"Armando," she said icily. "What is the meaning of this?"

Before he could answer, Karylle stepped forward, gripping his arm tightly. Her voice trembled just enough to sound convincing, laced with practiced fear and pity.

"Aunt Rosie, I—I don't know. This woman has been obsessed with Arman for a long time. She's always tried to get close to him. Maybe she snuck in tonight to ruin the engagement."

Madam Robbins's expression hardened. Her gaze swung sharply to her son.

"Is that true?"

Armando looked at Debbie's pale face, panic flickering in his heart. But under Madam Robbins' scrutiny—and with the thought of the hard-won inheritance hanging in the balance—he averted his eyes.

A look of feigned heartache and hesitation passed over his face as he nodded slowly.

"Yes... she's been bothering me for a while. I couldn't do anything about it."

Debbie felt her blood run cold. Her whole body stiffened as she shouted, her voice trembling with fury and disbelief.

"Armando, tell everyone—who am I to you? It was you who—"

Before she could finish, Armando gestured sharply, and the bodyguard rushed forward to cover her mouth.

She stared at Armando's familiar face—at the man who once swore to protect her—and listened as he labeled her nothing more than a deranged woman obsessed with him.

In that instant, the last shred of warmth in her heart shattered into ashes.

"So be it." Madam Robbins's voice was calm, but cold as ice. "Armando, you caused this mess. Clean it up. Don't ruin the evening for everyone else."

Armando's Adam's apple bobbed. Under the weight of everyone's gaze, he closed his eyes and gave the order hoarsely.

"Throw her... into the pool."

The bodyguard stepped forward, grabbed Debbie—still confined to her wheelchair—and carried her outside toward the garden.

With a loud plop, she was hurled into the pool.

The icy water swallowed her whole, the shock sending knives of pain through her abdomen. She struggled, gasping, but her limbs quickly went weak.

At the entrance of the banquet hall, Armando stood frozen, staring at the figure sinking deeper into the water. His heart pounded violently, his fingertips turning cold.

He wanted to rush to her, but his legs felt heavy as lead. He could only watch helplessly as Debbie's hair floated on the water's surface for a moment—then slowly sank out of sight.

And the pool went still.