She grabbed my collar with a vicious grip.

"Roland, you're ruthless."

"Fine. I admit it—I fell in love with you. I can't stand the thought of another woman near you. Happy now?"

Then came that livestream confession that broke the internet.

Rosemary swore she'd changed. No more games. She'd be a devoted wife.

And for a while, we did have something sweet.

Just like Louis said, she went all in—learning my interests, anticipating my needs.

When she found out I loved skiing, she built me a private estate in Switzerland. Even named it after us—a blend of our names, a promise carved into the mountainside.

But now.

I stared at Frederick's latest social media post.

The estate's sign had been replaced.

Those four characters that once meant everything—Rosemary & Roland—had been swapped out for Sweethearts: Rosemary & Frederick.

"Yes, she cheated again. So no, I won't be taking her back."

I set down my phone and signed my name on the divorce papers without a second thought.

On the seventh day after my mother's death—the day of her memorial—my father called and asked me to come home for breakfast.

I thought maybe he still had some shred of feeling for her.

Maybe he wanted to burn offerings together.

I walked in and found Frederick and his mother, Astrid Fleming, already seated at the table.

My expression went cold. I turned to leave.

"Stay right there!"

My father's voice cracked like a whip. Before I could take another step, he launched into me.

"I heard you tried to hit Frederick at the club the other day! What the hell is wrong with you? Is that any way to treat your brother?!"

"Thank God Rosemary stepped in, or who knows what you would've done. You hurt her, and now you want a divorce? Running away from home like some child?!"

"I don't know what your mother taught you, but she raised a thug. You'd better get on your knees and apologize before you destroy the partnership between our families!"

I looked at this man—this man who saw nothing but profit margins and alliances.

A cold laugh escaped me.

"If you knew I'd left home, why didn't you ask where I've been staying? Whether I was okay?"

"Oh, right—I forgot. Your heart belongs to your mistress now. That's why you couldn't even bother showing up to your own wife's funeral. You're that shameless, and you dare lecture me about my mother?!"

My father slammed his chopsticks down and raised his hand to strike me.

Astrid's eyes darted, calculating. She grabbed his arm just in time, her face arranged into a picture of gentle concern.

"Honey, what are you doing? The boy's grieving. We should be understanding—he's in pain. I don't mind, really."

"Besides, if you bruise his face, how will he stand beside Frederick as best man?"

I froze.

My voice came out raw, scraped hollow.

"What did you just call him? You two are married?!"

"My mother's been dead seven days, and you couldn't wait to bring your mistress through the front door?!"

My father's expression hardened, utterly unrepentant.

"Your mother's gone—what, am I supposed to mourn her forever?!"

"Frederick's grown now. I can't let people keep calling him a bastard behind his back. This is my responsibility as a father!"

Responsibility.

I collapsed into the chair, a broken laugh tearing out of me. Tears spilled before I could stop them.

Frederick sidled up beside me, reaching for my hand with sickening familiarity.

"This is great, brother! Now we're officially family. I don't know all the rules of high society yet—you'll have to teach me, okay? I'd hate to embarrass myself."

"Sure." I met his eyes. "No problem."

Astrid and my father exchanged satisfied smiles.

I wiped my face dry. Lit a cigarette with one hand. Drew in a slow breath.

Then exhaled the smoke directly into Frederick's face.

"Here's your first lesson." My voice was ice. "I'm the legitimate son. You're the bastard. Until I speak to you first, you don't get to open your mouth in my presence."

I leaned closer, letting the cigarette glow between us.

"Understood?"

I ground the cigarette butt into the back of his hand.

Amid the sizzle of scorching flesh and Frederick's shriek, I grabbed his chin and forced his face toward mine.

"You think I don't know? You spoke to my mother alone before she died. I haven't even settled that score with you yet—so don't push me."

"Roland! Have you lost your mind?! He's your brother!"

My father slammed his palm on the table. Astrid rushed to pull the sobbing Frederick into her arms, shooting me a venomous glare.

I dusted off my hands with a dry laugh.

"My mother only gave birth to one son. Where exactly did this so-called 'brother' come from?"

I turned to my father, voice flat. "You know my temper. You want to throw a wedding for these two and officially announce what they are? Go ahead. I dare you. I'll have people tear the whole thing apart before the vows are spoken. Try me."

Perhaps because I was still the Henson family's son-in-law, my father and Astrid's faces twisted with barely suppressed fury.

But before either could respond, a familiar voice cut through from behind me.

"With me here, I'd like to see who dares."

Rosemary strolled in, one hand tucked casually in her pocket.

The moment Frederick saw her, he scrambled toward her like she was his salvation—sobbing, thrusting his burned hand in her face.

Rosemary's expression softened with exaggerated concern. She cooed at him, stroking his hair.

"Poor thing. I'll take you to the best dermatologist in the city. Not a single scar, I promise."

She pinched his cheek playfully. "Our little Frederick still has to be the most handsome groomsman at Daddy's wedding, doesn't he?"

I stared at her, disbelief curdling into something darker. My voice came out raw.

"Rosemary. Do you have any idea what you're saying?"

She lifted her gaze to meet mine. Her lips curved in something that might have been a smile, but her eyes were arctic.

"I heard everything. Men from wealthy families—who doesn't have a woman or two on the side? Your mother died because she couldn't handle it. You're really going to blame Frederick for that?"

She stepped closer, her voice turning sharp. "You got to grow up with a father by your side. Why shouldn't he have the same?"

"No matter what it takes, I'm bringing him into the Sullivan family. Everyone will know he's the legitimate young master of this house—and no one will ever call him a bastard again."

Her chin lifted. "You want to wreck the wedding, Roland? Go ahead. Try me."

I knew she meant it.

The last time she'd made a threat like that, the target's company had been swallowed whole by the Hensons within a week. The man himself had his legs broken, his tongue cut out, and vanished from Seaside City entirely.

And that had only been because he'd made a crude joke about me.

I should have seen this coming.

Rosemary had always been fickle. To her, my father's affair was trivial—barely worth mentioning. She couldn't begin to comprehend what my mother and I had suffered.

But knowing that didn't make it hurt any less—being stabbed in the front by the woman who'd once shared my bed.

My hand moved before I could think.

The slap cracked across her face.

"Get out."

Rosemary let out a soft, humorless laugh and worked her jaw, testing the sting.

Before she could speak, Frederick lunged at me.

"I've had enough of you! Don't you dare touch her again!"

He shoved me—hard.

I went sprawling backward into the two massive potted cacti behind me.

Needles pierced my back, my palms, everywhere. Blood welled up in bright droplets. I sucked in a sharp breath through my teeth, the pain white-hot and relentless.

My father's lip curled with irritation.

"A perfectly good breakfast, ruined by your tantrum."

He stood, adjusting his cuffs. "Rosemary, perfect timing. Have you eaten? Let's dine out."

Rosemary didn't even glance my way. She murmured a distracted agreement, too busy fussing over Frederick's hand, and led him toward the door.

At the threshold, Frederick turned back.

His lips moved silently, forming words meant only for me.

"Loser!"

I watched the four of them walk away—a perfect little family, arms linked, backs turned to me.

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. Tears slid down my cheeks anyway.

"Mom... you see that? The moment you died, your son lost his home."

"Does it hurt to watch? Will you come back? Please? I miss you so much..."

News of my father's remarriage spread through elite circles like wildfire.

During the engagement period, Astrid paraded Frederick at every public event she could find—even the galas reserved for married couples.

Rosemary issued a decree: no one was to call him "the bastard" anymore. He was to be treated with the same respect they showed her.

Frederick made sure I knew.

Video calls. Photos. Messages. Always rubbing it in.

"Big brother, Rosemary gave me another diamond ring yesterday. Our initials are engraved on it. I heard it's even bigger than the one from your wedding."

"Oh, and she convinced her father to give me the family's jade thumb ring—you know, the heirloom they only pass to sons-in-law? Not that you'll be needing it anymore."

I remembered that ring.

The Henson family tradition was clear: it went to a son-in-law only after a grandchild was born. All those years, Rosemary never once asked her father for it on my behalf. "We'll have children eventually," she'd say. "It'll come to you naturally."

I'd never pushed for kids either—not when she was still running around with other men. We'd planned to start trying after the new year.

Now that plan was as dead as everything else.

I couldn't imagine what she'd said to make Tim Henson—traditional, rigid, immovable Tim Henson—break his own family's rules.

The final message was a photo.

Rosemary, asleep. Her bare neck and shoulders were covered in marks—the kind left by someone's mouth.

"Sis says she hasn't felt this good in years. Apparently being with an 'old man' like you killed her mood. She had to fake it every time."

I didn't bother responding.

I blocked him.

The day of my father's wedding to Astrid, Rosemary treated the venue like a military operation.

Bodyguards everywhere—inside, outside, every entrance and exit locked down tight. She was terrified I'd cause a scene.

She needn't have bothered.

Word had already gone out: anyone who helped me make trouble was declaring war on the Hensons.

No one dared.

I sat alone in my hotel room, tracing my mother's face in an old photograph, tears falling onto the glass. Guilt clawed at my chest.

I'm sorry, Mom. I couldn't protect anything you left me.

That afternoon, Rosemary kicked down my door anyway.

Behind her stood Frederick, his eyes red and swollen.

She stormed across the room and grabbed my collar, her face twisted with rage.

"Roland Sullivan! I never thought you'd sink this low! You had someone play Frederick's private photos at the wedding venue!"

"It's already trending online! How is he supposed to get married now? You're trying to destroy his future!"

I shoved her hand away, genuinely confused.

"What are you talking about—"

Before I could finish, Frederick cut in, voice cracking with theatrical grief.

"Brother, I know you didn't want to transfer those shares to me. But it was Dad's decision! What was I supposed to do—defy our own father?"

"If you're angry at me, fine, I'll take it. But why did you have to do this on Mom's wedding day? People called her a homewrecker for years. She's suffered enough."

And just like that, I understood.

Years ago, when my father had been so devoted to my mother that he'd married her despite their families' class difference, he'd given her half his shares—proof that she'd always be secure.

She'd passed them to me.

This was a setup. All of it.

A cold laugh escaped me.

"Rosemary, can't you see what's happening? He's orchestrating this whole thing to steal the shares my mother left me. It's a performance—and you're playing your part perfectly."

I turned to Frederick.

"You're saying I did this? Who saw me? Where's your proof?"

"I don't need evidence. Frederick isn't the scheming type—you're the only one with motive!"

Rosemary's face was set with absolute certainty as she seized my arm.

"You're going to apologize to Frederick right now. On livestream. Tell everyone this was all your doing!"

"And then you're going to transfer every share under your name to him. You owe him that!"

"And if I refuse?"

At my words, Frederick's composure shattered. He let out a strangled cry.

"Rosemary, my reputation is destroyed! He ruined me! Now everyone's calling me the shameless homewrecker who crashed his own parents' anniversary—they're saying I'm worse than garbage!"

"He had everything growing up—Dad's attention, company shares, and you, the perfect wife. I had nothing." His voice cracked. "If I have to spend the rest of my life being spat on by strangers, I'd rather just die right now!"

Rosemary grabbed his arm, panic flashing across her face.

"Frederick, don't be stupid!"

Then she turned to me, her eyes blazing with fury, and let out a cold laugh.

"Roland. Did you really think the body they cremated that day was your mother?"