But what about me?

Did helping the Rothwells have to come at the cost of hurting me?

Did he really have to steal my paintings to do it?

Why?!

I clenched my jaw, tears blurring my vision. My nails dug deep into my palms, the sting forcing me to hold myself together instead of exploding.

The man standing before me was once the one I’d given everything up for—my dreams, my sense of self, all for love.

For Winslow, I learned etiquette, small talk, how to dress, and how to speak “properly.” I transformed from a free-spirited artist into the perfect wife everyone expected me to be.

When his mother sneered at my humble background, I buried every trace of my talent and learned how to smile gently and gracefully.

After Elora was born, I finally picked up my brush again, painting in secret in the quiet of the night. I posted my work anonymously online, craving just a little space where I still existed.

I thought Winslow understood me. He once told me my art had stories in it—that he believed in me, that I should never stop creating.

But now, he’d given my art, my conviction, and my name to someone else. He’d trampled on everything I ever loved.

Under my breath, I whispered, “Winslow, I don’t want to love you anymore.”

“What?” he asked, not quite hearing, though something uneasy flickered across his face.

He frowned slightly, his eyes soft and intent on me, as if he’d accept anything I said.

But I said nothing more.

Instead, I swallowed the disgust rising in my throat and forced a quiet compromise.

“Alright,” I said. “I’ll do as you say.”

Once the divorce papers were ready and he signed them, I’d finally be free.

He smiled then, tucking the blanket around me.

“That’s better. Don’t think about anything else. Focus on getting better. Leave the rest to me.”

Suddenly, the door opened, heels clicking against the floor. Erin walked in, looking radiant.

Her lips curved slightly, and then she said, “Merry, since you agreed, I’ll count on you to cooperate at my new book launch. You won’t let me down in front of the reporters, right?”

I lifted my head and looked at her. My heart bled slowly, inch by inch.

The woman before me was the only person I could call a friend in the first years after I married Wilson.

Back then, I was out of place—a nobody trying to navigate the polished chaos of high society.

The first party I attended after marrying into the family had been humiliating. I’d barely managed to get through the evening until Erin came over with that warm and easy smile, took my arm under everyone’s gaze, and raised her glass.

She was the one who taught me etiquette, how to talk, how to dress, and how to smile at the right people. She even coached me on how to handle Winslow’s relatives with grace.

Back then, I was awkward and grateful. I treated her like family.

Her life seemed perfect—her husband successful, her son well-behaved.

We’d shop together often, and she’d tease, “Merry, with your charm, Winslow probably can’t stand letting anyone else look at you too long.”

Later, when our children attended the same school, she’d suggest weekend trips together.

I still remember sitting on her lawn, watching her son chase Elora across the grass, the sunlight warm and kind.

She used to say, “I really envy you, Merry. Winslow has changed so much since marrying you. He’s so gentle now.”

I had trusted her completely like a best friend. I’d shared everything, even the arguments between me and my husband that no one else knew.

Only much later did I find out she and Winslow had been childhood sweethearts.

She’d been there through every chapter of his life—school, startup business, everything.

At my wedding, she stood among the guests, smiling so beautifully that even my mother-in-law praised her for her grace.

Back then, I never suspected a thing.

Looking back now, that “envy” she spoke of had never been admiration. It was jealousy.

She lowered her gaze, her tone soft, almost tender.

“For your precious daughter,” she murmured, “this small sacrifice of yours is nothing, isn’t it?”

I closed my eyes and pressed my nails into my palm until the pain steadied me.

“Fine,” I said quietly. “I’ll go.”

Before the press conference began, I sat alone backstage. The lawyer handed me the revised divorce agreement.

For the first time in weeks, I felt a flicker of relief.

Across the room, Erin was surrounded by makeup artists.

Winslow stood beside her, leaning slightly to fix her collar.

“Be careful on the steps. You don’t want to trip again,” he said gently.

That familiar gentle tone used to be mine.

But now, he was using it for another woman…

I froze in place, unable to swallow the tightness in my throat.

From the front rows, fans whispered excitedly.

“Oh my god! That CEO and Miss Erin really look perfect together!”

“He’s a business elite. She’s an artistic genius. They’re made for each other.”

“I heard they’ve been together for years, that they’re just keeping it a secret to avoid gossip…”

Then, someone laughed. “That woman—Merry, is it? She keeps hanging around Mr. Weinstein. Maybe she’s trying to be the mistress.”

My fingers trembled, nearly cutting into my skin.

Winslow had never once admitted publicly who his wife was.

Now, after I disappeared for two years, he and Erin appeared together so often that they had gained people who shipped them as a couple.

Now, I—the legal wife—had become someone who was trying to be the other woman.

When all three of us appeared on the same stage, he didn’t even bother to clarify anything.

After a while, the conference officially began.

Erin walked onstage, her hand resting on Winslow’s arm, glowing under the lights I used to dream about. Her smile was sweet and wide.

“I’ve always believed,” she began, “that art has no hierarchy. As long as there’s love, it can create beauty.”

Winslow smiled, patting her back lightly.

Seeing that, a reporter asked out loud, “Mr. Weinstein, what do you think of Miss Erin’s work?”

He smiled. “I’m very proud of her. She’s a woman I…” He paused, catching everyone’s attention. “I greatly admire and an artist I deeply respect. She deserves everything she has today.”

Applause broke out at his answer.

The flashing cameras cut into my heart, sharp as blades.

He once looked at me the same way, holding my hand as we walked down the aisle, calling me his greatest pride.

His touch had been warm then, and I felt safe.

But now, none of that belonged to me anymore.

I lowered my head, trying to make myself invisible.

But one reporter deliberately turned the spotlight on me.

“Ms. Webberley. What’s your response to the plagiarism accusations online?”

Erin feigned a wounded look, her eyes glistening.

“She’s just… very passionate about art,” she cut in. “I understand her. We were once the best of friends, and she used to help me refine my sketches. I can’t clear up all the misunderstandings, but I truly hope she can move past all this.”

Whispers rippled through the audience.

“Didn’t Merry just get famous off hype anyway?”

“I heard she tried to ruin someone’s marriage and got caught by the real wife, then was forced to leave the industry.”

I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. I forced myself to endure it all, pretending I didn’t hear anything.

But then someone laughed and said something my ears couldn’t just ignore.

“Her daughter wasn’t any better, was she? I heard she tried to seduce a classmate, got caught, and jumped to her death.”

In an instant, I felt the blood in my veins run cold.

Before I even realized it, I was on my feet, kicking the table. It crashed to the floor with a startling thud, sending the glass of water shattering across the stage.

Gasps rippled through the crowd, flashes bursting from every direction.

I grabbed the paper cutter from the table and pressed it to my neck, drawing every pair of eyes toward me.

“My daughter isn’t dead!” My voice was hoarse, trembling between fury and grief. “You can insult me all you want, but you don’t get to slander my child!”

The room fell silent.

“All of those paintings are mine!” I cried, my voice breaking apart. “Erin stole my work! I am the real artist of these paintings, and my daughter jumped because her son and his friends bullied her until she couldn’t take it anymore!”

Flashes went off again, blinding and relentless.

Some people took pictures, others laughed, and others shouted.

Erin clutched her chest and rushed toward me.

“Merry, calm down!” she cried, voice trembling as she ran onto the stage. She pressed a hand over my mouth, her other hand tangling painfully in my hair. “How could you say that? We were best friends, weren’t we? How could you slander me like this?”

I tried to push her away, but she pinned me down, her fingers digging into the fresh wound on my shoulder.

“You bitch!” she hissed under her breath.

Pain seared through me. I shoved back, but she suddenly lunged forward, and my footing slipped. The blade clattered to the floor.

Erin stumbled backward, pretending to reach for me, then lost her balance.

“Ahhh!”

Her scream cut through the noise as she fell down the stairs, her skirt billowing before she hit the ground below.

The reporters were alarmed.

“Sh-She’s bleeding!”

“Oh my god! She’s pregnant?!”

Chaos tore through the room.

Someone bumped into me hard, and pain shot through my shoulder. I just stood frozen, staring at the pool of red spreading across the floor.

Winslow pushed through the crowd and dropped to his knees beside Erin, frantically lifting her.

“Erin, don’t be afraid. I’m here,” he said, his voice trembling, his eyes worried.

Blood was all over his hands. He didn’t even glance in my direction.

“Winslow…” she sobbed weakly, barely conscious. “The baby… Our baby’s gone…”

“The baby’s okay. The baby’s okay. We’ll get you to the hospital. Don’t be scared,” he replied, trying to calm her.

He lifted her into his arms, his eyes full of pain.

And I just stood there, staring at the bloodstains on the floor, my whole body cold.

The press surrounded me, mocking and condemning me like a relentless tide.

“This woman lost her mind!”

“She wanted Miss Erin to miscarry!”

“What a monster!”

I reached out, trying to explain, but before I could, Winslow finally looked at me.

That single glance froze me in place. It was sharper than any accusations.

“Merry,” he said in a low voice in between gritted teeth, “you’ve really disappointed me this time.”

I opened my mouth to defend myself, but he stepped forward and shoved me hard aside.

“Lock her in the basement,” he ordered his assistant coldly. “Let her think about what she’s done!”

I hit the floor hard, the edge of the stair striking my arm. Pain exploded as the wound split open, blood tracing a slow path down my skin.

Winslow paused for a moment, as if wanting to say something, but then he swallowed it back.

Turning away, he carried Erin out, stumbling out of the crowd, disappearing in the blinding flashes.

I lay there, listening to the noise and chaos fading into the distance, until security dragged me away.

They took me back to the old villa.

The basement was dim, the single lightbulb above me flickering weakly.

They threw me inside and slammed the door shut with a loud bang.

I curled up on the cold floor, shaking uncontrollably with every breath.

It was deep into the night when I finally heard Winslow’s low and restrained voice outside the door.

“Merry, you were too impulsive! Erin lost the baby because of you! Stay here and think about what you’ve done!”

A bitter laugh broke from my throat, the sound scraping raw. I was laughing until tears blurred my eyes.

“Her miscarriage has nothing to do with me.”

He fell silent until his tone broke with anger and loss of control.

“Whether it has or has not, she’s innocent. You lost your shit in front of the press and brought scandal to the company! Merry… I really can’t protect you anymore.”

I leaned back against the cold wall, my eyes emptying of warmth as I listened to his footsteps retreating and fading down the hall.

I lifted my head, looking up at the flickering bulb overhead.

It blinked again and again, each flash reflecting the blood that covered my hands.

The basement air was cold and damp. I’d been locked inside for three days.

My stomach twisted in pain, my head spinning badly.

I lost track of time long ago, measuring the hours only by the faint light that filtered through the tiny window above me. When it dimmed, I guessed it was night. When it brightened again, I told myself morning had come.

On the third night, my body couldn’t hold on anymore. Everything went dark.

When I woke up, I found myself lying in a hospital room.

The antiseptic smell stung my nose. A needle was taped to the back of my hand, IV fluid dripping rhythmically into my vein. My throat burned dry like fire.

Through the half-open door, I heard two nurses whispering in the hallway.

“Did you hear? Mr. Weinstein is so good to Miss Erin.”

“I know, right? Last night, he sent her nine hundred and ninety-nine roses—filled the whole corridor with the scent.”

“I heard from the doctor that she’s been emotionally unstable since the miscarriage. He’s been with her every night, making her soup himself and personally feeding her.”

“Gosh! If a man ever treated me like that, I’d die happy.”

Their voices faded into the background as I stared at the ceiling, counting the slow drips from the IV bag.

Nine hundred and ninety-nine roses…

He had done that for me once, too, back when we were still dating.

At the time, I was still living off commissions in a cramped studio. He’d shown up on my birthday carrying an armful of red roses, smiling gently and with certainty.

“Merry,” he’d said, “I want to give you all the romance this world has.”

I’d believed in that warmth. In his promises. In his love.

Now, I knew the truth—his romance was something he could recycle, word for word, gesture for gesture.

He could easily give the same flowers, the same words, the same tenderness to another woman.

What he left for me was nothing but an IV line and the dull ache of betrayal.

A quiet laugh escaped my lips, followed by tears that trailed slowly across my pillow.

The strangest thing was, I felt calm.

A little while later, the door opened, and Winslow stepped inside.

He looked tired—his shirt wrinkled, his brow tightly furrowed, as if suppressing anger.

“You’re finally awake,” he began. There wasn’t a hint of concern in his tone, and he went on bluntly to reprimand me. “Do you have any idea what kind of chaos you’ve caused?”

I turned my head toward him, my face expressionless.

“The press conference—public opinion’s still blowing up,” he continued coldly. “Because of your outburst, Erin’s being harassed by her fans. They want proof she’s the real artist. She’s under a lot of stress. She just lost the baby; she’s weak. Now, you’re going to apologize. Record a statement; clear her na—”

I cut him off, my throat hoarse. “Her baby… It was yours, wasn’t it?”

He froze. His expression faltered, but he didn’t deny it.

The silence hurt more than anything he could’ve said.

I closed my eyes, feeling the last bit of strength drain from my body.

After a long pause, he exhaled and muttered, “It was an accident.”

‘An accident?’ I repeated inwardly, almost laughing. “So now you want me to apologize to your mistress?”

“Don’t be so stubborn, Merry,” he said with a frown, his patience running low. “What matters now is controlling the public narrative. Erin is in a fragile condition; she’s already been through enough. Just record a video, clarify what happened, say you were emotional that day… That’s all I’m asking.”

I looked at him coldly. “And if I don’t?”

His expression hardened. Whatever patience he had left disappeared.

“Then I’ll cut off Elora’s oxygen,” he spat. “You know what that means. A daughter in a coma means nothing to this family. The only reason she’s still alive is that I love you. But if my parents find out—”

My entire body went still. My heart gave a painful lurch, then went numb.

He pulled out his phone and held it in front of me.

On the screen, a live feed showed my daughter lying unconscious in her hospital bed, a nurse quietly adjusting the tubes beside her.

“I’ll give you three seconds to think, Merry,” he warned.

I stared at the screen, every muscle in my body trembling.

My heart felt numb—beyond pain, beyond fear.

I regretted everything—bringing Elora into the Weinsteins’ life and for giving her a father who could do something like this.

All I wanted now was to take her and disappear from his life forever.

Two seconds passed. Then, I lifted my gaze, my voice steady and frighteningly calm.

“Fine. I’ll record it.”

Some of the tension eased from his face.

I looked down, pretending to think, and added quietly, “But I want a house in my name. Elora needs somewhere to live.”

He frowned, but it didn’t last a second before he nodded. “Fine.”

I gestured to the lawyer waiting outside the door. He stepped in and handed over a folder.

The document looked like a property purchase agreement—but it was really the divorce papers I had prepared weeks ago.

Winslow signed without even skimming the content. “Once you finish recording, I’ll handle the paperwork,” he said.

Glancing at the signed paper, I nodded slowly.

Under his watch, I picked up his phone and started recording.

“About what happened at the press conference,” I said, forcing a smile, “I made a mistake. Erin Rothwell has always been my closest friend. I misunderstood her. I hope everyone can forgive my outburst that day. Please pretend it never happened.”

When it was done, I stopped the recording, handed the phone back to his assistant, and walked toward the door without another word.

“Merry!” Winslow called after me.

I didn’t look back.

He caught my wrist, his grip firm. “What are you doing?”

I turned and met his gaze with calm and detachment. “Let go.”

He hesitated. For a split second, panic flashed in his eyes as if he had suddenly realized that I was no longer the woman who would soften at his words.

I pulled my hand free, opened the door, and left. The sound of it closing behind me cut the air cleanly.

I went straight to the lawyer’s office to submit the papers, then headed to the hospital.

The hallway outside my daughter’s room was quiet, the door slightly ajar. I reached out and pushed it open.

A chill ran through me as my gaze locked on the scene inside—a teenage boy, his body pressed against my daughter’s fragile, unmoving frame!