The old me might have trembled. I might have softened. I might have mistaken this belated tenderness for love.

But now, I only turned my head away and pressed his hand down firmly.

"Sorry," I said calmly. "I don't feel anything anymore."

Adrian froze.

He stared at me for a long time, searching my face as if trying to find anger, jealousy, or sadness.

But there was nothing.

No tears.

No struggle.

No trace of the woman who once loved him desperately.

After a long silence, his expression gradually cooled. The tenderness in his eyes disappeared, replaced by visible impatience and disinterest. Somewhere in the hallway beyond us, I could hear two of Enzo DeLuca's household soldiers murmuring to each other, their voices low enough to carry respect and sharp enough to carry gossip by morning.

"I'm sleeping in the study tonight," he said.

Then he turned and left.

Not long after I fell asleep, I heard the sound of hurried footsteps outside.

Adrian rushed out again.

I opened my eyes for only a moment, then turned over and went back to sleep.

I no longer cared where he was going.

I no longer cared who he was running to.

The next morning, when I opened the bedroom door, I unexpectedly saw Adrian sitting in the living room.

I raised an eyebrow slightly. "You're up early."

He did not respond to my greeting.

Instead, he looked straight at me and asked coldly, "Why did you report Viviana for plagiarism?"

His voice was filled with accusation.

"Do you know how much of a blow that is to her?"

My smile faded.

I looked at him and asked slowly, "Then tell me, Adrian. Did Viviana really create that design herself?"

His expression stiffened.

I continued, each word clear. "If she didn't, then isn't it plagiarism?"

Adrian seemed stunned by my question, as if he had never expected me to confront him so directly.

After a moment, disappointment appeared on his face.

"Bianca," he said, "how did you become like this?"

I almost laughed.

Like this?

What was I supposed to be like?

The kind, obedient woman who swallowed every grievance in silence?

The fool who watched him give my work to another woman and still pretended nothing had happened?

He looked at me with frustration. "Where did the kind-hearted Bianca I knew go?"

Then he continued, his tone growing sharper.

"You already have everything. Awards, success, recognition. Why do you have to take this away from Viviana too?"

His voice softened slightly, but the words that followed were even crueler.

"Viviana is in the hospital. She's dying, Bianca. She only wanted to experience what it feels like to win a commission before she leaves this world. Is that really too much to ask?"

For a moment, I was so angry that my fingertips went numb.

A chill spread through my body, followed by a burning rage that nearly stole my breath.

"Of course it's too much!" I snapped.

My voice trembled, not from weakness, but from fury.

"Adrian, you know better than anyone how much I sacrificed for my dream."

"For years, every winter, my hands would crack from the cold. They would swell, itch, bleed, and ache until I could barely hold a brush. But I still practiced. I still painted."

"Every award I won, every commission I completed, every bit of recognition I earned came from my own pain and effort."

I stared at him, my chest rising and falling violently.

"How could you give my work to Viviana so easily?"

"If she wants to know what it feels like to win, then she should earn it herself. Not steal from me."

"What part of that is so hard for you to understand?"

I could lose a man.

I could give up a relationship.

I could walk away from ten years of love.

But if Viviana dared to touch my designs, I would make sure she paid the price.

Adrian did not seem to notice how badly I was shaking.

He only looked at me with that same disappointed expression, as if I had committed some unforgivable sin.

"You've changed," he said.

Then he turned and walked out.

The door closed behind him.

The next second, a sharp pain tore through my chest.

My heart clenched violently, and my body lost all strength. I collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath.

Cold sweat broke out across my forehead.

I reached toward the door with trembling fingers.

"Adrian…"

My voice was weak, broken, almost inaudible.

"Save me…"

But he did not look back.

Not once.

When I woke again, I was lying in a hospital bed.

The smell of disinfectant filled the air, thin and sharp beneath the hum of private-clinic machinery. The kind of clinic where records could disappear if the right family asked.

Dominic was beside me, holding me gently, his face pale with worry. The signet ring on his right hand was perfectly still against my wrist.

"Bianca," he said softly, his voice hoarse, "come back to Seattle with me."

This time, I slowly closed my eyes.

Then I whispered, "Okay."

It was only then that I finally understood something.

A person's hope could burn out in an instant.

Not gradually.

Not after endless disappointment.

Sometimes, all it took was one final moment.

One final abandonment.

One final unanswered cry for help.

Adrian did not realize I had left without saying goodbye until the third day.

After that, he called me frantically.

Again and again.

But I was only irritated.

Without hesitation, I blocked his number.

If he cared about Viviana so much, then he should stay by her side.

Why keep dragging me into his unfinished guilt and affection?

Back in Seattle, I curled up on the leather sofa in Dominic's estate, my gaze resting on the wedding dresses he had sent over. The windows behind me looked out onto Moretti port territory, the distant cranes standing like sentinels over the water, and even the quiet of this room felt guarded.

Each gown was exquisite, the fabric shimmering softly beneath the light.

They were so beautiful that they almost felt unreal.

Dominic sat beside me and gently placed an arm around my shoulders.

His voice was warm and patient.

"Which style do you like?"

I studied the dresses one by one.

Finally, my eyes stopped on a strapless fishtail gown made of soft tulle. It was elegant, graceful, and quietly dazzling.

"This one," I said. "I think it's perfect."

Dominic smiled, then raised his hand and rubbed my head affectionately.

"Alright," he said. "Then we'll choose this one."

After the wedding dress was decided, he went to meet with the ceremony planner to discuss the details of the family-sanctioned union.

Meanwhile, Gia called and updated me on Adrian's frantic search.

Apparently, he had been asking everyone about my whereabouts. Only after contacting his parents did he finally learn that I had returned to Seattle.

Gia sounded both amused and angry.

"Bianca, what do you think he'll do when he finds out you're getting married?"

Before I could answer, the doorbell rang.

I assumed it was another planner Dominic had arranged.

So I walked over and opened the door.

The moment the door opened, I met a pair of bloodshot eyes.

Adrian stood outside, looking exhausted and disheveled. The lighter was in his hand, and I heard it snap shut once, twice, three times in quick succession before he shoved it into his pocket. The second he saw me, disbelief flooded his face.

"Bianca…"

His voice cracked.

"You're really here."

He stared at me as if he had finally found something he had lost, yet still could not believe it was real.

"Why did you leave without saying anything?" he asked, his voice trembling with emotion. "Were you trying to hurt me on purpose?"

He reached out toward me, desperation written all over his face.

"Come back with me," he said urgently. "We'll get married right away."

Before I could respond, Dominic stepped forward and stood firmly between us.

Two soldiers materialized behind him in the doorway, silent as stone. Dominic did not look at them. He did not need to.

His voice was calm, but every word carried unmistakable warning.

"Adrian," he said, "please stay away from my wife."

Adrian froze.

He took a step back, as if the words had struck him across the face.

His face turned pale, and his voice shook as he asked, "What did you just say?"