“Aren’t you going to explain yourself?”

“There’s nothing to explain.”

“If you admit it now, I’ll charge you with intentional assault.”

My body went rigid.

I looked at her, stunned.

She wasn’t bluffing—her eyes were deadly serious.

“Or…” she said, voice tight, “tell me the truth about your brother’s death. Do that, and I’ll drop everything.”

I glanced at Damien, who was hovering nearby.

Then I took a slow, steady breath.

“You’ll find out,” I said.

A flicker of hope crossed her eyes.

“But not yet.”

Her shoulders stiffened. Her eyes reddened.

“What is your relationship with that murderer?” she snapped. “Would you really rather go to jail than give her up?”

“I told you, Celeste. I have nothing to do with her.”

She was so angry she could barely get the words out.

Her voice shook as she growled through clenched teeth.

“You think I won’t sue you?”

I met her gaze.

She shoved me aside and stormed off.

---

Three days later, I received a court summons.

When I stood in court and pleaded guilty, Damien smirked and raised an eyebrow—as if to say, figures.

Only Celeste’s face was completely expressionless.

Pale. Cold. Frighteningly calm.

She had hired a top-tier lawyer—someone who twisted the language of the law into a weapon. Through strategic misinterpretations and subtle exaggerations, they pushed my sentence up to eight years.

Not long after the verdict, she came to visit me.

“If you testify for Alden,” she said quietly, “I’ll get you out. I swear it.”

I gave her a faint smile.

“Ms. Hartwell,” I said, “take care of yourself.”

I didn’t know if I’d make it out alive.

She inhaled sharply. Her voice trembled as she whispered, “You knew everything, didn’t you? That night… it was just you and that bitch. You saw everything, didn’t you?”

I didn’t answer.

She continued, desperate now.

“Back in middle school, when you barely had enough to eat, it was Alden who spent his allowance to share a meal with you. Don’t you remember that?”

Tears spilled from her eyes.

I nodded.

“I haven’t forgotten.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me the truth?”

“Why not now?”

“Do you want me to die before you’ll finally speak?”

I stayed silent, then slowly shook my head.

“It wasn’t her who died that night,” I said.

“It was me.”

The truth would come out—without my help.

The murderer would be exposed sooner or later.

But if I told her everything now, I feared Celeste would lose her mind.

So I waited.

---

As it turned out, I didn’t have to wait long.

Within a month, the court overturned the verdict and acquitted me.

I was released.

My mind was a storm of confusion.

Outside, parked at the gate, a Rolls-Royce was waiting.

Celeste stood beside it.

Neither of us spoke on the ride home.

The silence between us was heavier than chains.

Only after we entered the house did I finally say, “Thank you.”

She paused. But she didn’t look at me.

She went upstairs without a word.

“Gideon,” she called from the staircase. “You’re such a bastard.”

I smiled faintly.

Tears slid down my face.

---

After that, she stopped bringing anyone home.

Stopped showing off her recklessness in front of me.

She needed to protect the child.

Though we lived under the same roof, we were strangers.

Even when we passed each other in the hall, she wouldn’t meet my eyes.

Wouldn’t touch the food I cooked. Wouldn’t say a single word.

I didn’t react.

I just kept doing what I had always done—quietly, patiently.

---

Then, one night, she finally cracked.

She knocked on my door, the stench of alcohol still clinging to her clothes.

Her eyes were bloodshot.

“Let’s talk,” she said. Her voice was small.

I let her in.

For the first time in forever, we sat down calmly—face to face.

She stared at me, pleading.

“Please,” she whispered, “I’m begging you. Testify for Alden. Just once.”

She lowered her head.

“If you do… I’ll get rid of the child. I’ll give you my entire fortune. Anything you want.”

I shook my head. “No need.”

Her gaze sharpened. “Who is Sierra to you, anyway?” Her voice trembled. “That woman—she’s the one who led the murder of Alden!”

“I’ve told you already,” I said, tiredly. “I have nothing to do with her.”

She stepped closer, eyes red. “Then why are you protecting her? Would you really shield Alden’s killer for someone who means nothing to you?”

I met her gaze. “Celeste… the day the child is born, you’ll know the truth.”

“I can’t wait that long!” she snapped. Her body trembled as she stood abruptly. “Gideon, if you won’t give me answers today—I’ll cut all ties with you!”

My heart clenched. She wasn’t bluffing.

I nodded slowly. “Alright.”

Her breath hitched. Her fingers dug into my shoulder.

“Say it again,” she whispered.

“It’s okay if we break up.”

Her lips curved into a bitter smile. “You think I’m joking?”

I said nothing.

She turned and slammed the door behind her.

That night, the divorce agreement landed in front of me. I was no longer welcome in her home.

I reached for the pen, ready to sign, but she caught my wrist.

“Think it over before you do it.”

“I already have.”

As I signed, she kept her grip on me. Her hand moved with mine—almost like she needed to force the signature out of me. Then, without a word, she snatched the document, her movements sharp, furious.

“I misjudged you,” she muttered, not looking at me.

I closed my eyes.

That was the day I was thrown out of the manor.

With barely any money, I rented a tiny thirty-square-meter apartment. There, I waited quietly for my trial, hoping that justice would one day be served—that Sierra would finally be exposed. That I could face Alden again with a clean conscience.

But that moment never came.

What came instead were Celeste’s bodyguards.

They dragged me back without explanation.

The first thing I saw was Damien lying on a bed soaked with blood—his lower body completely drenched in red.

Celeste looked like she hadn’t slept in days. Her eyes were dark, sunken. The moment she saw me, she slapped me across the face.

“You said it didn’t matter if the child wasn’t aborted! That you’d accept anything!” she shouted. “Then why would you do this to him? Why strip him of his dignity as a man?”

I stared in shock. Damien whimpered in pain.

“Gid…” he said weakly. “If you don’t want me to be with Celeste, I’ll leave. But why hurt me like this?”

Celeste kicked me in the knee, forcing me down.

“I’ll find the thugs you hired,” she growled. “And I’ll make sure they die without a grave.”

Then she grabbed my chin, squeezing until it hurt.

“But you—I’ll give you one last chance.”

“If you testify in court, I’ll have my lawyers defend you. Maybe you’ll shave off a few years in prison.”

Pain shot through my jaw. I managed to speak through gritted teeth. “I can’t.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I’m dying.”

She laughed. It wasn’t joy. It was rage.

“You’re still protecting that bitch Sierra?! Even now?”

She grabbed my hand—and without hesitation, snapped my ring finger backward.

The wedding ring was still there on my finger.

A strangled wail tore from my throat.

"Will you tell me now?" she demanded, grabbing my chin and forcing me to meet her bloodshot eyes. "What did Sierra do to my brother that night?"

Sweat streamed down my face. I could barely breathe.

"Wait until I’m dead," I rasped. "Then you’ll know."

She stared at me for a long second. Misreading my pain for defiance, her voice trembled with fury.

"You really think I want you dead?"

Another sickening crack—my index finger snapped, the pain blinding.

"Will you tell me?"

"Kill me." My voice was hoarse, broken. Tears spilled freely. "Kill me, and you’ll get your truth."

Her hands trembled. Her eyes—so red they were nearly glowing—fixed on mine with chilling resolve.

"Fine," she whispered. "I’ll satisfy you."

She pulled out a wrench. A heavy, rusted thing. And aimed it at my hands.

"No—Celeste, wait—AHH!!"

Ten fingers. One by one. Shattered.

But what hurt more than the bone, the flesh, the agony... was the hollow crack in my chest.

I collapsed to the ground, my lips tinged purple, blood bubbling between them. Celeste stood over me, wrench in hand, her body trembling.

"If I hurt you," she muttered, "I'll go to prison with you."

I spat out blood. Then, with the last bit of strength left in my mangled fingers, I fumbled at my shirt, tearing the buttons off.

"You want the truth?" I croaked. "I'll show you."

I pulled the fabric open, revealing the disfigured skin beneath—raw, scarred, grotesque.

Celeste froze. The wrench slipped from her hand and clattered to the floor.