Eleanor slid the perfectly roasted Beef Wellington onto a warm plate. The scent of truffle and thyme filled the vast, sterile kitchen of the Manhattan penthouse.

She glanced at the antique clock on the wall. Ten o'clock.

Her lower back ached from standing for hours. She pressed a hand against the spot, a small, unconscious gesture.

Rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city lights of Manhattan blurring into a watercolor wash. She moved to the long dining table, the crystal glasses and polished silver gleaming. With a steady hand, she lit the scented candles on the silver candelabra, their warm glow pushing back against the storm outside.

The front door opened.

Julian Sterling walked in with the chill of New York's autumn. A chill clings to his custom suit, accompanied by a pungent smell of medicine. Disinfectant.

She reached out to take his jacket. "You're back."

He sidestepped to avoid her touch.

This jacket, worth thousands of yuan, was piled up and landed on the white leather sofa. His movements were stiff, carrying a kind of irritation that had nothing to do with her.

His eyes, the color of storm clouds, didn't even glance at the candlelit dining table. They landed on her, cold and direct.

"Put on your coat," he said. The words were short and stiff. "We are going to Mayfair Private Hospital,Seraphina Reed. She was bleeding internally. She needs Rh-negative blood.

Eleanor stood frozen, her smile cracking like thin ice. "What? Seraphina?"

She stopped. A cold realization washed over her, turning her blood to ice.

"You've been with her," Eleanor whispered. Not a question.The truth landed like a blade between her ribs. "This whole week. You weren't working. You were with her."

Julian's jaw tightened. He didn't deny it. He didn't even flinch. "That's not important right now. Seraphina's condition is critical. Her blood type is rare. You're a match."

Eleanor's hands began to tremble. The warm glow of the candles suddenly felt mocking. She looked down at the cooling Beef Wellington—the dish she had practiced for weeks, the meal she had imagined him tasting with surprise and pleasure.

"Do you even know what day it is?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

His gaze flickered to the table for a fraction of a second. Annoyance crossed his features. "This isn't the time for games, Eleanor."

Games.

The word cut deeper than any knife.

She pressed her injured finger against her palm, the sting grounding her. "You want my blood?" she asked, her voice trembling but hardening with each word. "To save her?"

Julian's expression darkened. He stepped closer, his height and presence filling the space between them, suffocating her. "I'm not asking. I'm telling you."

"No."

The word hung in the air, sharp and final.

His eyes turned glacial. "What did you say?"

Eleanor lifted her chin, though her heart was pounding so hard she thought she might collapse. "I said no. You don't get to disappear for a week, lie to me about where you're going, and then come back demanding my blood for your—" She stopped, swallowing the bitter words. "For her."

A muscle feathered in Julian's jaw. His patience, always thin when it came to her, was visibly fraying. "Eleanor. Don't make this harder than it needs to be."

"Harder?" A bitter laugh escaped her lips. It sounded hollow, broken. "You want my help? Then you have to give me something first."

Julian stared at her as if seeing a stranger. A distasteful one. His voice dropped, low and dangerous. "What do you want?"

Eleanor took a deep breath. The air burned in her lungs. She thought of the two years she had spent in this penthouse—invisible. The years of waiting. Of hoping. Of believing that if she just tried hard enough, he would see her. Love her.

But he never did.

"Tomorrow night," she said, each word precise and heavy. "At the charity gala. I want you to introduce me as your wife. Publicly. I want you to acknowledge our marriage. To everyone."

The silence that followed was absolute. It was broken only by a distant roll of thunder that made her flinch—a tiny, almost imperceptible movement.

A short, sharp laugh escaped Julian's lips. It was a sound devoid of any humor, full of contempt.

"Absolutely not," he said, his voice dripping with scorn. "Seraphina is in the hospital, possibly dying, and you want to use this moment to bargain for social status? You're even colder than I thought."

The words struck her like a slap. Her vision blurred with unshed tears, but she refused to let them fall. She had cried over this man too many times already.

"I'm cold?" she whispered, her voice cracking. "You've hidden me away for two years, Julian. Two years. I've been your secret. Your dirty little secret. And now you want my blood for the woman you've probably been with all week—"

"That's enough." His voice was ice. "Seraphina doesn't have time for your theatrics."

"Then you can think about my condition while she waits," Eleanor said, her voice rising with a sharp edge of hysteria she rarely showed. "You said she's critical? Then every minute counts, doesn't it? So you'd better decide fast."

She turned around, turned her back to him, and walked back to the marble console. She picked up a glass of ice water and drank it all in one go; the coldness did not numb the pain in her throat at all.

His patience broke down.

He crossed that space in two steps, his hand tightly gripping her wrist. His hands were as strong as steel. He started pulling her toward the door.

"Let go of me," she said, her voice rising with a rarely revealed sharp hysteria.

Her resistance only fueled his anger. His fingers tightened, squeezing her skin until it turned blue.

Her free hand fumbled and touched a crystal cup. Without thinking, she grabbed it and threw it to the ground.

It shattered like a gunshot.

A piece of broken glass flew out, drawing a thin red line across Julian's hand.

He stopped. He looked down at the blood seeping from his skin, then looked at her. His face was filled with cold anger.

He suddenly released her wrist, causing her to stagger backward.

"Fine," he roared, his voice low and dangerous. "Stay here. The deal was canceled. ”

Julian stared at the broken glass on the floor, then at the blood beading on his hand. He didn't bother to wipe it away.

He looked at Eleanor, his expression completely devoid of any emotion she recognized. It was the look one gives to a faulty piece of equipment.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked, his voice flat.

Eleanor stood by the sink, her back ramrod straight. She didn't flinch from his gaze. "I'm sure."

He took a deep, steadying breath. "If anything happens to Seraphina," he said, the words cold and measured, "I will never forgive you."

A sharp pain lanced through her chest, but she just lifted her chin. "That's your problem, not mine."

He turned on his heel, the sole of his expensive leather shoe grinding shards of glass into the marble floor. The sound was grating, violent.

He snatched his jacket from the sofa, the fabric still damp with rain.

The front door slammed shut behind him, the sound echoing through the cavernous apartment. A moment later, the electronic lock clicked, sealing her inside.

The strength drained out of her all at once. Her legs gave out, and she slid down the side of the marble island until she was sitting on the cold, hard floor.

A flash of lightning lit up the room, followed by a deafening clap of thunder. Eleanor cried out, a small, choked sound, and covered her ears. Her body began to tremble violently.

She curled into a ball on the floor, the cold of the marble seeping into her clothes. Julian's icy stare was seared into her mind, playing on a loop.

Half an hour passed. The storm subsided to a low grumble. Eleanor used the cabinet to pull herself up, her limbs stiff and aching.

She walked to the dining table. The Beef Wellington had cooled, the fat congealing into a pale, unappetizing film. The candles had burned down to puddles of wax.

Without a word, she picked up the trash can. She scraped the entire meal, plates and all, into the bin. The clatter of ceramic against plastic was the only sound in the room.

Next, she went to the foyer. She found the slippers Julian kept by the door and, one by one, kicked them deep into the back of the hall closet.

She went into the master bathroom and turned on the shower, stepping under the spray without waiting for it to warm up. The cold water was a shock, a punishment. She wanted to feel anything other than the hollow ache in her chest.

After her shower, wrapped in a silk robe, she walked into the living room. His phone, he'd left it on the coffee table. No, it was her phone. His was gone.

The screen lit up with a notification. A push alert from a New York gossip site.

Sterling Corp. CEO in Late-Night Hospital Dash.

Her finger trembled as she tapped the link.

The screen filled with a grainy, long-lens photograph. The location was unmistakable: the entrance of Mayfair Private Hospital. Rain was pouring down. Julian stood there, holding a large black umbrella.

Tucked under his arm, held tightly against his body, was a woman. Her face was pale, her expression fragile and pitiable.

Seraphina.

The caption speculated whether the reclusive heir to the Sterling fortune was making a late-night visit for a secret lover.

Eleanor's eyes zoomed in on the photo. She stared at the hand Julian used to shield Seraphina's head from the rain. The hand holding the umbrella.

On the back of it, stark against his pale skin, was the fresh, red cut from the broken glass.

A wave of nausea rose so fast and so violently it choked her. She dropped the phone on the rug.

She scrambled to the bathroom, her hand clamped over her mouth. She barely made it to the toilet before she was retching, her body convulsing with dry, painful heaves.

There was nothing in her stomach to come up. Only sour, bitter bile that burned her throat. The force of it brought tears to her eyes.

She lifted her head, catching her reflection in the mirror above the sink. Her face was ashen, her eyes wide and haunted. The pain in them slowly, surely, gave way to a flat, dead emptiness.

She turned on the faucet, splashing cold water on her face. As she stared at the stranger in the mirror, a decision formed in the quiet wreckage of her heart. A decision to end this. All of it.

The first rays of dawn sliced through the blinds, striping the living room floor in gray and white. Eleanor hadn't slept. She had sat on the sofa all night, a silent vigil for a marriage that was already dead.

The sound of hurried footsteps echoed from the hallway outside, followed by the familiar beep of the keypad.

Julian walked in, looking exhausted. The smell of the hospital was stronger now, a cloying scent of antiseptic and sickness that clung to him like a second skin.

His gaze swept over the room, noting the empty dining table and the trash can, which she hadn't bothered to hide. A flicker of something—guilt, maybe—crossed his face before it was gone.

He stopped in front of the sofa where she sat. He cleared his throat, his voice softer than it had been the night before.

"Seraphina's stable for now," he began. "But the doctors still want a backup supply of blood, just in case."

Eleanor didn't look at him. She stared at the intricate pattern on the Persian rug, her expression unreadable.

He frowned, his patience already fraying. He clearly thought she was still trying to bargain. He played his card.

"I'll do it," he said, the words sounding forced. "Tonight, at the gala. I'll announce our marriage."

Her eyelashes fluttered. Slowly, she lifted her head and looked at him, really looked at the man she had loved with a desperate, all-consuming passion for three years.

He must have mistaken her silence for consideration. He pressed his advantage. "On one condition. You go to the hospital right now and make the donation. And you behave yourself at the gala."

The sheer, unadulterated arrogance of it was breathtaking. A low, soft laugh escaped her throat. It sounded alien in the quiet room.

"What's so funny?" Julian demanded, his tone hardening.

Eleanor pushed herself off the sofa. Her body protested the movement, stiff from the long night. She steadied herself and walked to the wet bar.

She poured a glass of water, her hands perfectly steady. She took a sip, the cool liquid soothing her raw throat.

Then she turned to face him. "I've changed my mind," she said, her voice as calm and flat as a frozen lake.

He stared at her, genuinely confused. This was not part of his script. This was the one thing she had always wanted.

"I don't want you to announce our marriage anymore," she continued, her voice clear and precise. "I want a divorce."

The word hung in the air between them. Divorce.

Julian's face went rigid. His eyes narrowed, the pupils contracting into pinpricks of fury. In two long strides, he was in front of her. His hand shot out, grabbing her chin, forcing her head up.

"You're taking this game too far," he snarled, his face inches from hers. "It's pathetic."

She didn't flinch. She met his furious gaze with a look of pure, unadulterated contempt. "I find you disgusting," she said, the words sharp and clean.

That broke through his anger. He released her so suddenly she stumbled back a step.

A cruel, mocking smile twisted his lips. "This is about money, isn't it? You think threatening a divorce will get you a bigger payout."

He reached into his jacket, pulled out a checkbook and a pen. He scribbled a number-a lot of zeros-and tore the check out with a vicious rip. He threw it on the bar.

"Take it," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "But you're giving the blood. And we are not getting a divorce. Forget it."

Eleanor looked at the check lying on the polished wood. It was an insult of such magnitude that it burned away the last vestiges of her pain, leaving behind only cold, hard clarity.

She picked it up.

For a moment, he looked triumphant.

Then, she tore it in half. And then in half again.

She let the pieces flutter from her fingers into the trash can beside the bar.

She looked at him, her eyes empty of everything but resolve. She pointed to the door.

"Get out."

The look on her face, the finality in her voice, seemed to finally get through to him. His face turned ashen with rage.

"You'll regret this," he bit out.

And for the second time in less than twelve hours, he slammed the door on his way out.