Under the watchful eyes of the world's top medical team, Irene's dog finally opened its eyes and wagged its tail.

At that exact moment, Julius stepped out of the room—only to find Anastasia standing in the hall, too busy on her phone to even glance his way. His face darkened instantly.

"Who are you calling?" His voice carried a quiet menace. "You didn't even notice I came out."

Something inside Anastasia cracked. She almost laughed at the sheer absurdity.

"I was preparing a gift for you." She brushed past him with a shove. "What's this? Are you jealous now?"

Julius frowned, about to speak, but before he could, Irene's soft cry of pain came from inside the room.

By the time he looked up again, Anastasia was already gone—leaving the penthouse with the doctor in tow.

The drive from the club to the hospital normally took half an hour, but Anastasia made it in ten minutes.

Her brother was alive, but barely. The doctor had arrived too late.

The bullet had blocked the artery, and infection spread fast. To save him, the doctors had to amputate his right leg.

Outside the ward, two nurses whispered just loud enough for her to hear through the crack in the door.

"Has Madam fallen out of favor? Why hasn't Mr. Perkins visited Young Master Rios?"

"Please. He only married her because she looks a little like the woman he really loves. Now that the real one is back, the stand-in should step aside..."

The words sliced into Anastasia's ears like knives.

Inside, her brother lay pale and motionless, his right leg gone, his life uncertain.

Her heart bled as she stared at him—at what her blind devotion had cost him.

Everyone knew she was just a substitute.

Everyone but her.

She had been the only fool still pretending her love meant something, dragging her brother into ruin and leaving him crippled.

She sat beside his bed all night, unmoving, feeling empty.

At dawn, she returned to the villa to gather divorce papers.

But the moment she opened the front door, a crash of splintering wood and barking echoed from upstairs—from the nursery.

She ran up in a panic.

The room she had once tended so carefully was now a wreck—furniture overturned, toys smashed, walls gouged.

And in the middle of the chaos, Irene's dog was rolling on the floor, growling playfully.

When Anastasia saw what it had in its mouth, her pupils contracted violently.

She lunged forward—

It was her child's urn!

The Rottweiler snarled and sank its teeth into her wrist. Pain seared up her arm, but she didn't care; she tried to wrench the urn free—and a shadow flashed past her.

"Ah!"

A sharp blow struck her lower back, sending her crashing into the ruins of the room. Blood flooded her throat with the taste of iron.

The urn slipped from her grasp and shattered before her eyes—ashes scattering across the floor.

"Little Pea was just playing," Irene whimpered, clinging to Julius's chest as tears streaked her cheeks. "Miss Rios, how could you be so cruel to her?"

Julius hadn't even changed out of his suit before he came running. His first look was for Irene, eyes full of concern.

Then he turned to Anastasia—his gaze cold, devoid of warmth.

"Anastasia," he said sharply, "you've gone too far."

Pain drained the color from her face, but she didn't even feel it.

She crawled toward the broken urn, desperately trying to scoop the ashes back together with trembling hands. But the ashes had mixed into the dust and rubble—lost forever.

Her voice trembled, ragged with grief. "My child's clothes are on her dog. My child's ashes—your dog used them as a toy, and now they're gone!"

Her eyes burned as she stared up at him.

"Tell me, Julius... who's really gone too far?!"

"Have you forgotten what you once swore to me?"

For a moment, something flickered in his expression—remorse, maybe. But then his gaze dropped to the faint bruise on Irene's waist, and all traces of softness vanished.

"That doesn't give you the right to hurt Irene!" he snapped. "The dog didn't know any better—but you should have!"

He raised a hand in signal. "Seems I've spoiled you too much. Today, you'll remember what our organization's rules are."

Each word struck her like the crack of a whip before the lash even fell.

A chill spread through her bones.

Before her child's ashes, Anastasia was forced to her knees. The whip—a barbed one—came down across her back with brutal precision.

Crack!

The first strike split her skin; blood blossomed instantly.

And through the haze of pain, memories surfaced.

The first time Julius had confessed to her, ears flushed red as he promised, "For the rest of my life, I'll love no one but you."

Crack!

The second lash.

She remembered three years ago—when she was six months pregnant— she risked everything to save him.

She had been captured and tied in a basement, tortured through a night and day. Her child had been beaten out of her womb, leaving only blood.

Later, Julius had personally beaten those men into pulp and buried them under their child's grave, whispering over the flowers, "I'll never forget our baby. One day, he'll come back to us."

But now—her baby's clothes hung on Irene's dog.

His ashes had been smashed and scattered.

Through her blurred vision, Anastasia saw Julius—the man who once swore eternal love—now gently wiping tears from Irene's cheeks.

He lifted Irene into his arms, turning away as his polished shoes crushed the ashes and her dripping blood into the floor—leaving a trail of dark, mocking footprints.

Her grief and agony were nothing but a farce.

The vows he had once sworn were a lie—a lie only she had believed.

When the punishment finally ended, a metallic taste flooded her mouth.

She coughed up a mouthful of blood and collapsed into unconsciousness.

When Anastasia regained consciousness, she found herself back in her bedroom.

She had thought that once Irene returned, she would be kicked into the maid's quarters to make room. But to her surprise, Irene had moved into the room at the end of the second-floor hallway—the very place Anastasia had once been scolded for even approaching.

That forbidden room, she realized now, was their secret nest.

His and hers.

A bitter smile tugged at her lips. The smallest movement pulled at her half-healed back, reopening the wound.

Pain shot through her body, draining the color from her face. Still, she forced herself upright, dragging several large boxes from under the bed.

One by one, she stuffed inside everything that carried a trace of Julius—the million-dollar engagement ring he'd once slipped onto her finger. The bullet he'd taken to his chest for her. Stacks of photos filled with smiles that now felt like mockery.

When the last box was finally full, the door burst open.

"You're not a naive little girl anymore," Julius's cold voice cut through the air. "Stop playing these childish games—running away, pretending to suffer."

Anastasia froze mid-motion. She didn't bother to explain that she wasn't pretending—she really was leaving.

"Did you not hear me?" His tone sharpened when his gaze caught the blood soaking through her back. "Do you have a death wish?"

Before she could react, he strode over, forcing her down onto the bed. Ignoring her weak struggles, he pulled up her shirt.

A cool liquid spreads across her burning wound, numbing the pain. It took her a moment to realize—he was applying medicine.

"Does it still hurt?" His voice was soft, the same gentle tone he used years ago after combat training when he comforted her. For an instant, her heart faltered.

But then the memory of how she'd been injured returned—the reason behind it—and the illusion shattered.

Whatever tenderness he gave her now was nothing compared to what he lavished on Irene.

When he finished dressing her wounds, Julius began buttoning her clean pajama top, one button at a time.

"Since you got hurt, Irene hasn't been eating well. She even threw up earlier and had to be taken to the hospital. The doctor said..."

He lowered his head.

"She's pregnant."

The words sliced through the air like a blade.

"You've been pregnant before," he continued, his tone almost coaxing. "You know what foods won't make her sick. Anastasia, if you take care of her for the next three months, I'll forget about you kicking her and the dog."

His voice was calm, almost tender. But to Anastasia, it struck like thunder—loud, violent, deafening.

"She scattered my child's ashes to the wind," she hissed, trembling, "and you want me to forgive her—to take care of her baby?"

Her fury ignited. She slapped his hand away, glaring at him with bloodshot eyes.

"Keep dreaming!"

Julius's expression darkened instantly. The softness vanished, leaving only shadow and threat.

"This isn't a request," he said coldly. "It's an order."

He wiped the remaining ointment from his hands with a handkerchief, tossing it carelessly onto the floor.

"It's just one meal," he added flatly. "Your brother is still in the hospital. Or would you rather see his ashes next?"

His gaze swept over Anastasia with arrogant indifference. Then he lifted his foot and strode toward the door.

"I want to see the dishes on the table in half an hour. Your brother's life depends on it."

The metallic taste of blood filled Anastasia's mouth, and a chill spread through her limbs.

Eight years together—no one knew each other better than they did. Julius knew exactly where her weaknesses lay, and he never made empty threats—and she knew he was capable of anything.

He truly was using her brother's life as leverage.

Anastasia's heart ached, but she didn't have the luxury to hesitate. She forced herself to move, hurriedly pulled on her clothes, and stumbled downstairs into the kitchen.

The iron pot was heavy. Each time Anastasia lifted it, the wound on her back tore open a little more, sending sharp waves of pain through her body. Cold sweats drenched her forehead, but she gritted her teeth and refused to make a sound. By the time she placed the dishes on the dining table, only minutes remained before the half-hour deadline.

Irene sat at the dining table, her lips pursed in a petulant pout. With a light push, she shoved the soup bowl away.

"I'm not hungry," she said, curling her lip. "Unless you feed me."

Julius gave her a helpless, affectionate smile. He blew gently on a spoonful of soup and brought it to Irene's lips with infinite care.

Steam blurred Anastasia's vision. Her tears slipped silently into the soup bowl.

That tenderness—she once had it, too. When she was pregnant. Before everything was taken from her.

Irene barely swallowed a sip before retching it back out. Her expression soured as she glared at Anastasia.

"This tastes disgusting. Are you mocking me? Even my dog wouldn't eat it!"

She sneered and dumped the soup onto the floor.

Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, she smiled—a cruel, childish smile.

"I guess your baby probably died because even it couldn't stand your cooking. It'd rather rot in your womb than taste this garbage, right?"

Julius, who knew full well how their child had really died, didn't scold her. He only smiled, tenderly wiping the soup from Irene's lips.

"If you don't like it, she'll make something else. Don't starve our baby."

The string of reasons in Anastasia's mind finally snapped.

The spoon slipped from her hand into the bowl—and in the next second, the scalding soup splashed over Irene's head.

The shrill scrape of a chair against the floor was followed by a sharp crack—

Slap!

Anastasia's palm burned as she snarled through her teeth, "You said even a dog wouldn't eat it, didn't you? Fine. I'll feed you myself. Tell me—does it taste good now?"

The slap knocked Irene's face to the side. The scalding soup splashed across her cheek, and within seconds, angry blisters rose on her skin.

Tears welled up in her eyes like beads breaking loose from a string.

"It hurts, Julius... my stomach hurts too! Our baby—will it be okay?"

Those words—our baby—dragged Anastasia straight back into the nightmare she'd tried so hard to forget.

Her nails dug into her palms. She still remembered that night—the blood pooling beneath her body, the icy terror in her veins when she realized her child's heartbeat was gone.

Back then, she clutched Julius's arm, sobbing desperately. "Is our baby still alive? Tell me, Julius, please!"

He had held her tightly then, his voice hoarse with guilt.

"It's my fault, all my fault... Ana, we'll have another child, I promise..."

Now, years later, those same arms held another woman—the woman who had scattered her child's ashes—and his eyes were colder than she'd ever seen.

"Are you insane, Anastasia?!"

His voice cracked through the air like a whip.

"What did Irene say that was wrong? You couldn't even protect your own baby—do you want to kill hers too?"

Her fingertips went numb. Blood slid down from her clenched fists, dripping to the floor. She stared at him, disbelief clouding her gaze.

The child she had lost while saving him had become the weapon he now used to stab her heart.

"Am I crazy?" she screamed, her voice breaking. "I should have gone crazy a long time ago!"

Her eyes blazed red as she burst into laughter—hysterical, tear-streaked, and filled with despair.

She should have lost her mind the moment Julius chose Irene over his own brother. When he had stood between them and defended the woman who mocked her unborn child.

"If she loses her baby," Anastasia snarled, grabbing Irene by the hair, "then maybe it's just because she couldn't protect it either!"

She grabbed Irene's hair and raised the empty soup bowl, slamming it toward her stomach.

"Ah! Julius, help me!" Irene shrieked. She struggled, but against Anastasia's eight years of combat training, her resistance was nothing. Anastasia raised the bowl again—but before she could strike, her wrist was caught midair.

A dull crack echoed through the dining room.

Pain exploded through her arm as her wrist bone snapped. The bowl slipped from her hand, shattering on the marble floor.

Crash.

"You dare hurt her?" Julius's voice dropped to a chilling growl. "Then be ready to pay a hundred times over!"

The darkness in his eyes was no longer cold—it was murderous. The composed mafia lord she once knew now radiated raw, terrifying rage.

He extended a hand, and the butler immediately stepped forward, offering him a bowl of freshly reheated soup—boiling hot.

Without hesitation, Julius seized Anastasia's chin and forced the steaming liquid down her throat. She gagged and coughed, the pain scalding her from mouth to chest.

He didn't even glance back as she collapsed amid shards of porcelain, trembling violently, while he bent tenderly over Irene, lifting her into his arms.

Her right hand—swollen, purple, and broken—shook as she clutched at her burning throat. The pain clawed down her esophagus, spreading through her chest like fire. Her whip wounds tore open again, fresh blood soaking her back.

She lay in that crimson puddle, watching as Julius's once-cold eyes melted into tenderness—tenderness he now offered only to Irene, carefully tending to her injuries with his own hands—the same hands that had once protected her.

Her vision blurred as sweat and tears stung her eyes.

When Julius rushed out the door carrying Irene toward the hospital, Anastasia was left behind like trash—discarded, forgotten.

It took everything she had to stand. Every step left a fresh trail of blood.

Staggering into her room, she found only darkness—except for the dim glow of her computer screen.

With her fractured hand, she fumbled for the mouse, her knuckles stiff and purple. She couldn't feel the pain anymore.

On the screen played a video she had watched countless times before. Julius's mature, affectionate face filled the frame.

He hadn't placed a ring on her finger that day. Instead, he handed her a gun.

"Anastasia, I love you. If I ever change my heart, don't hesitate—pull the trigger yourself, and let my heart beat only for you.."

Tears fell between the keyboard keys, blurring his voice into a muffled echo.

Anastasia leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the screen. Her tears streamed down endlessly.

She missed him—the man who once took a bullet for her, who avenged her, who swore to love her with his life.

The man who no longer existed.

"Liar..." she whispered. "You lied to me."

Bloody footprints trailed from the living room, through the hallway, and out into the garden.

Her trembling hand struck a match. The flame flickered, reflecting off her tear-streaked face.

When she threw the computer into the fire, the blaze roared to life, swallowing the last fragments of her past.

The light of the flames danced in her eyes—and as her body finally collapsed into the soil, Anastasia's strength was completely spent.