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.

I recounted everything my grandfather and I had endured these past days, leaving nothing out.

Freya had forced through the demolition, and his men had beaten my grandfather until he suffered a heart attack. Ranger, the guide dog who'd been by his side for years, was killed on the spot—his death brutal and senseless. And my husband, Charles, a lawyer by trade, had used his expertise to scrub the scene clean of evidence. He'd bribed witnesses, drugged me with medication that clouded my mind, even forged psychiatric reports to keep me locked away at home.

Bang.

Duncan slammed his palm against the desk, rising to his feet in fury.

"The audacity. Is there no law left in this country?" His voice shook with barely contained rage. "Someone dares commit such atrocities and thinks they won't pay the price? A developer—insulting a first-class national hero? This is beyond lawless."

His expression was grave, but his tone left no room for doubt.

"This matter will be addressed. I will give Captain Gilbert—and you—the justice you deserve."

I steadied myself, pushing down the emotions threatening to spill over.

"There's one more thing I need to ask."

"I want a divorce. And everything that belongs to me—they won't take a single cent."

"Done."

Duncan didn't hesitate.

In that moment, all the grief and injustice I'd carried finally began to lift. In its place came something I'd almost stopped believing in.

Justice. Late, but real.

Money could never buy that.

When I stepped outside, Charles was still waiting.

The moment he saw me, his eyes lit up.

"You're out. I was worried you might be—"

He noticed my expression and faltered. His hands trembled as he thrust a document toward me.

"What is this? Why does it say I'm the donor?"

His face went white.

"That's not real."

"It's just someone you helped before. Someone with the same name as me. Right?"

"You've known all along, haven't you?"

My gaze was steady.

"Why keep lying to yourself?"

He stood silent for a long moment. Then his lips twisted into something that tried to be a smile but failed.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" His voice cracked. "The person who saved me—it was you."

He reached for my arm, desperation flickering back to life in his eyes. "I'll go to the hospital with you right now. We can see your grandfather together—"

"My grandfather is gone."

The words fell like stones.

"And we're getting divorced."

He froze. Completely still.

I didn't look back. I walked straight to the hospital.

My grandfather was still there.

I was bringing him home.

Following his final wishes, the funeral was held at the family home.

Fallen leaves return to their roots.

Inside the funeral hall, I knelt before him one last time.

After this, I would never see him again.

Charles hovered behind me, regret and self-reproach written plainly across his face.

But none of it mattered anymore.

Then the uninvited guests arrived.

Freya led the way, flanked by his usual crew.

"So the old blind man really is dead." He let out a cold laugh. "Perfect. I'm continuing the demolition today."

His gaze swept the room, landing on the photograph—my grandfather and Ranger, side by side. His lip curled.

"Nice photo editing. Playing soldier, was he?"

He smirked. "Oh wait—my mistake. The blind man couldn't even see it."

His lackeys burst into laughter, the sound grating and obscene in the solemn space.

Mourners stepped forward to intervene, only to be shoved back, the confrontation escalating into chaos.

Freya's eyes turned vicious.

"Smash it all."

"I dare you to try."

A voice cut through like a blade.

Duncan had arrived.

Freya's raised hand never completed its arc. Before he could react, the officers accompanying Duncan moved in, restraining him in seconds.

"Do you have any idea who I am?" Freya thrashed wildly, screaming. "Let me go! You'll regret this!"

Duncan stood among the crowd, his expression cold enough to freeze.

"Contempt for the law. Organized assault. Brutalization of a first-class national hero." His voice was ice. "And even now, you have the nerve to run your mouth."

Freya kept struggling, spewing profanity, still arrogant, still without a shred of remorse.

Until one of the military officers laid everything out before him: the credentials, the medals, the divorce agreement.

The color drained from his face.

His whole body began to shake.