I looked him dead in the eye.

"Sign the papers. Then you get your son."

As I walked out with the signed agreement in my hand, a bitter smile curved my lips.

I wondered—when the day came that Adrian Vance had nothing left, would he and Sara Graves still be so inseparable?

The moment Adrian nervously took the child from the nurse, I was already sitting in Ava's car.

"Ava!" I laughed—loud, hollow, nothing reaching my eyes. "We just made two billion dollars. My treat. Drive to the Royal Club. I want the most expensive suite and eight male models."

Ava frowned, her gaze heavy with concern.

"Hailey... if you're hurting, just cry. You don't need to—"

I wiped a stray tear from the corner of my eye and slapped the equity transfer agreement onto her lap.

"I'm not sad. Look at this. Three years of marriage in exchange for a twenty percent stake worth two billion. Who else is that valuable?"

My voice dropped.

"Before my mom died, she told me: never trust men. Money is a woman's only eternal support."

Ava nodded slowly. Then she slammed on the gas and sped toward the Royal Club.

When we arrived, I threw a black card onto the reception desk. The manager bowed and scraped, ushering us into the most luxurious private suite and lining up rows of handsome men for inspection.

Ten minutes later, Ava and I were sipping vintage red wine while a model with sculpted abs knelt before us, massaging our calves, calling us "Big Sister" with every breath.

Men are trash. As long as you have money, there will always be plenty of pretty faces willing to crawl at your feet.

The models were mid-laugh when a commotion erupted next door. Through the thin walls, three words pierced my ears.

*Sara Graves.*

I walked into the corridor.

A massive banner was draped across the adjacent suite's entrance. Gilded letters proclaimed: *"Celebrating Sara Graves on the Joyous Birth of her Precious Son and Daughter."*

Inside, voices rang out—loud, boisterous, grating.

"Sara, you really are the best! No morning sickness, your figure is still perfect, and you became a mother without a single stretch mark!"

"Adrian is truly devoted to you. He orchestrated a surrogacy just to spare you the pain!"

"In the past two years, he probably touched that haggard woman less than five times! I see his car parked at your villa every single evening!"

Then Sara Graves's voice floated out—proud, coquettish, sickeningly sweet.

"If it weren't for the children, Adrian wouldn't have touched her *once*. He told me the thought of her body makes him sick. He could only stomach kissing her by closing his eyes and pretending it was me."

Another voice chimed in: "Sara, that gang rape rumor... Adrian arranged that too, didn't he? Just to ruin her reputation so you could force her into the surrogacy?"

A light, dismissive laugh.

"Don't mention that rotten woman. Today we're celebrating *my* babies. Let's drink to their health and happiness!"

Cheers erupted. Flattery poured like cheap champagne.

My fingernails dug into my palms until the skin broke. My chest felt like it was being crushed in a vise.

So it wasn't just the baby.

The humiliation. The rumors. The destruction of my reputation.

All of it was designed by Adrian. He broke me so I would marry him out of gratitude and guilt—the perfect puppet to carry his children.

*BANG.*

I kicked the door open.

Sara Graves sat in the seat of honor, wearing a crimson cheongsam that hugged every curve. A pearl hairpin glinted in her hair. She looked radiant. Seductive.

And I stood there—bloated, recovering from birth, face stained with melasma.

We were two different species.

Our eyes met.

Sara rose, a smug smile playing on her lips.

"Oh, look who it is. *Mrs. Vance.*"

She raised her wine glass in a mocking toast.

"You came at just the right time. I should thank you—for giving birth to such adorable babies. *For me.*"

Adrian must have called her. She knew the game was up. No need to hide anymore.

A cold smile spread across my face.

I strode into the room, grabbed the edge of the banquet table with one hand—

And flipped it.

The champagne tower crashed down, glass shattering, liquid spraying everywhere. Screams erupted as the crowd scrambled back.

"Boys, tear it up." The lead thug's voice scraped like gravel. "Fifty grand a head. I take the heat for any fallout."

A chorus of raucous shouts exploded from his crew. "You got it, Sis! Consider this part of the premium service."

They surged forward—muscles rippling under tight shirts, tough, ruthless, efficient. They plowed into Sara Graves's gaggle of toxic friends, shoving them aside like ragdolls. The private room descended into chaos.

I didn't hesitate.

I darted through the confusion, wound my hand into Sara's hair, and yanked her head back. *Smack. Smack.* Two sharp slaps echoed through the room.

She tried to claw back, but Ava Finch was faster. Ava drove her heel into the small of Sara's back. Sara stumbled in her eight-centimeter stilettos, knees hitting the floor with a heavy thud.

Right in front of me.

No mercy. I gripped her hair tighter, forcing her face up, and delivered two more stinging slaps.

Just as satisfaction began to settle in—

The door burst open.

Adrian Vance stormed in. Disheveled. Chest heaving with fury.

"Stop it! All of you, stop!"

His face was a mask of ice, eyes burning with suppressed rage. He shoved me aside hard enough to make me stumble, then immediately scooped Sara up from the floor.

Sara, ever the performer, dissolved into tears and nestled deeply into his embrace. Her face was already swelling. "Husband... how could she be so barbaric? It must be so hard for you, having to be with this kind of woman just for my sake."

Adrian shot me a look of pure loathing. "Hailey Henson, if you have a problem, come at me. You do not touch Sara."

His voice dropped an octave. Menacing. Cold.

"Apologize to Sara. Now. Admit your mistake, or I'll have your father come down here and teach you some manners."

I looked at Adrian. At how tightly he held her. At the depth of tenderness and heartache in his eyes—something I had never witnessed in our years together.

It wasn't that his personality was naturally cold.

It wasn't that he was too busy with work to care.

It was simply that I wasn't the one he loved.

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. I plucked the cigarette from the fingers of the male model beside me, took a long, hard drag, and blew a cloud of smoke directly into Adrian's face.

"Adrian Vance." My voice dripped with disdain. "You want me to apologize to a mistress? Are you insane, or is your skull full of water?"

I stepped closer, eyes locking onto his—

And jammed the burning end of the cigarette onto the back of his hand.

"Leash your dog," I hissed. "Don't let it bark at me. Push me too far, and I'll drag the entire Vance family down to hell with me."

Adrian hissed through his teeth, jerking his hand away. Reflexively, he raised his arm to strike—

But the male model stepped in, shielding me with his own body.

"Mr. Vance." The model's voice was smooth as silk. "You can't hit a woman. Especially not such a beautiful one."

Adrian watched me—tucked safely in another man's arms, my hand resting casually on the model's waist.

His control snapped.

"Hailey Henson," he roared. "You actually came to a club to find gigolos? You just gave birth, and you're this desperate?"

Sara supported Adrian as he straightened, shooting me a look of triumphant mockery. "Adrian, maybe Miss Henson has always been... hungry. Remember back then? She was stripped naked and groped by eighteen thugs, and she didn't get hurt at all. Maybe she enjoyed it. Maybe she had the time of her life playing with eighteen men."

Adrian's expression twisted. His gaze filled with a cruel, resentful light.

"Hailey." His voice was a sneer. "Back then, when they stripped you... why didn't you resist?"

He stepped forward, words like acid. "Is it really like Sara said? Did you sleep with all eighteen of them? Did you beg those thugs to ravage you?"

I stared at him.

The blood drained from my face.

This was the man I had adored. The man I had loved.

His words were ice blades, stabbing straight into my heart.

I pushed the model aside and rose slowly. My eyes were bloodshot as I glared at him.

"Adrian Vance, you are an animal. Go to hell."

I grabbed a wine bottle from the table and smashed it against the floor.

*Crash.*

Glass shards exploded outward. My voice rose above the ringing silence—cold and final.

"Adrian Vance, back then you hired people to humiliate me. Today you belittle me again."

I turned on my heel and strode toward the door.

"I will get justice for myself."

Behind me, Adrian's voice drifted out, thick with concern.

But not for me.

"Sara, where did that crazy woman hurt you? Let's get you to the hospital."

The crisp night wind hit my face at the hotel entrance, drying the tears on my cheeks. With trembling fingers, I dialed a number.

"Uncle Walter." My voice was steady. "This is Hailey Henson. I have a proposition."

Hesitant silence on the other end. I cut through it coldly.

"I hold twenty percent of the Vance Group's equity. I can help you take the company. In exchange, I want Adrian Vance destroyed."

The silence stretched.

Then a deep, firm voice replied. "Alright. Thirty minutes. Meet me at the café."

The day my wife died, new words bled across a diary I'd sealed away twelve years ago.

*"Hello, thirty-year-old Dominic Delgado. I am you at eighteen."*

I couldn't breathe. Before the shock could settle, another sentence burned into existence, the ink still wet.

*"Amy has already married you by now, right? She has to be."*

*"I'm so nervous. Hurry up and tell me the result. I'm getting ready to confess to her."*

The diary slipped from my fingers. It hit the floor with a sound like a coffin lid slamming shut.

Amy Ware and I dated for eight years. Married for four.

And for those four years, I watched her drown in a loveless marriage with the cold detachment of a stranger. I never once reached for her hand.

Before she died, Amy left me with only two sentences.

"I will always love the eighteen-year-old Dominic Delgado."

"If he saw you bullying me like this, he would kill you."

The memory carved through me. I scrambled for the diary, ripped off the pen cap, and scrawled across the page so hard my hand shook. The letters came out jagged, half-crazed.

*"Don't confess to her! You're a monster! You will destroy her!"*

——

The moment the last word landed, something inside me shattered.

Tears came without warning—hot, violent, blinding. My knees gave out. The floor rose up to meet me, and I stayed there, gasping for air that wouldn't come.

Amy Ware and I were high school classmates. I harbored a crush on her for three agonizing years.

It wasn't until the day I received my university acceptance letter—confirming we'd be in the same city—that I finally worked up the nerve to confess.

That was the day I started this diary.

The sour ache of secret longing. The dizzying sweetness of mutual love. The hot tears of our first fight. I recorded every moment, pen to paper.

Truthfully, I'd forgotten this book existed. Amy was the one who kept it safe all these years.

Sometimes I'd come home to find her weeping over these pages, fingers tracing the words of the boy who used to love her.

I never asked why.

Not until pancreatic cancer put her in a hospital bed did this diary cross my mind again.

"Do you want me to bring it?" I'd asked, standing stiff and useless beside her.

She wouldn't even look at me.

"No. I don't want him to see me like this."

At the time, I thought the illness had confused her. I missed the profound disappointment in her eyes. The way the light behind them had finally gone out.

Guilt clawed at my throat, sharp and suffocating. I gripped the pen tighter, desperate to write more.

That's when I noticed something strange.

This pen was a cheap freebie from the shop where I bought the diary twelve years ago. It had been clipped to the cover ever since. The ink should have dried up a decade ago.

Yet when I pressed the nib to the yellowed paper, it flowed smooth and dark.

*"I'm begging you, don't confess to her! Let her live a good life without you!"*

I bore down so hard the nib tore through the page.

As the final stroke landed, the full weight of my regret crushed the air from my lungs.

But there was nothing I could do.

No way to undo what I had broken.

I curled up on the floor and howled—raw, animal, inhuman.

*Dominic Delgado, you really are a monster.*

*The one who should be dead is you.*

When I finally lifted my head and wiped the grime from my face, new words had bloomed on the page.

*"Who are you? How are you writing in my diary?"*

*"What nonsense are you spouting? Why can't I confess to Amy? I, Dominic Delgado, will never let Amy Ware down!"*

I stared at the page.

This wasn't a hallucination.

This was real.

On the other end of this impossible connection was my eighteen-year-old self.

The boy who had just received his acceptance letter. The boy who was moments away from changing Amy's life forever.

I dragged my sleeve across my face and wrote back, handwriting urgent.

*"I am you at thirty. Believe me. I would never lie to you."*