When I was eighteen, Niccolo stormed into my house and stabbed my father eighteen times.

As the police dragged him away, he looked straight into the cameras and smiled.

"Why should I regret it? From now on, no beast will ever hide behind the name of family to hurt her. From this day forward, Maureen is free."

Years later, when he got out of prison, I had nothing—no money in my pockets, no job offers.

He stubbed out his cigarette, threw himself into the ruthless circles of the capital, and clawed his way up until everyone called him President Morales.

After we got married, every password of his was set to my birthday.

And yet, as I scrolled through his photo albums, all I saw were pictures of another woman—over thousands of them, but not a single one of mine.

It was only then that he seemed to realize.

Without a word, he deleted all those photos, tossed his phone aside, and said flatly, “It’s all in the past. Pretend you never saw it.”

I slid the divorce papers across the table and intoned coldly, "I told you. Sign it."

He dropped the pen and squinted his eyes. "And I told you as well—between us, there's no divorce. Only death."

——

Niccolo didn't sign.

"Between us, there was only widowhood, never divorce." Those had been his words on our wedding day.

He didn't even glance at the papers before slamming the door and leaving.

Not long after, a voice message popped up from an unfamiliar number.

"You must be Maureen, right? You should've seen it by now—he's been saving my photos since I was still in school. Nico loves me, not you. If you don't step aside, he'll make sure you regret it!"

Her voice was young, naive, seemingly untouched by the filth of the world—or maybe Niccolo had simply shielded her too well.

Before I could reply, a string of photos came through.

Her figure was flawless, a fine chain glinting against her slender waist. And that hand—the very one that sometimes forgot to remove our wedding ring—lay sprawled carelessly across her bare skin. It was only when her belly began to swell that the chain vanished.

"Maureen, you've been married to Nico for three years and never carried his child. But he let me bear his baby. Don't you get it? What's the point of clinging on? If you won’t give up, I’ll move into your home myself. Let’s see whose side Nico takes then—yours or mine."

When Niccolo came home, he found the shattered glass ornaments scattered across the floor—and me standing there with the phone in hand.

He only raised a brow as he said, "Don't you have anything to say?"

My ragged breathing mingled with the smoke from his cigar.

He chuckled softly, exhaled a ring of smoke, and sighed. "She's just a girl. Why bother lowering yourself to her level?"

His tone was light as if all the bloodshed he endured in the capital had been for her, not me.

"Yes, she's young and foolish." I tossed a medical report onto the table.

His body stiffened instantly.

"She was pregnant," I said flatly. "So I taught her a lesson and made her grow up."

"Maureen!"

His hands clamped down on my shoulders so hard it felt like my bones would snap. My back hit the wall. I curled my lips, savoring the redness burning in his eyes.

In this lifetime, he'd only bled anger from his eyes twice.

Once, in our final year of high school—when he saw my father drag me half-naked by the hair into the street, trying to drown me in the river. That was the night he stabbed my father eighteen times.

The second time was now—over a girl's miscarriage.

He crushed my shoulders, demanding to know my "cruelty."

"How rare," I sneered, "to see President Morales actually lose control."

"You're a woman too! How could you do this to her?" he thundered.

"You already said it yourself," I leaned closer, whispering, "between us, there's no divorce. Only death. If you can't kill me, I'll kill you both instead."

Blood dripped to the floor.

He finally noticed the cuts on my hand from smashing the glass. His grip slowly loosened.

"Good," he murmured. "I didn't want that child anyway."

He took my hand, carefully wiping away the blood. When he dabbed iodine onto the wound, he blew gently, the way he always did.

It was a habit born years ago, when I'd come home covered in bruises from my father's beatings. He hadn't had anything but alcohol to disinfect my wounds, and he'd always blown softly, as if it could ease the sting.

Now, even with proper medicine, he was still careful—still afraid of hurting me.

My bloodied palm struck his face.

"Enough. It's filthy."

His face tilted slightly to the side. He didn't ask whether I meant the blood was filthy—or he was.

Instead, he called Uncle Johnson, the butler, and handed him the medical kit.

The girl's name was Rizza.

When I tried to dig deeper into her background, I found nothing. Niccolo had erased every trace of her. If I hadn't moved fast, I wouldn't have even learned her name.

I confronted him. "So you like her that much? You've even sealed off her information from me?"

He sighed. "Maureen, what's the point of holding onto this?"

I slammed the divorce papers in front of him again. "Sign it, and I won't have a reason to hold on anymore."

The papers barely lasted two seconds in his hands before he ripped them to shreds.

With a flick of his wrist, the fragments scattered across the floor.

"I told you—between us, there's no divorce. Only death."

I laughed.

And the next second, a bottle smashed against his head.

Red liquid streamed down his face—I couldn't tell if it was wine or blood.

I grabbed the knife from the table and drove it forward.

He caught my wrist mid-strike, locking us in a deadly standoff.

"Niccolo." Our faces were less than an inch apart. "Do you really think I won't do it?"

Our hands trembled, neither yielding.

"Divorce," I hissed, "or one of us dies tonight."

The stalemate lasted only seconds. Then, with a soft laugh, he shifted his strength—guiding the blade into himself.

Pinned by his grip, I watched as the knife buried deep into his shoulder.

Blood splattered across my face.

"I told you," he whispered hoarsely, "I won't let you die before me."

"Niccolo!"

Grinding my teeth, I yanked the knife out.

He groaned, blood soaking us both, but when he looked at me, his eyes held only the same unwavering tenderness I remembered from years ago.

The coppery scent of blood dragged me back to that rain-soaked night in our final year of high school—when my father beat me half to death in the street.

I had collapsed then too, and it was Niccolo who caught me, who shielded me with his own body.

"Don't be afraid. It's okay. I'm here."

Even as glass bottles, chairs, and knives rained down on him, he grinned through the pain and said those same words.

We had once embraced in blood. Kissed in the storm.

But when love rots to its core, betrayal becomes monstrous.

I shoved him away. "Don't touch me."

Stumbling, I left that blood-soaked room behind.

For a while, we lived apart in uneasy silence.

He still protected the girl so carefully that I couldn't uncover a single trace.

But youth was impatient. Rizza eventually came to me herself.

"Have you been looking for him lately? Let me save you the trouble—he's with me."

She was dressed in haute couture, her expression smug. "You thought getting rid of my child solved everything?"

She leaned closer, a smirk curling her lips. "As long as his love belongs to me, it doesn't matter how many children I lose. He'll only love me more because of it. In fact, he's been trying even harder lately. I should thank you, sister, for helping me."

Her plunging blouse revealed a flawless neck and the swell of her chest—marred by countless kiss marks, flaunting how completely Niccolo had adored her.

She pressed a hand to her still-flat belly, pride radiating from her. "Too bad. I'm pregnant again."

I calmly sipped my coffee as she made herself comfortable on my custom-made sofa, resting her chin in her hands.

"They say you've been married for three years and still haven't given him a child. The one time you did..." She chuckled.

"Ha! You couldn't even keep it. Sometimes, you really can't blame men."

The crisp clink of porcelain on wood echoed in the room, followed by her scream.

The bodyguards stared silently as Rizza writhed on the floor, clutching her stomach as blood pooled beneath her.

"Maureen! You'll die for this!"

Her shrieks filled the air as the guards dragged her away.

"You're not afraid of Nico's revenge?"

My fingers tapped lightly against the marble tabletop. My voice was calm and steady. "You should know—becoming Mrs. Morales isn't about a man's love. That alone will never be enough."

That night, Niccolo came home—with dozens of men.

They filled the entire floor of the estate.

Unless he was facing a formidable rival, he never made such a show of force.

But this was the first time he had ever turned his blade on me.

We sat at opposite ends of the negotiation table, each backed by rows of men standing silently behind us.

"Twice now."

His slender fingers tapped lightly against the marble surface, the sound seemed sharp in the silence.

"Maureen, you owe her an apology," he spat coldly.

I laughed sarcastically. "Anyone foolish enough to walk into a lion's den should be ready to face the consequences of her recklessness."

Half of Niccolo's face was swallowed in darkness; I couldn't read his expression.

"Does President Morales really think his wife is so submissive that when a mistress comes knocking, she'll simply do nothing?"

The lighter flared in the dark. I lit the slim cigarette between my lips, the smoke curling upward.

"Niccolo, you should remember—every bloody step you clawed your way up, I was right there bleeding with you. And now you want to set a pampered little canary against me? Is it you who has gone mad—or her?"

I slid the divorce papers across the table once more, blowing a slow ring of smoke.

"This is your last chance."

Moonlight spilled over the marble, but it revealed nothing of our faces.

We stared at each other through the shadows.

"From childhood, you were the one who killed the beast that was my father. You stormed into powerful households for me."

"And I... I lost a child for you. I bled myself dry for you. Niccolo, it's time we cut ties clean. No debts left between us. That's the best ending for us both."

"The best ending..." His low laugh echoed through the darkness.

He picked up the divorce agreement. With the flick of his lighter, the paper caught fire, curling into ash before my eyes.

"She won't appear in front of you again."

The ashes scattered into the air as he rose, leading his men out in a sweeping tide.

A sharp pain stabbed my lower abdomen. I bent forward, clutching my stomach.

My attendants rushed to my side.

"Miss Maureen!"

"I'm fine..." My voice was faint. "Just the old problem."

Ever since losing that child, the cramps came back every time it rained. Not even the best gynecologists could cure it.

Perhaps it wasn't just the body that hurt—perhaps the heart made it worse.

This time, it was unbearable enough that I went to the hospital.

There, I walked straight into a storm.

Rizza was in the ward, sobbing and screaming. "Why didn't you kill her? That bitch is no more than an ant to you! Crushing her should be effortless!"

"I want her dead! If you won't do it, I'll kill her myself!"

She snatched up a dagger, ready to storm out.

Niccolo seized her wrist and yanked her back with brutal force. The blade cut into his palm, blood welling instantly.

Rizza collapsed into his arms, weeping.

With his bleeding hand, he cupped her face. Her tearful eyes looked up at him—and then their mouths crushed together in a fierce kiss.

The dagger clattered to the floor.

The room was filled with the sound of their breath, their intimacy, their entanglement.

Once, Niccolo and I embraced in blood.

Now, Rizza kissed him in blood.

The door opened and she saw me.

"Maureen!"