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.

Anastasia dreamed for what felt like an eternity.

In her dream, Julius sat beside her hospital bed, smiling softly as he cradled both her and their newborn child. From the hallway came her brother's cheerful voice, calling her name as he ran in with a basket of fruit.

She reached out her hand—and in an instant, everything was swallowed by blinding red.

"No!"

She jolted awake, gasping.

Julius's face was the first thing she saw—so close that she could feel his breath against her cheek. The air conditioner's chill brushed across her bare skin, and she flinched, only then realizing she wasn't in her room at all.

They were in a car.

And Julius was dressing her—forcing her into a revealing short skirt.

"Let me go, Julius..." Her voice was ragged, the burn in her throat tearing open with every word. "What are you going to do?!"

But with her fever and blood loss, her weak struggles were laughable. He bound her wrists and ankles easily with a strip of silk, his expression dark, jaw clenched tight as if holding back a storm.

He didn't speak. Not once.

Not even as he carried her out of the car and strode into a private club.

"Here's your gift."

He set Anastasia down on a marble table, his voice like ice. "Where's my person?"

Her heart lurched violently. Gift?

A scar-faced man lounging on the sofa let out a dry laugh.

"Teach your new lover's pet some manners, Mr. Perkins. The next time she trespasses on my turf, it won't be just one pretty little Anastasia you'll have to trade for her."

He kicked open a burlap sack at his feet.

Inside was Irene—her flawless face streaked with tears and a flush that wasn't natural.

"Julius... it hurts..."

Her words were slurred. She'd been injected with a stimulant.

Julius's entire demeanor shifted. The frost melted from his aura as he bent toward her, his voice gentle again.

"I'm here. Don't be afraid."

The marble beneath Anastasia's body was cold as ice, seeping through her bones.

He had traded her—his woman—to save Irene.

Her stomach twisted.

She tried to rise, but the scarred man's bodyguards blocked her. One of them brushed a rough, greasy finger against her cheek. She jerked away, nausea clawing up her throat.

"Roses are beautiful," the scarred man sneered, "but damn, the thorns cut deep. What do you say, Mr. Perkins—help me deal with this one properly?"

He tossed a syringe to the floor—it rolled to Julius's shoes, the label marked with a muscle relaxant.

Meanwhile, Irene's breath hitched, her voice breaking into whimpers. "So hot... help me..."

She began fumbling with her buttons.

Julius's hands tightened into fists. For one fleeting second, his eyes flickered with conflict—then he bent, picked up the syringe, and strode toward Anastasia.

"Once I get Irene to safety," he said quietly, "I'll come back for you. I promise."

The needle pierced her skin. Anastasia smiled faintly.

Maybe it was because her heart was already dead—but she didn't feel pain anymore.

Irene clung desperately to his neck, her body trembling with desire. But for the first time, Julius pushed her away—only to bend down and kiss Anastasia instead.

A bitter pill slipped from his mouth into hers. The chemical taste spread across her tongue, dulling the drug's effects, but not stopping them.

With her last ounce of strength, Anastasia shoved him off, her voice calm and cold. "Julius... whether I walk out of here alive or not, after tonight—we're finished."

Her steady, hollow gaze struck him harder than any slap.

For the first time, his heart faltered. He opened his mouth to speak—but the scar-faced man's men surged forward, shoving him toward the door.

Clutching the dazed Irene, Julius turned away and left without looking back.

The door slammed shut.

And the monster revealed himself.

"Now, let's see just how delicate Miss Rios really is..."

The scarred man untied the silk restraints with a smirk, his filthy hands pawing at her exposed skin. He threw her onto the couch, tearing at her skirt—only to be met with a sharp, brutal kick to the face.

"Get your filthy hands off me!"

Blood gushed from his nose. His expression twisted into fury. He snatched up an ashtray and smashed it against her head.

The world exploded in white noise. Laughter, jeers, heavy breathing—then nothing.

Her limbs went limp. The last of her strength bled out of her as her torn skirt slipped from her body, leaving her trembling in the cold air.

Her stomach churned violently. She wanted to vomit.

Suddenly, a loud bang echoed.

The scarred man's scream shattered the air. He crumpled to the floor, clutching his leg, and behind him stood Julius—like a demon risen from hell.

Rage burned in his eyes.

He rammed the same ashtray into the scarred man's mouth and smashed his head against the ground again and again until the room filled with the wet sound of bone meeting marble.

When the man went limp, Julius turned on the others—fists raining down like a storm until every one of them lay broken, bloodied, and unconscious.

Only then did he approach Anastasia.

His voice, hoarse and trembling, cracked the silence.

"I'm sorry... I was late."