Angela lay back on the bed, her mind racing as she calculated everything.

Twelve years of care and support. That was how long Oliver supported and took care of her.

The house, the car, tuition, living expenses, gifts...

The house had been bought by Oliver. She planned to sell it, though it had appreciated quite a bit. It was all just accrued interest.

Then there were the costs of Nala and its upkeep, not to mention the burial plots in Springfield City. For her convenience, Oliver had purchased three plots for her family, setting up tombstones in their honor.

As the only heir of the Watson family, all these expenses were hers to bear.

She sighed and rubbed her swollen, tired eyes, sinking back onto the bed. She had just finished organizing the bills when her phone buzzed.

It was a message from Gwen.

[Angela, why didn't you like my post? Don't you like me?]

Angela opened the message and saw that Gwen had posted again.

A nine-square grid filled with intimate and flirtatious pictures of her with Oliver, and in the center, there was a photo of Gwen sniffing the flowers she had just picked.

The caption read: [Thanks for the feeling of being loved.]

Angela didn't feel like liking it. But, at this point, it didn't matter to her.

She swiped her finger across the screen and, following Gwen's intentions, tapped the red heart.

Then, Gwen added: [Gosh, I'm so tired... I need to sleep now. Oliver said he'll take me to the venue for our wedding tomorrow. In less than half a month, it'll be the wedding date. Oliver and I will be busy, so take care of yourself, Angela.]

Angela replied briefly: [I will.]

Staring up at the ceiling and lost in thought, she asked, 'They're getting married?'

The wish she had been waiting to be answered for all these years... and Gwen had managed to get it in less than a month.

It wasn't about timing. It was because Oliver never loved her.

She grabbed her phone again, opening the calendar.

The cemetery had told her she needed to pick an auspicious day to move the tombstone. The closest available date was fourteen days away. Coincidentally, it was the anniversary of her loved one's passing.

In the following days, Oliver traveled with Gwen to various places on a business trip.

Meanwhile, Gwen kept up with her constant updates on social media, tagging Angela in posts as if seeking her approval.

Angela, on the other hand, breathed a sigh of relief. After changing the bedroom door lock, she began organizing her things, silently preparing for whatever came next.

When Oliver returned, his frown deepened at seeing the truck parked in front of the house.

"Uncle, you're back?" Angela poked her head out from the second-floor balcony to greet him, quickly kicking the suitcase behind her into her room.

"What’s going on here?" Oliver asked, his tone sharp as he gave her a quick look before heading upstairs.

"Uncle, I told you the other day," Angela began, stepping carefully down the stairs. "The solarium... I don’t want it anymore."

Oliver stopped in his tracks, a brief flicker of surprise crossing his face before he walked toward her.

Angela retreated toward the door, her hands instinctively behind her back, gently pulling it shut as he reached her.

His towering figure loomed over her, and for a second, she felt uncertain.

He extended his hand toward her.

Was he trying to enter her room?

In the past, he used to come and go freely. He had even arranged the room himself.

Angela froze, her breath caught in her chest, her wide eyes staring at him.

But instead of stepping in, his long fingers brushed past her ear, and he pointed to the space behind her.

"You’re in my way."

Angela blinked, realizing he wasn't trying to enter her room. He was just... passing by on his way to his own.

She shook herself out of the moment, quickly glancing at her vibrating phone. Then, she headed downstairs after a few moments and ran right into Gwen, who had come in behind her.

"Angela, are those flowers going to be moved to my wedding house?" Gwen asked, a little too cheerfully.

Angela had just received a message from the driver saying someone had stopped them from moving the flowers. So it was Gwen trying to control it all.

She didn't want to give them to her, but Angela sighed and shook her head.

"Since Gwen likes them so much, just move them all over." Oliver, now changed into casual clothes, was descending the stairs slowly, one step at a time.

"Uncle, those are..." Angela started, but he cut her off.

"What are you standing around for? Hurry up and send them over."

Oliver's impatient remark was clear, but his voice had a strange softness as he lovingly looped Gwen's arm through his, pulling her close.

"Thank you, Oliver." Gwen smiled sweetly, leaning into his arm. She then averted her gaze to Angela and said, "By the way, I almost forgot, there’s a party at the villa tonight. Angela, you must come!"

Angela quickly deterred her gaze, clearly uncomfortable. "I have something else to do."

"Oh, come on," Gwen pressed, her voice dripping with sweetness. "It’ll be fun. We’re almost family now!" Seeing that Angela was unmoved, Gwen turned to Oliver with a coy smile. "Please, let Angela go with us."

It was the first time Oliver had insisted she attend an event for someone else. He usually preferred that Angela avoid mingling with crowds, yet for Gwen, he made an exception. Angela couldn't help but notice the difference in his treatment of Gwen versus herself.

It was a stark reminder that all his exceptions and indulgences were for Gwen. But Angela no longer felt the sharp pain she had at the beginning.

Some people come into your life, others leave. And now, it was time for Angela to leave.

After they left for the party, Angela let out a long sigh of relief. With the help of several movers, she quickly packed up her personal belongings. The house, her life with Oliver—everything—was in the process of being put behind her.

...

At the party, Angela stood quietly in a corner, a drink in her hand, lost in thought.

Gwen, accompanied by a few girls, approached her, eager to drag her into their fun. Reluctantly, Angela followed them to the poolside. She stood at the edge, looking out at the water, her mind far from the festivities.

Suddenly, she felt a sharp shove from behind, and before she could react, she was falling, the cold water engulfing her.

A loud splash echoed across the space, followed by the clatter of a nearby drink table tipping over.

As Angela struggled to push herself up, her head barely above the water, she saw glasses crashing into the pool. Gwen ducked instinctively to protect Angela, but the pool's edge scraped her arm.

Fresh blood poured from the wound, quickly turning the water a disturbing shade of red.

It was a horrific sight.

Although Gwen wasn't injured, the shock was clear on her face.

Oliver heard the commotion and rushed over. His eyes widened when he saw Angela flailing in the pool, crying for help. Still, he shifted his focus to Gwen, pulled her into his arms to comfort her in a smooth, practiced motion, and then barked orders to his bodyguards.

"Help Angela out of the water." He turned to the others, his tone commanding. "Take her upstairs to the guest room, change her—don’t let her catch a cold."

Before leaving, he paused, casting a last glance at Angela, still dripping wet and shivering.

Gwen, ever the opportunist, added one last, seemingly concerned comment. "Be careful, Angela." She gave a delicate smile. "You’re lucky to have such a caring aunt like me who dotes on you."

But as Angela met Gwen's eyes, she saw the fleeting gleam of triumph in her gaze masked behind the façade of concern.

...

After being swiftly treated by the private doctor, Angela rested on the edge of the bed, her arm bandaged. Then, she noticed Oliver standing by the door, his face unreadable. He held her phone in his hand—dropped by the poolside in the chaos.

"Thank you, Uncle," Angela said, biting back the pain from her arm as she extended a hand to take the phone. But Oliver pulled it back.

"When did you get in touch with your aunt?" he asked, his voice low and steady.

Angela's heart skipped.

"What did she say?" Oliver pressed. "Aunt Joanne just told you to call her back when you have time. What did she want with you?"

Angela's mind raced. Joanne hadn't mentioned anything about coming back, and Angela felt a brief sense of relief. Yet, Oliver's insistence on asking left her with no choice but to come up with an explanation.

"Um... Auntie is in New York City," Angela said, her voice calm. "She said she would send me some seasonal pastries."

Before Angela was born, Joanne had worked for the Watson family. She had cared for Angela until she was eight when an incident led Joanne to move to New York. There, she met a wealthy businessman and became his partner.

"Oh, and she asked if you had any flavor preferences," Angela added. "She said she’d prepare some for you, too."

Oliver didn't seem suspicious and tossed her the phone without further question.

"No need," he said curtly before turning and leaving.

After a few hours, Gwen's nephew, Ralph, escorted Angela back to the house. She had refused, but Ralph insisted, and it seemed easier to go along with him than argue.

When they reached the entrance, just as Angela was about to change her shoes, Ralph suddenly grabbed her from behind, pulling her into a tight embrace.

Startled, Angela struggled, trying to free herself.

But before she could do anything, the sound of the door unlocking echoed through the hallway. Ralph loosened his grip but still held one of her hands, his fingers tightly wound around hers.

When Oliver entered the room, his eyes immediately found Angela. Her head was lowered in shame, and her posture was stiff. Ralph was gently brushing her hair, his actions tender and almost affectionate. Still reeling from the earlier shock, Angela pushed him away and hurriedly ran to the living room.

Ralph, ever polite, greeted Oliver with a nod, then turned to Angela and waved.

"Goodnight," he said before leaving.

Angela collapsed onto the sofa, curling up and burying her head on her knees. She didn't notice the look in Oliver's eyes, dark and unsettling, like a storm waiting to break.

Oliver stood tall, his shadow looming over her. The air in the room grew dense with tension. Angela could feel the shift—his anger was palpable. She looked up, only to meet his gaze, filled with disgust that made her stomach churn.

"Uncle, he... He tried to touch me. I didn't..." Angela stammered, her voice trembling.

"There are plenty of hotels. Don't bring him back here!" Oliver's voice cracked with restrained fury. His anger surged in waves, a storm that he could barely contain.

His cold, burning fury felt like a knife in Angela's chest. Was he accusing her of flirting with Gwen's nephew? Was she the liar, the troublemaker, while everyone else was innocent? It was the same—no matter what happened, she was always the one to blame.

Her heart sank. The reality of it all hit her again. She didn't want to argue, didn't want to say another word. She sank further into the sofa, pulling a cushion over her head to shield herself from the world, from him.

Her wound throbbed, reminding her of the pain, of the bruises and cuts, both physical and emotional. She needed rest. She could feel her body trembling from exhaustion.

The sound of footsteps gradually faded as Oliver went upstairs. Angela remained there, eyes shut tight, and the soft weight of the cushion against her face provided a slight sense of comfort.

...

In the middle of the night, Angela was on the verge of sleep when she suddenly felt herself being lifted. The faint scent of sandalwood lingered in the air—an aroma that had once brought her comfort but now felt strangely overpowering. It was Oliver.

She remembered waiting on the sofa for him to come home when she was younger. She would often fall asleep before he arrived, and he would always find her there, never waking or scolding. He would gently pick her up, carry her back to her room, and tuck her in.

But now, the familiar scent of her room was missing. Instead, the more pungent scent of sandalwood mingled with the sharp, stinging tang of alcohol.

Oliver laid her down on his bed. The space beside her dipped as he joined her. Before she could react, he pushed her down with a heavyweight, his body pressing down on hers.

Without a word, his hands tore at her skirt, one sliding inside while the other grabbed her face, kissing her with a fierce urgency.

"You...I..." His words were muffled between their lips, and he kissed her harder as though trying to consume her entirely.

Angela struggled, desperate to break free, but the disparity in strength was overwhelming. His breath, warm and laden with the smell of alcohol, washed over her. Soon, the intoxicating scent made her dizzy, and she felt herself slipping, unable to resist.

This was not the same as before. She remembered that night—they had both been willing. But now, he was on the verge of marrying Gwen, and Angela was no longer willing to be used or swept away by his touch.

In a panic, she grabbed the hand that was wreaking havoc on her body and bit down hard.

His breath faltered, and for a moment, he stopped. But even as he collapsed beside her, he kept half of his weight on her, still pinning her to the bed.

Angela pushed with all her strength, but it was no use. She kept biting, trying to break free. It wasn't until the salty taste of his blood filled her mouth that she finally let go.

Oliver's breathing had become steady, and aside from the slight furrow of his brows, there was no sign of his usual intensity. He had drunk too much, Angela realized.

How much had he consumed to be this far gone?

...

The following day, Angela woke up alone. The bed was empty, and the room was silent. Panic rose within her. She quickly jumped out of bed, her heart racing, and ran to her room. She knocked over empty bottles, their clinking sound echoing loudly in the otherwise quiet house.

Oliver was gone.

She had to leave—now.

Last night, Joanne had called to tell her that the old mansion in New York had already been sold. Angela hadn't been surprised. The house had been sold at a ridiculously low price. It was just another sign that everything was changing.

Now, the house she lived in had caught someone else's eye. The realtor had already called, asking when it would be convenient for a viewing.

Angela tightly gripped her phone, her thoughts swirling. After a moment's hesitation, she decided to call Oliver.

The line rang, but there was only a busy signal before it abruptly disconnected.

Frustrated, she called his assistant instead. After waiting a few minutes, she was told Oliver was in a long meeting.

Angela sighed, making a quick decision. She contacted the realtor and set up a viewing for later. She couldn't stay here any longer—not with Oliver or Gwen.

She had to move on.