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.

If I was going to die, I didn’t want to do it here alone, under white lights, waiting for him to remember I existed.

When I got home, Damon was sitting on the couch, flipping through something on his phone. He glanced at me, expression flat, and stood to walk toward his study like I wasn’t even there.

“Damon,” I called out softly, leaning against the wall for balance. My voice cracked. “It’s my birthday the day after tomorrow.”

He stopped, turned his head slightly. “So?”

“I just… I want to spend it with you. One last time.”

His brow twitched. “Last time? What, are you dying or something?”

I smiled weakly. “Maybe. Can I?”

He snorted, shaking his head. “Fine. I’ll give you a surprise you’ll never forget.” His tone dripped with sarcasm. I knew that look... he was planning something cruel.

Two days later, I showed up at the hotet that he texted me. The moment I opened the door, my legs almost gave out.

The entire hall was white and cold, filled with wreaths of chrysanthemums. A coffin sat in the middle. My photo hung on the wall, framed in black ribbon. Guests in black suits turned to look at me. Nobody said a word.

“Do you like it?” Damon’s voice came from the corner. He stepped out of the crowd, smirking. “A funeral for your birthday. Thought it suited you.”

I stared at my picture, my lips trembling. Then I laughed. “Y-yeah. I love it.”

He froze, just for a second. “If you love it that much, stay still,” he said coldly, waving his hand.

His friends came over, each holding incense sticks, grinning like hyenas.

“The sooner you go, the better.”

“Don’t haunt Nikolai in your next life, okay?”

“Have a safe trip.”

Their laughter filled the room. I just stood there, smiling like it didn’t hurt. Maybe it really didn’t anymore.

When it was over, I turned to leave, but Damon grabbed my arm.

“What’s your game?” he hissed.

“My game?” I repeated quietly.

“Why aren’t you fighting back? You always scream, break things, cry. Why trying to act pitiful now?”

I met his eyes. “It’s not humiliation anymore. I actually like what you did.”

Because this time, it felt real. Like a rehearsal for what was coming.

He stared at me for a long time, confusion flickering across his face, then scoffed. “You’re getting creative now. But it won’t work, Rhea. I’ll never forgive you.”

I didn’t reply. I just looked at him until he looked away first and stormed out.

....

When I got home, the pain hit so hard I couldn’t breathe. I stumbled into the bathroom, barely made it to the sink before blood spilled from my mouth. The red splattered across the tiles like paint.

I rinsed it away, took my pills with shaking hands, and slid into the bathtub. The hot water felt good for a while.

When I tried to comb my hair later, a handful came off with the brush. Is this really me? I stared at my reflection. Hollow cheeks. Pale lips. I smiled bitterly.

I wasn’t sure I’d make it another two weeks.

The next morning, I went to a small photo studio downtown. It smelled of old wood and film.

The old man behind the counter looked up, startled. “You want what?”

“A m-memorial photo,” I said simply. “Something nice. Something that looks like me when I was still alive.”

He hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Alright. I’ll make sure it’s beautiful.”

I put on a red dress I hadn’t worn in years. Painted my lips. Smiled into the camera like I used to: bright, proud, pretending the world hadn’t beaten me down.

When it was done, the man asked, “You want to take it home after it’s developed?”

I shook my head. “No. Just fix it a bit and send it to this address.”

I wrote it down. It was my home address.

I wanted my photo to be beside my sister’s... so at least in death, I’d still look like I belonged somewhere.

...

The ancestral hall smelled like dust and old incense and I stood in front of Slyvia and Nikola's portraits, fingers resting on the black frame like it was the only thing holding me to them. Sylvia’s smile looked like it always did; soft, the kind that made the world slow down. Nikolai’s eyes were the same calm I used to hide in as a child. I whispered, barely audible, “I’ll be with you soon.”

I pressed my forehead to the glass for a second and let a single tear fall onto the altar. “This stupid feud,” I said to the empty room, “it’s almost over.”

“You think you can come in here whenever you want?” Damon’s voice cut through the quiet like a slap. He was behind me before I could turn. I jumped and my elbow hit the frame. The glass shattered with a sharp crack that seemed to echo forever.

He didn’t look surprised. He looked furious. He grabbed my wrist hard enough to bruise. “You already killed them! Now you break their things too?”

“I d-didn’t mean to,” I stuttered, pulling back. “You scared me. If you hadn’t snuck up—”

“Save it.” He shoved me forward. “You’ve got no right to touch any of it.”

“I came to see them. Is that a crime?”

He laughed, “See them? You don’t deserve to look at them.”

Before I could get my footing, two guards stepped up. I hit the doorframe with my knee and almost fell. “Let me go,” I shouted, “Damon, are you out of your mind?”

“You’re the one who’s crazy,” he said, and before I could brace myself one of the guards forced me down toward the center of the hall. “Since you want to stay, then stay here and atone.”

I struggled. “I’ll atone in my own way. This isn’t how—”

He didn’t let me finish. His boot came down on my knee so fast the pain knocked the breath out of me.