Richard Grey — Veronica’s father — decided she was a liability and started hunting among relatives for a new heir. He donated money and never showed up at her bedside.

I stayed with her without sleeping for three days, pleading with every god and priest and superstition I could think of to let Veronica live. The baby couldn’t be saved.

When Veronica came back to consciousness, she ignored medical warnings and insisted we bury the child at Haven House. She clung to me and wept until she couldn’t breathe. “Mike, it’s my fault. It’s all my fault.”

“Let’s bury our baby here. I’m afraid that when he reincarnates he won’t find his way home. Whether in life or death, our family will always be together…”

And now she called our child “filth”?

“Veronica, what if I tell you this was our child?” I asked quietly.

She froze, then glanced at the urn without thinking. On it, in a hand she knew, someone had written a short epitaph: “From the heavens to the underworld, may my son find peace and safety.” It was unmistakably her handwriting.

A sharp headache folded Veronica in half; she pressed her palms to her temples. “Vera!” Andrew moved quickly, trying to steady her. He snatched the urn and glared at me. “Michael Linwood, that’s enough. Haven’t you tormented Vera enough?”

“Even if you two were lifelong enemies, have some decency. First you ruin our wedding, and now you forge handwriting? Vera hates you — there’s no way she’d have a child with you.”

“You dump this river of filth on her and call it justice. What kind of person are you?”

Then Andrew did something strange: he took the urn lid off and pulled from inside a small voodoo-like doll pierced with pins. Little tags stuck to it bore a birth date and a name — the doll’s face eerily modeled like his.

“So you knew Vera wanted to make this place our marital home and you couldn’t stand our happiness. You used this disgusting occult trick to hurt me. No wonder I’ve been feeling ill lately.”

Veronica’s suspicion vanished and was replaced by white rage. “Michael Linwood — I know your grandfather talks to those so-called occultists to protect your family fortune. I never thought you’d prey on Andrew being my weakness with such despicable tactics. You’re sick.” She pointed with controlled fury. “Kneel and apologize to Andrew right now.”

I smiled, cold. “Why should I apologize for what I didn’t do?”

“But if these charms actually work,” I said, voice low, “I’d happily make a hundred of them and stick them in Andrew’s bedroll until that dog of a man couldn’t live or die in peace.”

Veronica snapped. Her security team moved to take me down by force.

“Vera, Michael is a lunatic. He won’t admit guilt. I know a thing or two about psychiatry — the proper cure for someone like him is high-voltage electroshock.” Andrew smirked as if he’d discovered the perfect solution.

Veronica’s expression softened a fraction. “You mean…?”

Andrew’s grin widened. “Someone twisted enough to cause this much trouble needs radical treatment. Shock therapy will do the trick.”

Veronica’s voice was icy when she spoke in my ear: “Michael Linwood, whether I can protect my man is not up to you. Let Andrew vent — and if you don’t, I won’t promise what I’ll do to your bastard’s ashes.”

Her look was a warning, hard and absolute.

For a moment I didn't know whether to be angry that she would use such a degrading way to threaten me, or more crushed that she knew Andrew Clark was deliberately tormenting me and still chose to indulge him. In the end it made no difference — it was all because of another man.

My fist clenched and then loosened. My throat was unbearably dry. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

This was the ninety-ninth time, Veronica Grey.

They had strapped me into a makeshift electric chair and Andrew had dialed the current up to the maximum. My bones felt as if someone had shattered them from the inside; the faint scent of something singed clung to my skin. I didn’t cry or scream. I only looked at Veronica.

She turned her head away and smoothed a stray lock of Andrew’s hair as if I were a stranger. Once, I had believed love could survive anything. Even if Veronica forgot me, I thought I could make her remember — the heart, I convinced myself, does not lie. Now she stood before me and ignored my pain. The face I had loved was becoming a blur.

Maybe it was time to give up.

I could barely stand when they released me from the chair. Veronica reflexively reached to steady me, but Andrew grabbed the urn of ashes and stepped between us.

“Vera, I’ll take Mr. Linwood to get looked at. He’s been through enough — I want to check on him,” Andrew said in a tone that made the claim sound sincere.

A maintenance worker hoisted the portable toilet nearby, planning to dump its contents into the public restroom. As he passed Andrew, he twisted his ankle and the lidless urn toppled — a sick, clattering fall — and the ashes spilled straight into the portable toilet.

“Oh my God, Mr. Linwood, I’m so sorry — it was an accident,” Andrew said with feigned remorse, catching my hand and leaning close enough for his breath to scrape my ear. “Want your precious ashes back? Dream on.”

“Andrew — I’ll kill you!” I roared, surprising even myself.

Where the strength came from I don’t know, but I grabbed at his hair and pulled him toward me. A knife pressed to Andrew’s belly.

“I told you — you and that animal have no right to my child. You brought this on yourself.” I raised the blade.

“Hey, you lost the bet, didn’t you? Why don’t you just give me your life instead?” he taunted.

My hand moved to stab, but a hand closed on my wrist, wrenching me hard and throwing me to the ground. Veronica cradled Andrew protectively, eyes cold as steel.

“Mike, if you make Andrew bleed, I’ll see to it you don’t live to regret it,” Veronica said, her body shielding him.

“He stole my person, desecrated my child’s ashes — he deserves to pay. I wish I’d killed him sooner; maybe then all this would be over,” she hissed. Her voice was hollow with long-nursed hatred.

“That’s enough. He didn’t mean it. Are you really going to throw your life away over someone else’s bastard?” someone said.

“Michael,” Veronica added, “we’ve fought for so many years and I never took you seriously. I was too soft. If you want to play with knives, play until you’re satisfied.”

She called to her bodyguard, Evan Cole. “Evan — he’s the best with blades. Mike just tried to stab Andrew. Give him ten cuts.”

“He needs to feel it all at once — until he’s scared. So he’ll never touch Andrew again,” she ordered, voice flat as a verdict.

I lifted my head suddenly. “Veronica, think about this. Ten cuts and there’s no future for us. We’re gone.”

A flicker of doubt crossed her face. She glanced at Andrew, whose expression was a perfect picture of wounded innocence, and then her resolve hardened.

“There never was a future for us anyway. Do it.”

Good. Perfect.

After ten cuts, I lay in a spreading pool of blood. When Veronica saw me drenched in red, she clutched at her chest and pain contorted her face. “What is happening to me? My heart — it hurts so much…”

“Vera, you’re worked up over Michael. Don’t look — it’ll only make you sick. I’m starving. Let’s go home and eat,” Andrew said, as if they were dismissing a nuisance.