As the car hit me, my consciousness began to fade.

Pain shot through my entire body, but what hurt more was the absolute, crushing despair of being abandoned.

Flashes of memory flooded my mind.

The first time I saw Vincent, sitting behind his desk, the cold light glinting off his glasses. Me, deliberately provoking him, and him, completely unmoved.

The first time he pinned me down, calling me Principessa, his voice low and ragged. I had thought it was love.

Countless nights, lying in his arms, listening to the steady beat of his heart, thinking I had finally found my home.

The final image was frozen in my mind: Vincent, without a moment's hesitation, diving to protect Isabella.

And me, like some disposable bystander, left to face the danger all alone.

When I opened my eyes again, I was in a hospital bed.

The room was quiet, but I could hear Vincent on the phone just outside my curtain.

"Isabella, does it still hurt?" His voice was so gentle it felt alien to me.

"Much better, thank you, Vincent," Isabella's voice was frail. "If you hadn't grabbed me in time, I might have..."

"Don't think about that," Vincent soothed her. "The doctor said you were just shaken up, no external injuries."

"Vincent, if it happened again, you would still save me first, right?"

Vincent didn't hesitate. "Of course."

"But Sophia got hit..."

"She has no reason to be angry," Vincent's voice was calm, logical. "In an emergency, of course I'm going to save the more fragile person. She understands that."

I closed my eyes, feeling as if someone had just plunged a knife into my heart.

So, in Vincent's mind, I didn't even have the right to be angry.

Footsteps approached, and the curtain around my bed was pulled back.

Vincent stood there. Seeing that I was awake, his face held not a single trace of guilt. "You're awake?"

"Yeah," my voice was hoarse.

"The doctor said you have a mild concussion and some scrapes on your leg. Nothing serious," Vincent said. "I've arranged for the best medical team. I'll stay here to take care of you for the next few days."

"Thanks," I said, staring up at the ceiling. "I'll pay you back for the medical bills in ten days."

Vincent frowned. "What are you talking about? What's in ten days?"

"I said I'll pay you back," I turned to look at him, my gaze flat. "And for the cost of my stay at your place. I'll settle it all at once."

Vincent's expression was strained. "Sophia, you don't have to keep score with me."

"Why not?" my voice was devoid of emotion. "We were never anything to each other, were we?"

The room fell silent for a few long seconds.

Vincent seemed to want to say something, but in the end, he just said, "Get some rest."

For the next few days, Vincent did stay at the hospital to look after me.

He checked on me regularly, made sure the nurses gave me my medication on time, and even tested the temperature of my food before letting me eat it.

But I remained cold and distant.

I didn't cry, didn't throw tantrums, didn't demand his attention. I treated him like a kind stranger, polite but utterly detached.

This new version of me seemed to make Vincent uncomfortable.

On the third afternoon, Vincent sat in the chair by my bed, watching me listlessly flip through a magazine.

"Sophia," he began.

"Hmm?" I didn't look up.

"About that night..." Vincent paused. "I saved Isabella first, but it wasn't because I didn't want to save you."

He continued, "Isabella's body is weak. She couldn't have survived the impact. It was the only logical choice..."

I put down the magazine, cutting him off. "I know."

Vincent looked at me, a strange, unreadable emotion in his eyes. "You're really not angry?"

"Do you want me to be?"

Just then, a commotion erupted in the hallway.

"Hurry! Get her to the ER!"

"What happened?"

"Miss Isabella fell down the stairs! She's hurt badly!"

The color drained from Vincent's face.

He shot to his feet. "I have to go handle something," he said quickly.

He walked to the door, then glanced back at me. "I'll be back to check on you later."

I listened to his hurried footsteps fade down the hall and closed my eyes, a wave of profound exhaustion washing over me.

Isabella had once again succeeded in taking Vincent away from me.

And I no longer had the strength to fight for him.

In a week, he'd be free to be with her anyway.

I woke from a doze to a sharp, stinging pain in my arm.

Looking down, I saw my IV line had backed up with blood, a crimson line creeping steadily up the clear tube.

I pressed the call button.

A nurse bustled in and frowned at the IV. "Why is no one watching you? Where's your boyfriend?"

"He's not my boyfriend," I said calmly. "He had to leave for something important."

"How long ago?" the nurse asked, skillfully changing the needle.

I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was two in the morning. Vincent had left at seven in the evening. Seven hours ago.

"A long time ago."

The nurse shook her head with a sigh. "That's how it is with these rich guys. They put on a good show, but they're never around when it counts."

After she left, I couldn't get back to sleep.

When morning came, I decided to go for a walk.

Dragging my IV stand into the hallway, I overheard two nurses talking quietly.

"That girl in the VIP wing is so lucky. Her boyfriend booked the entire floor for her."

"I heard he even flew in specialists from overseas for 24/7 care."

"The heir to the Marcelli family is so good to her. He hasn't left her side since she was admitted."

I stopped.

The VIP wing was on the tenth floor. I was on the eighth, in a standard private room.

I pressed the elevator button and went up to the tenth floor.

The entire floor was indeed cordoned off. Only one room was lit.

I walked to the door and peered through the small window.

Vincent was sitting by the bed, patiently spoon-feeding Isabella porridge. She was propped up against a mountain of pillows, her face pale but content.

"Does it still hurt?" Vincent asked softly.

"Much better," Isabella said, opening her mouth for another spoonful. "With you here, I'm not afraid of anything."

Don Romano was sitting on the sofa, peeling an apple for her. As soon as she finished the porridge, he handed her a small slice.

"Eat slowly. Don't choke," the Don's voice was laced with an affection I hadn't heard in years.

"Uncle Romano, you're so good to me," Isabella smiled sweetly. "Just like a real father."

"You are my daughter now," Don Romano said, patting her hand. "This family is your home."

Vincent smiled gently and reached out to smooth Isabella's hair. "Is your head still spinning?"

"No, just a little tired."

"Then get some more sleep," Vincent said, closing the curtains and dimming the lights. "I'll be right here with you."

The tender, domestic scene was a knife twisting in my heart.

I bit my lip so hard I could taste blood, forcing myself not to cry out.

I turned away from the VIP wing and went back to my own room.

Don't cry, Sophia. You can't cry.

Four days before I was scheduled to fly to Boston for the wedding, I was discharged.

As I stepped out of the hospital, I saw Vincent leaning against his black car, waiting.

"Get in," he said.

"I'll get a cab."

"Get in." Vincent's tone left no room for argument.

I looked at his cold, hard expression and finally slid into the car.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"To clear your head," Vincent said, starting the car. "You've been cooped up in the hospital for too long."

Half an hour later, he pulled up in front of Sotheby's auction house in Midtown.

"An auction?" I looked at the poster by the entrance.

"There's an art auction today," Vincent said, getting out. "I thought you liked this sort of thing."

I was about to refuse, but when he handed me the auction catalog, my eyes caught a familiar item.

Lot 47: A Pearl Necklace.

My hands began to shake.

I knew that necklace. It was my mother's. It was the only thing I had left of her.

"What's wrong?" Vincent noticed my reaction.

"Nothing," I clutched the catalog tightly. "Let's go in."

In the restroom, I dialed my lawyer's number with trembling fingers.

"Sell everything I have. All of it. Now."

"Miss Sophia, you said you wanted to take those things to Boston..."

"I changed my mind," I said urgently. "How much can I get?"

"Around fifteen million dollars."

"That's enough." I hung up and took a deep breath.

I had to get my mother's necklace back.

We walked into the auction hall, and Vincent found us seats near the front.

Just as I was about to sit, a familiar voice called out.

"Vincent!"

Isabella walked over, wearing a pale pink dress. Her head was still wrapped in gauze, but she was as beautiful and fragile as ever.

She linked her arm through Vincent's.

"Sophia's here too," Isabella said, smiling sweetly at me. "I told Vincent I wanted to apologize to you in person today. I didn't think he'd actually bring you to the auction."

In that moment, everything became painfully clear.

Vincent didn't bring me here to cheer me up or clear my head.

He brought me because Isabella wanted to "apologize," and I was just a prop he brought along for the ride.

I looked at Isabella's triumphant smile, and the last bit of pain in my heart vanished, replaced by a cold, hard numbness.

I couldn't feel anything anymore.

The auction began.

I clutched my bidding paddle, my eyes fixed on the stage, waiting for lot number 47.

Finally, the auctioneer held up the pearl necklace.

"Lot number 47, a stunning pearl necklace. Bidding starts at five hundred thousand dollars."

I immediately raised my paddle. "Five hundred thousand."

"One million," Isabella's voice chimed in from beside me.

I turned to look at her. Isabella was smiling, holding her own paddle high.

"One point five million," I countered, my voice tight.

"Two million," Isabella said without a flicker of hesitation.

The price began to skyrocket.

Three million, five million, eight million...

My palms grew sweaty. My lawyer had said my assets were worth fifteen million, but the bidding was already approaching twenty.

"Twenty million," Isabella raised her paddle effortlessly, as if naming a trivial sum.

The auctioneer looked at me. "Ma'am, do you wish to continue?"

My hand trembled. I couldn't raise the paddle again.

I didn't have enough money.

All eyes in the room were on me, including Vincent's.

I swallowed my pride and turned to him.

"Vincent, lend me the money," my voice shook. "Please. It was my mother's necklace. It's the only thing she left me."

Vincent looked at me, a complex, unreadable emotion in his eyes. Just as he was about to reach for his black card...

Isabella turned to him too, her voice a sweet, cloying whine. "Vincent, I've never had anything nice in my whole life. This is the first time I've ever loved a piece of jewelry this much. Can you please ask Sophia to let me have it?"

She tugged on his sleeve, her eyes wide and pleading.

Vincent's gaze shifted between me and Isabella.

Those few seconds felt like a century.

"Let Isabella have it," Vincent finally said, his voice terrifyingly calm.

My world collapsed.

"Twenty million, going once!" the auctioneer's voice boomed.

"Twenty million, going twice!"

I wanted to scream, to beg Vincent again, but the words were stuck in my throat, choked by betrayal.

"Twenty million, sold!"

The moment the gavel fell, my heart died completely.

Isabella clapped excitedly, then turned to me. "Sophia, thank you!"

The triumph on her face was undisguised.

After the auction, Vincent left to get medicine for Isabella, who was suddenly claiming to have a headache.

I sat alone on a plush sofa in the lounge, watching the staff pack up the remaining lots.

Ten minutes later, Isabella came backstage and walked up to me.

I stood up to face her.

"Isabella, I'll trade you for the necklace. Anything."

"Like what?" Isabella raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

"I have a Ferrari, and some designer watches. The total value isn't twenty million, but give me some time, and I'll get you the rest..." I struggled to keep my voice steady. "Just give me back the necklace."

Isabella shook her head. "I don't need any of that."

"Then what do you want?"

Isabella feigned a thoughtful expression, then a cruel smile spread across her face. "I want you to get on your knees and beg me for it."

"What?"

"Kneel. Apologize for how you've treated me. And then beg me to give you the necklace," Isabella's eyes glinted with malice. "You were so awful to me before. Now it's your turn to beg."

I stared at her, my fists clenched at my sides.

But the thought of my mother's necklace, my last link to her, made me slowly, agonizingly, begin to bend my knees.

"Good girl. But first, let me show you where the necklace is now." Isabella laughed triumphantly and took out her phone.

She played a video and held it in front of my face.

On the screen, a filthy stray dog was wagging its tail. Draped around its neck was a string of lustrous pearls.

My mother's necklace.

"See? This is where it belongs now," Isabella smiled sweetly. "I think it's a perfect match. A bitch for a bitch."

My blood ran cold.

"What did you say?"

"I said, a bitch for a bitch," Isabella put her phone away, her smile unwavering. "Wasn't your mother a bitch? She deserved to be hit by that car. Now her necklace is on a dog. It's fitting, don't you think?"

"Which hand did you use to put it on the dog?" my voice was a whisper, so quiet I could barely hear it myself.

"My right hand. Why?" Isabella was still smiling, savoring her victory.

The next second, I snatched a steak knife from a nearby catering table and plunged it straight through the back of her right hand, pinning it to the tablecloth beneath.

Blood gushed out. Isabella let out a piercing, agonized scream.