On the day she married the impoverished student his father had sponsored for eight years, Linnea Carrington received a wedding she would never forget—though she would spend the rest of her life wishing she could.

The wedding march she had carefully chosen was replaced by the desperate screams of her father, broadcast live as he dangled from a helicopter.

When they exchanged rings, the box did not hold gold bands but two severed fragments of her mother’s pinky fingers.

On the massive screen, the sweet montage she had spent three sleepless nights editing vanished, replaced by a high-definition, uncensored private video of her and Soren Duvall.

She watched her father fight free of his bindings only to plunge hundreds of meters, his body shattering on impact.

Her mother, shrieking and unconscious, tumbled down the church steps—blood pooling at Linnea’s feet, soaking into her wedding gown.

Linnea screamed until her voice frayed, until all she could force out was one broken word.

“Soren… why…”

Why had the man she’d loved for three years become the executioner who destroyed her family? Why ruin her life on the day she was closest to happiness?

Soren’s gaze was black ice.

He drew his gun, pressing the muzzle against her temple.

“Do you remember Ellie Duvall? The girl you bullied—the one who killed herself? She was my sister.”

His voice was low, steady, lethal. “I never loved you. From the beginning, I was here for revenge.”

His finger tightened on the trigger—then stilled.

Death, he said, would be too merciful. He wanted her alive. Alive to suffer, to endure the same hell he had for eight years.

Until death, there would be no peace.

In public, he played the doting husband, admired by society. In private, he forced her to kneel before his sister’s memorial tablet day and night, stripping her of all dignity.

“Unless you die,” he told her, “this never ends.”

But Linnea truly was dying.

---

“Miss Carrington, advanced leukemia is agony,” the doctor had said. “If you refuse treatment…”

She’d vomited blood into the sink that morning, staring at the pale, hollow-eyed stranger in the mirror—a far cry from the Red Rose Linnea who had once ruled Kingsport’s social scene.

Five years of marriage to Soren had drained the color from her life, her body, her soul.

She wiped her tears and smiled bitterly. Pain? She had forgotten what it meant not to hurt.

If death came, it might almost feel like mercy.

She had just stepped out of the bathroom when one of Soren’s bodyguards blocked her path, pressing a gun to her waist.

“Tonight’s auction is important,” he said flatly. “Don’t try anything—unless you want your mother in the asylum to suffer something… unimaginable.”

Her heart clenched.

Five years ago, he had spent 200 million dollars on their wedding, the city awash with rumors of his devotion. No one knew that behind closed doors, it had been the start of her nightmare.

Remembering her father’s broken body, Linnea’s fists curled, nails biting into her palms.

The bodyguards escorted her to a dim private room—where Elowen Vale, her closest friend and her parents’ beloved goddaughter, straddled Soren’s lap. One manicured hand rested low on his waist, and her soft moan filled the air.

Soren had once seemed untouchable, aloof from the women who chased him. On the day of his proposal, he had sworn on live broadcast: “Linnea, I will love you for life. A lifetime.”

But after the wedding, he surrounded himself only with women Linnea loved and trusted—her relatives, her dearest friends—seducing each of them until she was forced to witness every betrayal.

Once, she had even handed him the condom.

Every vow had been a lie, spun solely to destroy her.

She had learned to meet his cruelty with silence, her heartbreak cooling into numb resignation. But seeing Elowen here still cut like a blade to the ribs.

The pain stole her breath.

Only when Elowen was panting from the exertion of her performance did Soren glance up at Linnea.

“I gave you three minutes,” he said coldly. “You’re late.”

Her body trembled.

He didn’t need to say more. She knelt without protest, moving toward him on her knees.

He ignored her, tossing a whip to Elowen.

“You wanted that last piece of jewelry from the auction, didn’t you? Each strike earns you one item.”

Elowen’s smile was cruel. She swung.

The chili-oil-soaked lash bit deep. Linnea gasped, her tears spilling fast.

Once, she had promised this girl, “Elowen, don’t be afraid. From today, I’m your sister. My parents are your parents.”

Now that same girl struck her with glee.

Eighteen lashes later, Linnea lay shivering on the floor while Elowen crowed over her prize.

But Soren’s smile vanished as he snapped, “You’re just as stupid as Linnea.”

Bodyguards dragged Elowen away. Moments later, her screams echoed through the door.

...

Soren knelt beside Linnea, dressing her in a gown whose delicate lace clung painfully to her wounds.

“Soren…” she rasped. “Will you only let me go when I’m dead?”

“Dead?” He gripped her chin. “You don’t deserve it.”

Lifting her into his arms, he whispered, “You’ll enjoy tonight’s auction.”

Down the spiral staircase they went, her body trembling in his hold.

The announcer’s voice boomed: “The auction of Mr. Carrington and his wife’s belongings begins now!”

Linnea’s hands shook uncontrollably.

She shut her eyes against the pain, but the auctioneer’s voice kept cutting through her skull—over and over—reminding her that everything she’d once called her own was now on the block, parceled out by Soren for strangers to take.

“It’s painful, losing someone you love, isn’t it?”

His voice was a dull, serrated blade, carving her heart without mercy.

“When my sister died, Linnea, I felt a hundred times more than this. So keep your eyes open. Don’t you dare look away.”

Her lashes lifted, and tears blurred her vision.

The first lot: her mother’s treasured piano. The same one her mother had cradled her beside, guiding her small hands across the keys to play songs written just for her.

The second: her parents’ engagement ring.

The third: the diamond crown her father had commissioned for her eighteenth birthday.

Bids rose sharply. “One million!” “Two million!”

Her chest constricted. “Soren,” she choked, tasting blood, “you can do whatever you want to me—but not to them. Please… give me back my parents’ things. I beg you.”

She pounded his arm with shaking fists. “I was wrong, I admit it. Please, I’m begging you…”

For an instant, his eyes flickered with something almost human. He almost reached to wipe her tears—almost whispered, Linnea, don’t be afraid. I’m here.

Then the moment died. Hatred smothered it.

“It’s easy to get them back,” he murmured. “Several of my partners are here tonight. Appease them, and your parents’ belongings are yours.”

Her grip on his sleeve loosened. “You… want me to sleep with them?”

Could this be the same man who had once beaten an investor bloody for brushing his hand against her leg?

He didn’t answer—only pressed room cards into her palm. “You owe me this, Linnea.”

Nausea rolled through her, her fever from the leukemia stoking her skin hot and cold. Still, she forced herself upright and walked toward the first investor’s room. She had no choice.

---

The door clicked shut behind her.

A portly man advanced, eyes glinting. “So this is the woman Soren kept for five years. Tender indeed. He’s ruined you already—why pretend to be pure for me?”

Her scream went nowhere. The lock held.

He shoved her onto the bed, tearing at her dress. The wound on her back ripped open, white-hot pain shooting through her. She thought she’d learned to live with agony—until the moment his weight crushed down and a sob forced itself past her teeth.

Delirium dragged her under. She was twelve again, clutching her mother’s hand as they bent over a starving boy collapsed by the roadside.

Mom, he’s so pitiful. Let’s take him home.

She had pulled him to his feet, dabbing blood from his face with her handkerchief, never minding the stains on her pink princess dress.

Her father agreed, eventually, to sponsor the boy. Soren.

She had given him her lucky bear. With this, you’ll be as lucky as me.

But he’d refused to stay. When he left, she chased him until she fell, knees bloodied—he never turned back.

---

Years later, her father’s money had made him the new darling of Kingsport. Marriage offers piled at his door, but he courted her obsessively: renting every city billboard for ninety-nine days of proposals, planting a thousand and one roses in Bulgaria, climbing three thousand steps to pray for her safety.

Bleeding from the effort, he had pressed a string of heirloom rosary onto her head.

“Linnea, I love you. I’d die for you.”

She had believed him. Loved him. Married him.

And tonight, he had sold her.

---

After the man was finished, she stumbled to the bathroom, scrubbing at her skin until it burned—but she couldn’t wash the violation away.

Her reflection was a ghost: hollow eyes, wet cheeks, wrists marked with the pale ridges of old suicide attempts.

“Why?” she whispered, voice breaking. “Why?”

She had told him a thousand times she had never harmed his sister. He had never listened.

Through her tears, a brittle laugh tore out of her.

“There’s no going back, Soren. But I’m going to die soon. And then… you’ll never get to torture me again.”

She stumbled out of the room in a daze. Soren was already gone.

The night wind of Kingsport cut like razors, slicing through her exposed skin. Each gust felt like it was peeling her alive.

Snow whirled under the streetlamps, and for a moment Linnea was back in the first year they’d been together.

Her grandmother had just died. She’d run away, weeping, without telling a soul.

Soren had turned down deals worth millions to search for her, combing the city for three hours before finding her by the frozen lake.

It had been snowing then too. His eyes were bloodshot as he stripped off his coat and wrapped her tight.

“Linnea, how could you run off alone? Do you know how worried I was?”

He shoved her freezing hands into his coat, warming them with his own shivering body.

“Soren… I don’t have a grandmother anymore.”

His face softened instantly. His voice went hoarse.

“You know I can’t do anything to you.”

She had cried herself to sleep in his arms that night. He had carried her ten kilometers home through the snow.

Back then, she had never felt cold.

Now, walking alone in it, she felt frozen to the bone.

By the time she reached the villa, the soles of her feet were raw and bleeding.

She pushed open her bedroom door—and froze.

A girl in a white gauze dress sat in Soren’s lap. At the sight of Linnea, they sprang apart, breathing hard. A blush stained the girl’s cheeks, and the red mark on her neck spoke of what had just happened.

Linnea’s hand stilled on the doorknob, as if needles had stabbed straight through her chest.

Soren barely looked at her.

“I forgot to tell you—Agatha is moving in. This will be her room now.”

The girl tilted her chin in smug challenge.

“Soren, who is she?”

Linnea stared. The face was almost identical to Soren’s late sister’s—right down to the tiny red mole at the corner of her eye.

He took the girl’s hand and kissed it.

“Her? Just a dog I keep.”

His voice turned casual, cruel.

“Your leg’s not in good shape. She’ll be handling your rehab.”

Then, his arm slid around Agatha’s waist.

“You still here? Want to watch us—”

“Soren,” Linnea interrupted, voice shaking, “you promised me my parents’ belongings.”

“Promised?” He gave a sharp laugh. “I said I’d return them if you accompanied someone. You only went to Mr. Dale—so you get one thing.”

The bitter taste of blood rose in her throat. Pain radiated through her ribs as she crumpled to the floor.

“Soren, you—”

“Three seconds,” he cut in coldly. “Three… two…”

“My mother’s piano!” she screamed, dragging herself upright.

Agatha’s voice was syrupy sweet.

“Soren, is that the Carrington family’s custom piano? I’ve never seen it. Can I try?”

He smiled indulgently. “Of course.”

As he set her on the bench, she curled her fingers around a lighter, hiding it from him, and flashed Linnea a sly grin.

Linnea lunged forward, grabbing her hand.

“This piano is my mother’s last hope of remembering. Please—”

She dropped to her knees, bowing desperately.

Agatha’s eyes welled with crocodile tears.

“Soren, she hates me. I didn’t mean to steal it… I only touched it and she—”

His gaze softened at the sight of his sister’s double. In the next breath, his boot slammed into Linnea’s chest.

“Killed my sister, now you won’t leave Agatha alone? Still acting innocent?”

His grip on her hand was crushing.

“You like to act? Take it out and burn it!”

Bodyguards swarmed in, hauling the piano away. Moments later, flames roared into the night sky.

Linnea screamed and bolted after them—straight into the fire.

The heat scorched her skin instantly. The stench of burning flesh filled her nose, but she didn’t let go.

She clung to the blazing piano, and through the flames, she saw her mother’s gentle smile.

Linnea, you’re the most beautiful girl in the world.

I’ll give this piano to you as a dowry.

Then—blood on the stairs. Her mother’s body crumpled.

“Mom!” Her voice cracked. “I’m sorry—”

Through the haze, she thought she saw Soren drop Agatha and run toward her.

“Linnea!”

Tears slid down her blistered cheeks.

Was this a dream? How could he possibly call her that now? Care about whether she lived or died?

No. He should be happy she was burning.

With that thought, she let go—and let the fire take her.