I turned around and shut all that "warm family togetherness" behind the door.

Out on the empty balcony, I called the lawyer my mother had appointed before she died.

"Eric. Seven years are up."

There was a brief silence on the other end, followed by a quiet sigh.

"Rory… everything's ready. As long as you order, all the funds injected into Christian and Ethan's names will begin withdrawing within twenty-four hours. Estimated six days, and we can pull every last cent."

"Start."

When I hung up, it felt like the rope that had tied me down for seven years finally loosened.

Christian appeared behind me at some point, frowning.

"Who are you calling all sneaky like that?"

"Rory, I'm warning you don't take the family's money and go throw it into random investments outside."

"Raising a kid costs money everywhere. Be saving."

He lectured me like it was only natural, completely forgetting his money existed because I made it exist.

I didn't answer. I walked straight into the dining room.

The long table was loaded with food, every dish something Emma liked.

Christian carefully picked fish bones out for her, never noticing I hadn't even touched my fork.

My father was flushed from drinking, cheerful and loud.

"Rory, transfer your shares in the White family company to the baby in Emma's belly. Consider it your first gift as his mother."

I looked up at that face full of calculation and nodded once.

"Okay."

My quick agreement made all of them freeze for a beat.

Christian recovered first. Satisfaction spread across his face.

"See? Rory's always been the reasonable one."

Then he decided on my behalf: "And the shares in my company that are under your name, transfer those too. For our child. You'll do it."

Emma nestled against Christian's chest, tugging at his sleeve like she was worried for me.

"Christian, don't… Rory will be upset."

My father scoffed.

"How could she be? She's delighted. Right, Rory? Come on, toast Emma. Say a few blessings."

Christian handed me a glass of red wine.

"I can't drink," I said.

Christian's face darkened instantly.

"Can't drink? For the right to use the Manhattan port, when you were downing drinks at the table until your stomach bled, why didn't you say you couldn't handle it then?"

My father piled on, smug as ever. "Exactly. All these years you've been to how many drinking tables? You looked pretty happy back then. Half the time we told you not to go, you insisted."

These years, one of them had to keep up the Don image, and one had to keep up the righteous-father act.

The kind of humiliating work, lowering your pride to charm people, of course it was always me.

Six days. I counted silently.

Then I took the glass Christian was practically shoving into my mouth and turned to Emma.

Her triumph wasn't even hidden.

I lifted the glass and said each word clearly:

"I wish you exactly what you've been dying for."

That night, a twisting stab in my stomach yanked me out of a nightmare.

Cold sweat soaked my pajamas. I curled into myself, even breathing felt like pain.

I fumbled for the nightstand, trying to find painkillers, nothing.

Only then did I remember: the nanny had already cleared out the household medicine, saying Emma couldn't stand the smell of it.

This massive house felt empty as a tomb.

They were probably all crowded in Emma's room, asking if she was cold, if she was hungry, if she needed anything.

I forced myself up and went to the hospital alone.

In the ER, the doctor scanned my medical records and his expression turned grim.

"How did you end up like this again? Didn't I tell you to take care of yourself?"

He looked up, scolding. "Wasn't Christian keeping an eye on you? Last time he was here, he begged me again and again to get you properly healed."

My mind went a little blank.

The first time my stomach flared up, it was here too.

Christian had carried me into the ER, eyes red, gripping the doctor's hand, asking over and over what to do.

After I was discharged, he locked away all my work files and cooked meals that were safe for my stomach with his own hands.

Every few days he'd show up at the hospital, pulling the doctor aside to discuss my diet.

Back then… he really did love me.

And yet that love still disappeared.

Maybe I was too busy. Too busy to notice anyone's feelings—anyone's needs.

I still remember the last time Christian and I had a real fight.

I'd gone three days and three nights without sleep for a project.

And I missed the trip I'd promised him again.

For the first time, he exploded.

He called me a cold-blooded monster who only knew work, said I hadn't fulfilled a wife's responsibilities at all.

I was stunned, honestly.

I was just doing what my mother did, trying to give them a better life. What was wrong with that?

Holding up two families' businesses was exhausting.

And the competition in the underground world was brutal, port access, drug routes…

There wasn't room for me to slow down and think too much.

By the time I came back to myself, everything had already become this.

My phone buzzed, dragging me out of the past.

It was a message from Christian:

"Dad and I are taking Emma on a vacation to clear her head. Transfer six million dollars from the company account."

Like I always did, I replied: "Okay."

Then I messaged finance and authorized unlimited spending on their end.

It wasn't going to be my company. Whether the cash flow broke or not wasn't my problem.

The doctor was still talking beside me. "You need to follow orders. Stop wrecking your body like this."

I nodded, steady and certain. "Yes, Doctor. I won't do that anymore."

From now on, I would live for myself.

I stayed in the hospital for a few days.

Christian didn't call once.

The only call I got was from the CFO, voice careful like he was walking on glass.

"Rory… Christian's side… their spending at the overseas resort is already over ten million. If this keeps going, the company's cash flow is going to snap."

I leaned against my pillow, staring at the gray sky outside the window.

"Let them."

The CFO panicked. "But Rory, the Manhattan port is about to settle the first payment. If we touch that money, we'll default!"

"Do Christian and Ethan know?"

He hesitated. "They said it's fine. They said as long as you're here, you'll handle it."

I gave a soft laugh. "Then default."

I hung up, signed my discharge paperwork, and left.

Today was the seventh anniversary of my mother's death.

And the last day of my promise.

I bought a bouquet of white roses, her favorite, and went to the cemetery on Maple Street.

But when I stopped in front of the familiar headstone… I froze.

The photo on it was a stranger.

And the name carved into the stone was Isabella.

Emma's biological mother.

Every drop of blood in my body turned to ice.

Behind me, I heard Christian and Emma laughing as they approached.

"Rory, you're here early."

Christian pushed Emma carefully, like even a bump in the path might hurt her.

I pointed at the cold stone, my voice shaking.

"Where's my mom?"

Christian frowned, clearly annoyed by my tone.

"Rory, lower your voice. Don't scare Emma."

He shielded Emma behind him, then explained slowly, like he was doing me a favor:

"Emma had a dream a few days ago. She dreamed Isabella said she was cold over there, all alone."

"I had someone look at your mother's plot, it's rare, sunny land. So I had Isabella moved in."

My father followed behind them with his cane, looking completely entitled to it.

"Your mother never liked the sun when she was alive. You were the one who insisted on this spot."

"Now it works out. Give it to Isabella, she got what she wanted."

I looked at the three of them like I was watching the world's most absurd play.

"Then where is my mom?" I asked, each word sharp.

"Her ashes were relocated to the public charity section in the back," Christian said lightly. "Besides, that plot is registered under the Conti Foundation. You're only the user."

"Relax. I arranged everything. Your mother won't be 'homeless.'"

Emma peeked out from behind him, timid as a rabbit.

"Rory, please don't be mad. My mom is your elder too. And now she's the baby's biological grandmother. She's part of the White family, and also part of the Conti family. Taking care of her is just fulfilling your mother's wish."

"Exactly," my father said, tapping his cane against the ground.

"You promised your mother you'd take care of the White and Conti families. Now Isabella is part of White too. You can't play favorites."

They used the promise I'd honored for seven years to force me to swallow this injustice.

I stared at that unfamiliar headstone for a long time… and then I laughed.

I didn't argue anymore.

I turned and walked toward the public section behind the cemetery.

With the caretaker's directions, I found my mother's tiny slot, so small, her name hadn't even been carved yet.

I picked up the cold urn and carried it out.

When I passed them, I didn't stop.

Christian probably thought I'd caved. His tone softened.

"Rory, stop being childish. Come home tonight. We'll have a proper family dinner."

"Emma even brought you a gift."

How generous.

I walked faster, leaving their nauseating voices behind.

Before I left, I changed my last name, back to my mother's: Brown.

Then I placed the completed divorce documents on the nightstand in the master bedroom.

Once I made sure I had nothing left to do with White or Conti, I boarded a flight overseas, holding my mother's ashes in my arms.