After being discharged, I received a call from my father.

He said he was about to board his flight and would arrive in five hours.

When the call ended, I took a deep breath and looked up at the vast blue sky.

Before I left, I had to settle things here.

I had just mailed the finalized divorce papers to Yves' company when my studio assistant called in a panic.

"Miss Marichelle, something is wrong! Please come quickly!"

Her terrified voice made my stomach sink. Without another word, I rushed to the studio.

When I arrived, the sight nearly stopped my heart.

The place I had poured my soul into—every corner designed by my own hands—was in ruins.

Tables and chairs lay overturned.

My painstakingly drawn design sketches were scattered on the ground, trampled into filth.

And at the center of it all was Shontelle.

She was toying with one of the delicate necklaces from the counter, her lips curling into a smug smile as she looked at me.

"Marichelle, don't glare at me like that. It was Yves. I just mentioned that I liked your studio, and guess what? He handed it over to me as a gift!"

She tossed the necklace onto the ground and ground her heel into it.

"So, Marichelle, remember your place. As long as I want it, the position of Mrs. Perez will be mine anytime."

"Mrs. Perez? Who would even want that? What I see is you destroying my store! I've tolerated you again and again—did you really think I was so easy to bully?"

I grabbed Shontelle by the hair and slammed her head toward the counter.

"Help me!"

Before her face could smash into the surface, I was yanked back and hurled to the ground, my ribs hitting the corner of a table with a jolt of pain.

Right—I'd forgotten. She didn't come alone.

The bodyguards pinned me down, tying me to a chair. Shontelle stepped forward and slapped me hard across the face.

"That's for acting tough! You dared to touch me? Before, I was polite because Yves was around. But now? Who's going to protect you?"

I licked the blood off my lip, smiled at her through the sting.

"All this, for a man? If you want him so badly, he's yours."

Another smack landed across my cheek.

But it wasn't enough for her. Shontelle's eyes gleamed with malice as she turned to the bodyguards, her smile grew twisted.

"You—teach her a lesson. Make it the kind that doesn't leave marks."

They untied me, only to kick me down. Blows rained down. Through the haze of pain, I caught sight of Shontelle filming everything.

The next time I opened my eyes, I saw her again—her face smeared with fake blood, hands bound just like mine.

"Did you get it? Send it to Yves!" she ordered.

One of the masked men handed her a phone. Her ropes were clearly just for show.

"Marichelle, let's play a game. Let's see who Yves really thinks his wife is."

My stomach clenched. I didn't know what trick she was pulling this time—until the video call was connected.

On the screen, Yves appeared. His eyes frantic, voice sharp with command.

"Who are you? Who gave you the guts to kidnap my wife? Let her go, now!"

The man in the mask shifted the camera between the two of us.

"Which one is your wife? I'll release her."

"The one in pink! She's my wife. Don't hurt her! Whatever you want, I'll pay!"

Pink...

I never wore pink.

Shontelle lowered her head, barely able to hide her glee, trembling just enough to look convincingly frightened.

"Yves, I'm scared..." she whimpered.

"Don't be afraid. I won't let them touch you!"

Even though I had already stopped loving him, hearing my husband of five years choose her without a flicker of doubt tore open a wound in my already-dead heart.

"I need proof," the masked man said coldly. He picked up a pair of pliers and moved behind Shontelle.

"What are you doing? She's my wife! Would I mistake her? Would I lie about this?" Yves' roar nearly cracked the speakers.

"Are you certain she's your wife?" the man pressed.

"I'm certain!" His voice was firm, unhesitating.

Snip—one rope on Shontelle's wrist fell loose.

Two left.

Then the masked man turned toward me.

A chill crept down my spine. My scalp prickled as an ominous dread filled me.

The sharp sting didn't register until it was too late—he had ripped one of my fingernails clean off.

"Ah—!"

No matter how hard I tried to endure, the scream tore from my throat as beads of sweat rolled down my forehead.

"What are you doing?!" Yves' voice cracked in shock.

"Didn't you say she isn't your wife?" The masked man pointed at Shontelle. "Your wife has three ropes binding her. For every rope I cut, I'll rip out one of this woman's nails."

"Are you insane?!" Yves' forehead bulged with veins. "Name your price—I'll pay it! Let them both go!"

"There's no such good deal." The man sneered, twirling the pliers in his hand. "Answer me again. Which one is your wife?"

He moved closer.

"No answer? Then neither of them walks out alive."

He strode toward Shontelle.

"Yves!" she screamed, her voice trembling with practiced fear.

And then came Yves' cruelest words, each one cutting me deeper than the pliers ever could.

"Shontelle! She's my wife!"

"Ahhh—!"

Even biting through my lip couldn't silence the shriek as another fingernail was torn away.

Ten fingers, tied to the heart—they ripped two from me already.

"There's still one more," the man reminded him coldly.

"Who the hell are you?!" Yves' eyes were bloodshot on the screen, his voice thunderous. "Pray I never find you—because if I do, I'll kill you!"

"Game is not over."

The third nail came free.

This time, I made no sound.

The man paused, even a little surprised, staring at me with something close to respect.

But my gaze had already gone dim.

So this was what it felt like—utter despair for someone you once gave your whole heart to.

Shontelle leaned closer, her lips curling in mock sympathy.

"Look at you now, Marichelle. I almost pity you. But it's not my fault that in Yves's eyes... His wife is me."

Her little game was complete, she left satisfied—satisfied enough to abandon me bleeding on the cold floor.

The ropes bit into my wrists. My fingers oozed blood, a constant reminder of what had just been done to me.

My lips were cracked, my body throbbed with pain. Exhaustion pulled my eyes shut.

—

Meanwhile, Yves threw on a coat and stormed toward the door. He didn't believe the kidnappers would actually release Marichelle and Shontelle.

As soon as he opened it, he nearly collided with Shontelle, who had returned.

Seeing him, she instantly morphed into a trembling rabbit, her eyes wide with fear.

"Yves, you don't know how scared I was just now. I thought I was going to die—that I'd never see you again..."

"Where is Marichelle?" Yves pushed her out of his arms, demanding an answer.

For a split second, displeasure flashed across her face, but she quickly masked it with teary grievance.

"Marichelle... she..."

"What about her?"

"She... she sold herself to the kidnappers to survive. They took her away. I wanted to ask where they were going, but I was too terrified... so I ran back to find you."

"Yves, what should we do now?"

Yves' chest tightened with irritation. That pitiful, fragile act of hers—the one he once adored—suddenly grated on him.

But there was no time to dwell on it. Finding Marichelle was all that mattered.

—

When I opened my eyes again, everything was white.

My hands were carefully bandaged, and on the bedside table sat a plate of fresh strawberries—my favorite.

"Dad..."

The man standing guard turned at once. His weathered face softened with both pain and relief.

"My precious girl," he choked out, taking my hand. "Tell me—who did this to you? I'll make them pay, ten times, a hundred times over!"

I lifted my trembling hand to clasp his broad palm. Taking a deep breath, I spoke calmly.

"Dad... get me a death certificate."

The death certificate was mailed alongside the divorce papers to Yves' company.

I didn't know when—or if he would even open them.

But I knew this much: I was leaving.

Leaving for a city a thousand miles away—to start anew with the people I love, and the ones who truly love me.