If Oliver Kingston really cared about etiquette and societal expectations, Angela was the one to throw those rules out the window. She was all in—betting on everything. Unfortunately, it didn't work out the way she hoped.

She failed.

After what happened that night, Oliver didn't just pull away—he completely vanished.

And just a few days later, Angela saw the news. He was getting engaged to someone else.

The lucky woman was Gwen Hoffman. All flushed and glowing, she told the world they had been secretly dating for months.

Angela felt a chill run down her spine as if the world around her had suddenly gone cold. She couldn't sit still. Without thinking, she rushed into Oliver's office and confronted him, asking through gritted teeth if his family was forcing him into marriage.

He looked at her, that same cold smile on his face.

"Naive," he said, almost dismissively. "I'm the head of the Kingston family. Who could possibly force me into anything?"

He paused, his eyes narrowing. "Stop imagining things. You’re still young. Focus on learning more."

Angela couldn't even remember how she made it back home that day. All she could remember was the overwhelming weight of her heart-shattering. It was worse than when her family had collapsed. The grief felt suffocating.

And then, Joanne's call came through. "Angela, the maple trees here in New York are starting to turn yellow. Do you want to come back and see it? Also, I'm doing fine. I’ve got everything I need here. And Richard treats me well. It’s just that… Me and my husband have kids. This big house feels so empty. It would make me so happy if you could stay with me for a while."

Angela hesitated. If she left now, she knew she wouldn't come back. But part of her held onto that faint hope, which was tied to everything she felt for Oliver.

So, she respectfully rejected her aunt's offer.

But that hope? It stayed, faint as it was, until yesterday.

During a live stream, Angela saw Gwen's necklace. It glinted in the light, and for a moment, Angela felt like a needle had pierced her heart. That was the necklace her mother had given Oliver. The one she had left for him. And now, he was using it to propose to someone else.

Angela's fingers dug into her arm as she stared at the video, unable to look away. Her skin turned pale, and the red marks from her nails were clear against her arm. She knew the pain was real. And, more than anything, she knew it was finally time to let go.

Just as she was drowning in her own sorrow, a sharp cry from downstairs yanked her back to the present. Without thinking, she bolted barefoot out of the room.

Angela saw Gwen covering her hand, leaning pitifully in Oliver's arms.

"I just thought it looked pretty and wanted to touch it," Gwen said, her voice high and sweet. "Who knew it would bite me?"

Angela's heart raced. Her cat, Nala, was usually calm, never biting anyone. That cry—it wasn't just from being startled. There was a real pain in it.

She rushed to the sofa, her feet sliding on the floor as she scooped up the trembling cat.

Oliver's voice was oddly soft, his gaze distant. "That cat’s a beast. If you don’t like it, Gwen, we can get rid of it."

Angela's heart sank, the words stinging like salt in an open wound. She could barely hold herself together as she carefully cradled Nala against her chest.

"Oliver, Nala isn’t—"

She cut herself off, her voice faltering as she stared down at the cat. This was the gift Oliver had given her for her seventeenth birthday. Back then, she had been worried it would be hard to care for, but Oliver had promised her he could handle it.

"If I can take care of a person," he had said, "I can definitely take care of a cat."

That day, she'd held the little kitten in her arms, feeling content.

But now?

Now, he was calling her pet a "beast"—a word she never imagined he'd use for something so dear to her.

The sharp sting of betrayal hit her harder than anything before. She tried hard not to let the tears fall, but it was like holding back an avalanche.

"Even though it’s just a beast, at least it’s Angela’s pet. I won’t argue with her. But the vaccination will be painful—can you take me to the vet?" Gwen's voice was syrupy and sweet, practically dripping with fake kindness as she pressed closer to Oliver, her face soft with feigned innocence.

"Nala's already had its vaccination…" Angela mumbled, and she knew Gwen lied. After all, there were no scratches or marks on Gwen's hand.

Oliver shot Angela coldly as he scooped Gwen into his arms and walked toward the door. He didn't even bother to look at Angela's bare feet.

Gwen, her face a mask of coyness, leaned against Oliver's shoulder and kept shooting Angela these little glances, a smug grin tugging at the corners of her lips.

The front door clicked shut behind them, and the sound of the reminder beep from Angela's phone echoed in the silence. It was time to take Nala to the shelter.

With a shaky breath, Angela wiped her eyes, quickly gathered her things, and left the house.

The sleek black car came screeching to a halt right before Angela.

"Where do you think you're going?" Oliver's voice cut through the air, his frown deepening as he noticed her wearing only sandals.

Angela sniffled, trying to steady herself. "I’m… taking Nala to get dewormed."

The sky above darkened, a storm clearly brewing.

"Get in the car," Oliver ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I’ll take you."

Angela hesitated for a moment, but the words slipped out anyway. "Thank you, Uncle," she muttered, climbing into the car without another word.

Gwen, sitting beside Oliver, seemed in a good mood. She chatted happily with him but never missed an opportunity to glance at Angela through the rearview mirror.

"So, how old is Angela this year?"

"Twenty-one," Oliver replied, focusing on the road ahead.

"Does she have a boyfriend?"

Angela froze momentarily, then shook her head, not wanting to say anything.

Gwen's voice was playful as she continued. "Look at you, Oliver. There are so many eligible bachelors in your circle. Don’t you know anyone who’d be a good match for your niece?" She leaned in, her tone soft and teasing. "I’ve got a cousin, a distant nephew. He's the perfect age and status. What do you think about introducing them?"

Just then, the car came to a screeching halt as the traffic light turned red. Oliver quickly turned to her, his gaze warm, almost tender.

When he didn't respond immediately, just offering a smile, Gwen nudged his arm, her voice impatient and amorous. "Come on, Oliver, tell me what you think!"

Oliver's smile widened, and he raised a finger to trace the outline of her lips, clearly fascinated by her.

Gwen's face flushed a deep red, and for a moment, it felt like they were the only two people in the world. For anyone watching, young lovers always had that aura of sweetness about them.

But Angela? She just turned away, staring out the window, lost in darkness.

If it weren't for the sudden sneeze that caught her off guard, she could've kept staring for much longer.

"What's wrong?" Oliver asked, his voice sharp as he turned slightly to glance at her.

"Sorry, Uncle," Angela mumbled, trying to hold herself together.

"Oliver, I think I’m allergic to cat fur..." Gwen half-heartedly covered her nose with a hand, shooting Angela a look through the rearview mirror that was anything but subtle.

Oliver's expression shifted, his eyes narrowing as he looked into the rearview mirror.

"Get out of the car, Angela," he said coldly.

Angela opened her mouth, ready to argue, but Gwen cut in as she said, "It’s fine. I can hold on. Angela’s almost there, right?"

With that, Angela checked the new address on her phone—only two more kilometers. She thought everything would be fine if she could drop Nala off. Oliver would understand.

But now, it felt pointless.

The car had already stopped at the side of the road. Oliver tapped his fingers lightly on the steering wheel, a sign of impatience.

"I'll just get out of the car," Angela said softly, gathering her things and exiting the car, clutching the cat in her arms.

The rain came pouring down in sheets, instantly soaking her through. The car sped off, its headlights disappearing into the distance. Angela didn't even have time to avoid the rain. She was drenched from head to toe in seconds.

By the time she reached the cat shelter, she was completely soaked. After drying off, the shelter owner began the usual check-up on Nala. To Angela's surprise, they found a small cut near the base of Nala's tail—a scratch from a claw. Angela hadn't cried throughout all this, but when she saw that tiny injury, tears flooded her eyes, frightening the shelter owner, who quickly tried to comfort her.

"It’s fine, it’s just a little scratch. Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of her," the young woman reassured her quickly, but Angela could barely hear the words over the sound of her own sobs.

"How much is a cat like Nala worth?" Angela asked.

The owner paused, considering the question. "A purebred like her, with such a rare color and excellent quality? At least $70,000 or $80,000. You’re not… you’re not going to sell her, are you?"

The shelter owner's eyes widened, and Angela quickly shook her head, desperate to clarify.

"No, no," she stammered, wiping away her tears. "This was a gift from a friend. I just want to return the favor."

Nala had been a gift from Oliver. A ragdoll cat that he'd brought back from Northern Europe. Angela knew she'd have to return all the other gifts, but Nala?

Nala was different. She'd grown attached to her.

For now, Angela planned to board Nala at the shelter. When things settled down, she'd come back to pick her up. By the time Angela got home, it was already 11 p.m. She stopped at the front door, eyes falling on the high heels by the entrance. That was all she needed to know.

Oliver had brought Gwen home.

Without thinking, Angela looked at the dining table, but no food was left. It suddenly hit her that he hadn't waited for her to have dinner in a long time.

She looked at Oliver's room upstairs. The lights were on in the bedroom and the study area.

Angela tightened her grip on the hem of her skirt, then let go, only to grab it again as if trying to make up her mind. After a moment of brief internal struggle, she finally approached his room.

Angela pushed the door open and looked up, immediately meeting the cold, distant gaze she had come to expect.

"What are you doing here?" Oliver asked, his tone sharp, almost dismissive.

"I..." Angela faltered, unsure how to continue.

"If you don't have anything to say, just leave," he cut her off, his eyes never leaving his computer screen.

Angela bit her lip as if something had just clicked in her mind. She walked toward him, her footsteps quieter now.

"Uncle, about the solarium... I want to clear it out."

It was the room he had designed to mirror the layout of the Watson family's old mansion after buying this villa.

"Why?" Oliver's voice remained impassive, though his brow arched slightly in curiosity.

"I don’t want it anymore." Her voice dropped, barely audible, her eyes downcast.

The house was in her name. He had told her years ago that she would own the place.

But now? He'd brought someone else into her domain.

Hence, Angela felt the solarium to be unnecessary.

"Do as you like," he stingly replied.

This time, Oliver didn't even bother to lift his eyes from the screen. His indifference was almost chilling.

She must have become an inconvenience to him, she thought. It was time for her to leave to make breathing easier for him.

"Thank you, Uncle," she said softly, her voice laced with sincerity. She still bowed slightly, grateful for his care over the years.

But as if sensing her mood, Oliver stood up, walking toward her.

At that exact moment, Gwen, dressed in a sheer silk nightgown, "tap-tapped" into the room, bouncing into Oliver's arms with a playful giggle.

She reached out, but before she could even touch his chest, Oliver swiftly pulled her into an embrace.

"Oliver," Gwen cooed, "I just saw the solarium from the balcony. It looks so beautiful!"

"Do you like it?" Oliver's lips curled up in a small, affectionate smile.

"Mm, but..." Gwen lifted her right arm, revealing a bandage wrapped around it. Her gaze lingered lazily on Angela, who was already about to turn away.

"Wait," Oliver called, stopping Angela before she could leave. "Help Gwen pick some flowers," he ordered.

Angela hesitated for a moment, then relaxed her clenched fist, nodding in acknowledgment.

Behind her, their laughter echoed, soft at first but growing more flirtatious and intimate with each passing moment.

Angela quickly went downstairs, grabbing a pair of pruning shears. She approached the flower room, trying to block out their sounds in the background.

Her phone buzzed relentlessly on the way down.

It was Gwen, sending a string of messages, telling her exactly which flowers to pick.

Gwen had practically mapped out the entire room for her.

Angela was exhausted from the endless cutting, but the flood of sweet photos Gwen kept sending her made her forget her fatigue.

When she wanted a specific flower, Oliver always Oliver always picked it for her. All she had to do was sit on the swing, point, and he'd fetch whatever she asked for.

He used to say her hands were meant for the piano, that she shouldn't get them dirty. When she was younger, he'd taught her how to play, always in the front row at every competition, watching her perform. But over time, he started to disappear.

The last time, she waited for him on stage for hours. The performance ended, but Oliver never showed.

When she returned to the hotel that night, heartbroken, she wrapped herself in the blanket, trying to block out the ache.

She never expected him to barge in like that.

That was the night he confessed to Gwen.

And when he whispered her name later, it felt like a knife twisting in Angela's chest.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to push the memory away, but it was like a vice around her heart. It was both painful and suffocating.

"Ouch!"

Angela snapped out of her thoughts with a sharp intake of breath. A thorn had pierced her skin. In her panic, she yanked her hand back, watching as a streak of blood ran down her palm.

Clenching her fist, she rushed back to the living room, searching for the first-aid kit.

After quickly bandaging the cut, she gathered the large bouquet of flowers in her arms and headed to Oliver's door.

"Uncle, the flowers in the solarium are ready," she said, her voice quiet, almost hesitant.

He opened the door without a word, took the flowers from her hands, and then slammed the door shut with a sharp motion.

The wind from the door hit her, lifting her hair and sending a chill through her body.

It was cold.

Angela pressed her lips together, fighting back the sting of tears. She turned back to her room, her steps heavy and slow.