"Abigail, you're finally awake. Does anything hurt?"

He wiped the corner of his eye and gave me a gentle smile.

We stared at each other in silence for a long moment before I spoke, my voice hoarse.

"Where's Grandpa? I need to see him."

His gaze shifted away, refusing to meet mine.

"You have no idea how worried I was about you. As long as you're okay, that's all that matters. Really."

I looked around the room and immediately realized this wasn't our home.

I struggled to sit up, my fingers trembling as I grabbed my clothes and threw them on haphazardly, ready to leave.

"You're always saying I never have time for you, aren't you?"

He caught my arm, his tone gentle yet brooking no argument.

"Just stay here and rest for a few days, okay? I won't let anyone disturb us."

His grip was iron-tight around my arm. I pried his fingers off and looked him straight in the eye.

"Charles, please let me see Grandpa. He raised me. It's been just the two of us my whole life."

"He means everything to me. I'm begging you—just let me see him once."

"Now isn't the right time."

His voice remained patient, measured.

"Calm down for a few days first. I'll take you to see him soon."

But this was Grandpa.

The person closest to me in this entire world.

My eyes burned with unshed tears as I lowered myself the way I always had, pleading softly.

"Please, just this once. If you're worried, come with me."

After a moment of silence, he frowned and slowly shook his head, his tone firmer than I'd ever heard it.

"Don't make a scene. When the time is right, I'll let you go see him."

In that moment, something inside me died.

No matter what reason I gave, Charles refused without wavering.

He was going to keep me here. Trapped in this invisible cage.

But my grandfather was still waiting for me.

"Abigail, didn't you always want to sketch me?"

He suddenly changed the subject, his voice softening.

"There's paper and pencils in the study. I'll go get them."

A few minutes later, he sat carefully across from me and struck a pose.

When we were dating, I used to draw his portrait almost every month.

Maybe it was because he was so handsome. Maybe it was because I loved him. Either way, my sketches of him always seemed to come alive, as if they had souls of their own.

"Why haven't you started?"

His voice pulled me back from my memories.

I forced myself to focus.

By the time I finished, I was drenched in sweat.

He studied the portrait, then looked at me, his eyes crinkling with warmth as he leaned in to kiss my cheek.

The phone on the nightstand suddenly buzzed.

I glanced over. It was Freya.

He got up and stepped outside to answer.

"Alright, I'll be there soon. But I only have two hours—I need to get back to Abigail."

Once he was sure I was asleep, he slipped out quietly and closed the door behind him.

The sound of the car engine faded into the distance before I finally struggled to sit up.

After getting dressed, I went straight to the study.

I searched every corner meticulously. Any chance to gather evidence against Freya—I wasn't going to let it slip away.

Finally, beneath the safe, I found the USB flash drive from that day.

My fingers trembled as I plugged it into the computer. The footage loaded bit by bit.

A few seconds of video stretched into an eternity.

On the screen, Grandpa stood guard by the machinery—and was brutally beaten.

Tears streamed down my face.

I hid the evidence inside my clothes and hurried out.

The truth deserved to see the light.

But the moment I stepped through the front door, I ran straight into Charles and Freya.

"Where do you think you're going this late?"

He frowned and walked toward me, his gaze sweeping over me with cold indifference.

"Still haven't given up? You're all alone. What could you possibly do to fight me?"

My voice was steady.

"As long as there's even a sliver of a chance, I won't give up. I will make you pay for what you've done."

He let out a derisive laugh, as if watching a comedy unfold.

"Should I call you naive, or just plain stupid? Empty words. Who's going to believe you?"

A servant noticed something was wrong and came running over, shouting in a panic.

"She went into the study—she was in there for a long time! Stop her!"

His gaze turned ice-cold at those words, boring into me.

"I underestimated you. Hand it over. Otherwise, I can't guarantee what might happen."

But Charles reached out and took my hand, his voice still gentle.

"Abigail, just give him the USB drive. Stop being so stubborn."

"That was my grandfather."

My voice came out raw, torn.

"I'm not giving it to you. No matter where I have to go, I'm going to tell the truth."

Freya's eyes went wide with rage, the whites shot through with red.

Without a moment's hesitation, she yanked open the car door, threw herself into the driver's seat, and floored the accelerator—aiming straight at me.

"You want to go against me? Then die!"

I was certain it was over. I closed my eyes.

My only thought was guilt. I'm sorry, Grandpa.

But the impact never came.

It was Charles.

He had stepped in front of me.

"Abigail, stop wasting time."

He looked at me with raised brows, his tone cold and brooking no argument.

"Give it to me."

"Just hand it over, and no one will make things difficult for you. You'll even get to see Grandpa."

No.

If I gave it to him, I'd never be able to face Grandpa again.

"Why are you even bothering to talk to her? If she won't hand it over, I have ways of getting it back."

Freya strode up to me, wound back her arm, and drove her fist into my stomach.

Fury surged through me. I raised my hand and slapped her across the face.

"You dare hit me?"

She touched her stinging cheek, her eyes turning vicious.

"Today, I'll show you exactly what I'm capable of."

Her fists rained down—on my head, my stomach.

Waves of pain crashed over me, sharp as needles. I had no way to fight back. All I could do was curl into myself and endure the blows.

Charles finally pulled her off me, his voice sharp.

"Enough! Stop it. I'm taking Abigail home. If you keep this up, something serious is going to happen."

"For your sake, I'll spare her life."

Freya let out a cold laugh.

"But if I catch her pulling something like this again, I won't be so forgiving."

I watched, helpless, as Charles took the evidence from me.

In that moment, every last shred of hope shattered.

I was like a hollow shell as he helped me back to the room.

"Does it hurt?"

His tone carried a note of reproach.

"You're so stubborn. Let me put some ointment on that."

The concern in his eyes didn't look fake.

He carefully lifted my shirt and applied the medicine with gentle hands.

A few days ago, I never would have believed he could hurt me like this for someone else.

But the reality was right in front of me.

The one who loved me—it was him.

The one who hurt me—also him.

Maybe, if I just told him the truth, things wouldn't have to end this way.

Clinging to that last desperate hope, I looked steadily at Charles.

"Do you know? Five years ago, I was actually the one who—"

The phone on the dresser buzzed relentlessly.

He picked it up, glanced at it for a moment, and that warm smile spread across his face again.

"Hmm? What were you saying?"

"I was the one who saved—"

Before I could finish, he cut me off.

"I need to go to the study. Something urgent came up."

His tone was casual.

"I'll come back to keep you company later. You can tell me then, okay?"

He leaned down and kissed me, just like always. His smile was gentle.

But his attention never left his phone. Not once did he spare me a glance.

Forget it.

Charles, you and I were never meant to be.

Two hours later, he fell into a deep sleep in my arms.

I slipped out of bed carefully and left the room.

The house was silent, the night deep. This was my best chance to escape.

Even without evidence, I had to go to the police.

I couldn't let Grandpa suffer for nothing. I couldn't let the people who hurt him walk free.

The night air bit cold against my skin as I rushed to the nearest police station to file a report.

After I finished giving my statement, Charles appeared.

He draped a coat over my shoulders.

"I'm so sorry about this."

He offered the officers an apologetic smile.

"My wife hasn't been well. She's been under a lot of stress lately, and her mental state has become... unstable. I apologize for the trouble."

He sighed, the picture of a weary, concerned husband.

"It's so late. I took my eyes off her for one moment, and she slipped out."

The officers exchanged glances, their gazes shifting between us.

I fought back immediately, my voice rising.

"He's lying! My grandfather is still in the hospital—go see for yourselves!"

"He's in on it too. Don't believe a word he says. I'm telling the truth. Freya forced the demolition and had people beaten!"

"I'm an attorney."

Charles produced his credentials, unhurried, unruffled.

"I trust you'll take my professional integrity into account."

The officers examined his ID carefully, then handed it back.

"Take your wife home. Keep a closer eye on her. Make sure she doesn't wander off again."

No matter how I tried to explain, no one believed me.

Charles brought me back to the house.

This home—built in the name of love—had become my prison.

I opened an app, logged into my account, and posted everything online.

If people paid attention, maybe Grandpa still had a chance.

But in the end, Charles crushed it all with a single document—a diagnosis from a doctor.

It stated, in clinical black and white, that I suffered from a psychiatric disorder.

No one doubts an attorney's word.

Every path was sealed shut.

I argued. I screamed. I even dropped to my knees and begged him to let me leave.

His eyes blazed with cold fury, indifferent and impatient.

"Have I been too lenient with you?"

"If you say one more word of this nonsense, I'll have the hospital stop your grandfather's treatment immediately."

My heart turned to ash. I didn't dare speak another word.

All I could do was tread carefully around him, terrified that one wrong move would push him to abandon Grandpa entirely.

But the call from the hospital came anyway.

It was a critical condition notice.

I nearly shattered. I rushed to the study to find him.

"Charles, Grandpa—he's dying. The hospital just called—"

My hands trembled as I held the phone out to him, my voice barely a whisper.

"This number doesn't lie. Please, just look at it. Please."

"Stop nagging."

His face twisted with irritation.

"You're really getting on my nerves."

He grabbed the phone and hurled it to the ground. The screen exploded into fragments.

My eyes burned red. Tears slid down my cheeks in silence.

Charles didn't even glance at me. He turned and walked away.

I raced to the hospital as fast as I could.

But I was still too late to see Grandpa one last time.

In the cold morgue, his frail body lay still.

The bruises from the beating were still visible on his skin—but he was no longer breathing.

I finally broke. I held him and sobbed until I couldn't breathe.

Forcing down the agony that threatened to tear me apart, I made my way back to the old family home.

The moment I stepped out of the car, I saw it.

Half the house had been demolished.

But the old safe—the one that had been there for decades—was still intact.

I entered his birthday as the combination and retrieved Grandpa's service medal, cradling it against my chest.

At the very bottom lay a document—an anonymous donation agreement from five years ago.

I glanced at it briefly, then left it where it was.

Let it stay buried forever.