We’d been fighting since the day we married. Eight years. Eight long, stupid years.

Damon and I were what everyone in our circle called a disaster wearing a wedding ring.

But now? Everything was about to end.

I stared at the medical report in my hand. The words blurred, then settled: Late stage of Pancreatic cancer.

I smiled bitterly. Then my phone buzzed until the sound almost hurt. Messages flooded the screen.

[Rhea! Check the group now!]

[Is Damon insane?]

[He put up an auction... he is selling your right to spend one night with another man!]

My hands went cold.

Damon Whitlocke, mafia boss of the Eastern Quarter, you heartless bastard!

I drove like a woman set on collision. By the time I arrived, the auction hall felt like a cathedral to money and power. Men with lapel pins and tattoos, women with dangerous smiles. Henchmen like sentries along the walls. Cameras. Laughter. Cigarette smoke. And there he sat in the front row, my husband, his shoulders broader than in photos, his presence like an edict. A woman in a red dress sat beside him.

When I saw her face, something inside turned sideways.

Harper.

The woman he’d chosen because she looked like my sister. Close enough to steal the shape of me.

My photos were on the big screen, one after another. The crowd grew hungry.

“Twenty million.”

“Three.”

“One hundred million.”

A bald man rose, his voice a cannon. “One hundred and fifty. I’ll pay a hundred and fifty million for one night with Miss Rhea.”

Phones lifted. Cameras flashed. The room smelled of perfume and calculating hunger.

I stood frozen. My legs failed.

Damon did not look at me. He leaned back, expression like stone, eyes half-closed, as if watching me was an indulgence. He said lazily, “Deal.”

The bald man grinned and came for me. “So, Boss Whitlocke, I can take her tonight?”

“Sure,” Damon said, smirking. “Once the money clears, she is yours.”

That was the sound of something breaking clean and final.

The man reached for my arm. I grabbed a wine bottle from the nearest table and smashed it across his skull.

Glass exploded. Blood painted the marble like a grotesque blossom.

The room went silent. For a second the world was only the ringing in my ears.

“TOUCH ME AGAIN,” I said, voice shaking, “AND I WILL MAKE SURE YOU REGRET BEING BORN.”

No one moved.

Damon laughed. A slow, soft clapping. He rose and walked toward me through a path of men whose faces did not flinch. Up close I could smell the whiskey and the expensive cologne. He leaned in until his breath ghosted my ear.

“If I can auction you once,” he whispered, “I can do it again. And again. Until there is nothing left of you to sell.”

I turned to him, words splitting in my throat, “W-why? Do you really hate me that much?”

“Hate?” He chuckled like a man who had spent too long listening to caskets close. “You killed the two people I loved most. What do you think I feel?”

My heart clenched so hard I thought it would stop.

He said it like a verdict. Like a blessing.

I could feel the room tilt, the faces like windows into a city that had always been his and never mine. Men I had smiled at at parties, boys who had learned to call him Boss, women who owed everything to his patronage. No one reached for me. No one helped.

They watched their Boss humiliate his wife. They watched to see how low a woman could fall before she became nothing but currency.

Then my mind drifted back to the past…

Nikolai Whitlocke.

Damon’s fraternal twin brother.

The one who never raised his voice. The one whose smile could quiet a storm.

When we were kids, he used to buy me chocolates even when Damon told him not to. He’d laugh and hand it to me anyway, saying, “Don’t tell my brother.” When I grew up, he was still the same—gentle, patient, steady in a world that was anything but. Falling for him just… happened.

Damon, on the other hand, was chaos made flesh. Cold eyes, sharp words, the kind of man who could command a room with silence. He was already running his father’s mafia operations before he turned twenty. People feared him. Even family obeyed him.

He liked my sister, Sylvia. She was soft-spoken, graceful, the kind of woman who made dangerous men forget they were dangerous.

The four of us used to spend time together. Me and Damon fought like fire and gasoline, while Nikolai and Sylvia would just stand by smiling faintly, like they knew how this all would end.

Then one day, everything changed.

Nikolai held Sylvia’s hand and said, in front of everyone, that they were getting married.

The world fell apart quietly.

That night, I locked myself in my room and cried until my ribs ached. The next morning, I ran away from home like a fool, thinking distance could numb heartbreak.

Nikolai and Sylvia went out to look for me.

They never came back.

The police said it was a car accident.

But in the Whitlocke family, “accidents” were never accidents.

For days, I knelt in front of their coffins, unable to breathe from the grief. I thought I’d die too.

And that was when Damon came.

He picked me up when I collapsed, wiped my face, and said nothing while I shattered. When nightmares dragged me under, he turned the lights on before I could scream. When I couldn’t eat, he forced me to take a spoonful, threatening to call his men if I didn’t.

He was cruel, but he stayed.

Little by little, I started depending on him. His voice. His hands. His presence. He became the only thing left that tethered me to the living.

One night, he looked at me and said quietly, “Rhea, marry me.”

I froze.

He smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’ve started loving me too, haven’t you? You don’t need anyone else. I’ll take care of you… for the rest of your life.”

He wasn’t wrong. Somewhere between grief and madness, I did start to love him. He had saved me when I was drowning, and I mistook control for care. I thought maybe this was love... real love.

So I said yes.

On our wedding day, I stood in front of him, holding my bouquet so tightly my hands trembled. I told myself this was a new beginning. That Nikolai would have wanted me to be happy.

But the moment the lights dimmed, and the big screen lit up behind us...

My private photos appeared.

The room went silent for a second, then laughter broke out.

“Everyone,” Damon said from the stage, smiling like it was a joke, “hope you enjoy the wedding gift. These are Mrs. Whitlocke’s private treasures.”

My body went cold.

“Damon… what is this?” My voice barely came out.

He came down from the stage and grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him. “You really don’t know? You killed my twin and Sylvia. Did you think I’d actually love you? I married you so you could suffer beside me forever.”

Something in me snapped. I laughed loud and broken and smashed a champagne bottle over his head right in front of everyone.

After that, our marriage was nothing but punishment. And that was when I finally understood.

The man I had married wasn’t my savior.

He was my warden.

And every time I tried to leave him after that... every time I dared to whisper “divorce” he’d beat me until my body forgot how to move, until my voice forgot how to ask.

In his world, love was ownership. And I was his property.

For eight years.

We just kept destroying each other, piece by piece.

Now it was coming to an end.

I looked at the cancer report in my hands. “Damon,” I said quietly, “can we stop fighting for once? Just for half a month. That’s all I have left anyway.”

He stared at me like I’d told a joke. “You learned to lie now? You think death ends what you owe me?”

I lowered my gaze. “You’ll see in half a month. I’ll give you your answer then.”

He laughed, low and cruel. “Fine. I’ll wait. Let’s see how you plan to pay for two lives.”

Then he took Harper’s hand and walked out of the auction hall.

He didn’t come home that night.

---

The next morning, every news outlet had their photos Damon Whitlocke, the mafia boss of the Eastern Quarter, leaving a hotel with Harper. She wore white, smiling softly, her eyes curved the same way Sylvia’s used to.

Of course they were.

Because Harper wasn’t born with that face. She made herself look like Sylvia. Surgery. Every curve, every angle copied from old pictures and gossip columns.

Harper used to be my rival back in school. She hated me. Wanted what I had. Damon, money, attention and everything.

I told him once. Told him the truth. That she wasn’t born like Sylvia, that she made herself look that way because she wanted to crawl into my sister’s ghost.

He didn’t believe me.

He said, “You’re jealous.”

Then he told me I was pathetic for comparing myself to a dead woman.

After that, I stopped talking about it.

I put my phone down and finished my breakfast slowly. My stomach hurt, but it always did. Pain was nothing new.

The front door slammed open. Damon walked in, wearing a dark suit and that same cold authority everyone feared. His men waited outside, heads down.

He frowned when he saw me still at the table. “Why are you still here?”

I didn’t answer.

He smirked. “Didn’t you say you’d give me an explanation in half a month? Why aren’t you getting ready for that?”

Before I could speak, my stomach twisted hard. A sour, metallic taste filled my mouth. I pushed my chair back and ran to the bathroom. I barely reached the sink before I started vomiting then blood came out. I hurriedly flashed the blood away.

The maid gasped. “Madam! Are you… pregnant?”

Damon’s face changed instantly. He stormed in and grabbed my wrist hard enough to hurt. “You’re pregnant?”

His voice dropped, cold and sharp. “Two months ago. That night. Don’t tell me this is your plan—to use a baby to make me forgive you.”

I pulled my hand free. “Don’t worry,I’m not pregnant. And even if I was, I’d never keep your child.”

He didn’t believe me. His jaw tightened. “We’re going to the hospital. Now.”

“I said I’m not going!”

He grabbed my arm again, rougher this time.

And that’s when I realized no matter how little time I had left, Damon would never let me go in peace.

His brows drew together. That same look he gave men before ordering their execution. “Since when are you scared of hospitals? What’s wrong with you today? You really are sick in the head.”

“Yeah,” I said, laughing weakly. “I’m sick. You finally got that right.”

He stared at me for a second, then his tone went cold. “Fine. You don’t wanna go? Then don’t.” He turned to the maid and said flatly, “Go bring some abortion pills.”

My heart dropped. “Damon, don’t—”

But the maid was already hurrying off. She came back with a bowl of something dark, thick, and bitter-smelling.

Damon walked over and grabbed my chin, “Drink it.”

“I said I’m not pregnant!” I tried to push him away, but he shoved the rim of the bowl against my lips. The liquid burned down my throat before I could spit it out.

It felt like fire in my stomach. The pain hit fast, sharp, twisting, and unbearable. I fell to the floor, clutching my belly, the sweat running cold down my back.

Then came the metallic taste. I coughed hard and blood spilled out of my mouth then everything went dark.

I heard him shouting my name somewhere far away. But it sounded like it was underwater.

When I came to, I could barely move.

“She’s not pregnant,” a man was saying. “Why on earth did she take abortion pills? Her stomach’s severely damaged. We need to pump it immediately.”

The cold tube slid down my throat. I wanted to scream but all that came out was a strangled sound. The pain was unbearable, tearing through my insides. I could feel my stomach cramping and burning at the same time.

“Hang in there,” a nurse murmured near my ear.

I bit my lip until I tasted blood and gripped the sheet as hard as I could.

By the time they pushed me out of the operating room, I was half-conscious. The lights above me blurred as they rolled the stretcher down the hall. I heard the doctor’s voice again, cautious this time.

“Mr. Whitlocke, your wife’s condition is much worse than expected.”

“What do you mean worse?” Damon sounded irritated. “It’s just a stupid pill. You pumped her stomach already, didn’t you? She’ll live.”

The doctor hesitated. “It’s not just that. The tests show signs of late-stage—”

“I already know,” I croaked, cutting him off. “No need to tell him. He doesn’t care.”

I turned my head away. I couldn’t look at Damon.

He gave a small, cold laugh. “You’re right. I don’t. As long as you’re not dead, I’m fine.”

He turned to leave, but his phone rang. I could hear the woman’s voice through the speaker: sweet, soft, disgusting.

“Damon? Where are you? I miss you.”

He glanced at me, then smiled faintly. “At the hospital. Come here if you miss me that much.”

When he hung up, he looked at me again, smirking. “Didn’t you say you wanted me to stay with you for the next two weeks? Guess your wish is coming true.”

I didn’t answer. I just closed my eyes. My whole body was shaking.

A few minutes later, the door opened and Harper walked in. She froze when she saw me on the bed, then quickly looked down and walked straight to Damon.

He slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her close. “Come here,” he murmured before kissing her, right there in front of me.

She kissed him back deeper and the sound of it made my stomach twist harder than the medicine ever did.

Something in me snapped.

I grabbed the vase on the bedside table and hurled it at them. “Get out!” My voice cracked. “Get the hell out of my room!”

The vase shattered. Damon turned fast, blocking Harper with his arm, but a shard still grazed her cheek. A thin line of blood appeared.

He glared at me. She gasped and clung to him like a scared child.

“Damon…” Harper covered her cheek with both hands, tears spilling down her face. “My face—it hurts…”

I watched the way Damon froze. His whole expression changed, like someone had punched the air out of him. Then that panic came—real, desperate panic. The kind I never got to see.

He rushed to her side, lifted her into his arms as if she’d break. “Don’t touch it. You’ll make it worse.”

He turned to the guards, “Get the head of dermatology. No, forget it, call the top foreign doctors. Use the helicopter if you have to! Now!”

They scattered instantly.

I just sat there, leaning against the cold metal bedrail, watching him disappear down the hallway with Harper in his arms. His voice echoed from afar—“Make sure she heals clean. No scars, do you hear me?”

The sound of it felt like a knife scraping over my ribs, slow and dull.

I looked down at my hands. The back of them was full of tiny purple bruises from needles. My fingers were shaking, but I still laughed—quiet, dry, bitter.

Harper only looked a little like Sylvia. Just enough to fool him. Just enough for him to lose his mind over her.

And me the woman he married could bleed out right in front of him, and he wouldn’t even blink.

My stomach twisted again, sharp pain spreading through me. I curled up and waited for it to pass, the thin hospital gown sticking to my skin with sweat.

The next few days blurred together. Pills, injections, pain. Everything hurt. I was so thin I could see the outline of my ribs. My hair came off in handfuls. Even the nurses looked at me with pity, sometimes slipping extra painkillers into my IV.

I didn’t ask. I didn’t thank them either.

Then one afternoon, the door slammed open. Damon stormed in, his face like thunder.

Before I could sit up, he yanked me off the bed by the arm. “Harper almost lost her face because of you!” His voice was cold enough to make my skin crawl. “Are you proud of yourself now?”

I could barely stand. “It was just a scratch,” I whispered.

His hand tightened. “Shut up! You think you can hurt her and get away with it?”

He dragged me down the hall. I stumbled after him, too weak to fight back. Two bodyguards followed close behind.

When we reached the staircase, I saw broken glass scattered all over the steps. My heart dropped.

“Damon—what are you doing?”

He didn’t even look at me. “You like causing pain, right? Let’s see how you handle it.” He nodded to the guards. “Do it.”

I clung to the railing, breath trembling. “She’s not Sylvia! You’re losing your mind!”

He finally looked at me, eyes wild. “She doesn’t need to be Sylvia. She just needs to look like her.”

“Damon—”

He gestured.

The guard shoved me hard.

Pain exploded through my body as I hit the stairs, glass digging into my skin. I couldn’t even scream properly; all that came out was a choked sound. Blood ran down the steps in a slow trail.

Before I could even lift my head, another push came. Then another.

By the third fall, I couldn’t move anymore. The taste of blood filled my mouth. My chest burned. I heard someone shouting, then nothing but ringing in my ears.

When I woke up, I was back in the hospital. Everything hurt. My body, my chest, even breathing.

Outside the curtain, two nurses were whispering.

“Miss Harper’s fine already,” one said softly. “President Whitlocke’s been by her side every day. He treats her like she’s made of glass.”

The other sighed. “And the woman in bed 302... she’s covered in bruises. No one even visits her. Isn’t she his real wife?”

“Shh, don’t talk about it. You’ll get in trouble.”

Their voices faded as they walked away.

I closed my eyes. My throat burned, but no sound came out. Tears just slipped down the sides of my face, soaking into the pillow.

I stayed a few more days, but there was no point anymore. The painkillers barely worked. The doctors couldn’t help.

So one morning, I signed myself out.