"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.

My grandfather wasn't a blind man.

He was a true hero.

Time and again, he had driven back invaders on the battlefield, defending the land beneath his feet with his very life. It was in one of those battles that he was gravely wounded and lost his sight.

Yet now, he had been mocked with malice, humiliated without restraint, and beaten like an animal.

In the end, it cost him his life.

Even his guide dog had served with distinction—a decorated service dog, retired from military duty.

They deserved better than this. So much better.

I hailed a cab to the gates of the Regional Military Command. Cradling that heavy First-Class Service Medal in my hands, I dropped to my knees.

My voice rang out, steady and clear, each word deliberate:

"On behalf of First-Class Merit Soldier Jeremy Gilbert, I demand justice."

Behind me, Charles stumbled forward, his face ashen. He clutched the anonymous documents in his fist as he rushed toward me, disbelief written across his features.

"Abigail, what is this? Come back with me right now. This isn't the place for your theatrics."

He grabbed my arm, trying to pull me to my feet.

I didn't budge. My voice only grew louder.

The medal gleamed under the sunlight, its surface catching the light like a small sun.

My expression was solemn as I recounted every indignity, every injustice my family had suffered in recent days.

My grandfather had bled for his country on the battlefield. He didn't deserve to be humiliated. He didn't deserve to be treated like a useless old man.

And Ranger—the guide dog who had been his companion for years—didn't deserve such a brutal end.

I was raised by my grandfather's own hand. Stubbornness and resilience were carved into my bones.

How could I possibly accept being locked away while those responsible walked free, untouched?

Charles went rigid, a panic flickering across his face that I had never seen before.

He still refused to believe what I was saying. He thought this was just another ploy to force his hand, to make him take me to see my grandfather.

"Get up and come with me before more people see this."

"I'll take you to the hospital to see your grandfather."

The drugs were still in my system. My head swam, my vision blurring at the edges. But I only lifted the medal higher.

I called out again and again until finally, a sentry on duty took notice.

He jogged over to assess the situation.

The moment his gaze fell on the First-Class Service Medal in my hands, his entire demeanor shifted. His posture straightened, his expression turning grave and respectful.

He snapped a crisp military salute.

"Please wait here. I'll report to the Commander immediately."

Before long, he returned at a brisk pace, several people following behind him. Their faces were kind, their eyes warm.

The man at the front stepped forward and placed a hand on my shoulder.

"Not bad. You've got your grandfather's spirit."

Seeing my confusion, he smiled.

"You don't remember me, but I remember you. When you were little, I used to hold you in my arms. Bought you lollipops."

He gestured to the men behind him.

"These uncles here—they all served under your grandfather."

"I'm your Uncle Duncan Mercer. Come to think of it, it's been a while since I've seen the old man. We were just saying we should pay him a visit."

His smile faltered.

"Come inside. Tell us everything—what happened?"

They surrounded me protectively as we walked.

Someone noticed Charles and, learning he was my husband, invited him to follow.

"No," I said. "He won't be for much longer."

The men exchanged glances but didn't press further.

Charles opened his mouth to speak. His eyes reddened. But when he saw the cold indifference in my gaze, he could only stand there, lost and alone.

As we walked, I answered their questions one by one.

When they asked about my grandfather's condition, I couldn't hold it together any longer. My knees buckled, and I collapsed to the ground.

"Please, Commander—I'm begging you to seek justice for my grandfather."

"He's gone."

All the grief I had been holding back finally shattered.