In my family, there's a tradition we have to follow.

The next heir must have a child with the strongest and most attractive man available.

Sounds noble, maybe even romantic, but it's more like The Bachelor meets a corporate blood pact.

In my last life, I pulled Desmond Caldwell’s name from the heirloom box of selection tokens.

The six-foot-two golden boy of the Caldwell dynasty.

Heir to a billion-dollar empire, all angles and cheekbones, with a jawline that made socialites swoon and an ego that could sink nations.

He once filled an entire garden with roses just for me. Whispered lines as if he’d swallowed a romance novel made me believe in the fantasy—white picket fences, candlelit dinners, forever.

I believed him. I let myself believe it.

And then, five months into my pregnancy, Desmond locked me in a cage.

A literal cage. Dog-sized. Steel bars. Cold cement.

He stood just beyond it, looking me straight in the eye, while he slept with another woman.

“You know what happened the day you pulled my name?” he said, his voice sickly calm. “Gwen miscarried. She bled out. Her parents died in a car crash. You owe her this.”

By the third day, my family had gone bankrupt. My father was dead from a fall no one could explain.

By the fifth, he’d sent ninety-nine of his private bodyguards to “take turns” with me.

By the seventh, I miscarried.

By the ninth, I died.

And right before everything went dark, I heard his voice, soft, almost tender, like we hadn’t just destroyed each other.

Holding Gwen Bentley in his arms, he told her, “Don’t worry. Cassandra's family’s hundred-billion-dollar fortune is all yours now.”

But this time around?

I pulled a different name.

The one nobody wanted: Terrence D’Angelo.

People called him the Madman of Metropolis.

Crippled. Disfigured.

Rumor was, he’d burned his own mother alive. People crossed the street when they saw him coming.

Later on, once untouchable, Desmond Caldwell would kneel in front of that same dog cage, where I was humiliated.

Blood on his face.

Nails broken.

Banging his head into the concrete like a man begging for a past he couldn’t undo.

——

It all began at a long, gleaming table, solid mahogany, daunting in its perfection, the kind of table where futures are signed and lives are sold.

Twelve men in dark suits sat around it, grave and motionless.

Titans of industry. Kingmakers.

My father sat at the head, wearing that polished smile he used when cameras were on.

“Cassie,” he said, like this was just another item on today’s agenda. “Pick one. These men have waited long enough to see you settled.”

On the table lay a bundle of selection tokens—each carved with the names of powerful families' sons. Prestige etched in lacquered wood.

But one token looked different. Faded. Weathered. Like no one had touched it in years.

My eyes landed on it immediately.

Terrence D’Angelo.

The name you weren’t supposed to say in polite company.

The one that made people lean in and whisper, 'Poor thing,' before changing the subject.

They said he was ruined. Broken. Walked with a limp and a mangled leg. The D’Angelos didn’t even bother to show up, and they sent some half-relative to pull the token for him.

But I remembered.

I remembered bleeding in that cage, humiliated, stripped of everything in my past life. The people who used to suck up to me were snapping pictures and laughing like it was a show.

Only one person knelt beside me.

Terrence D'Angelo.

And even as I was fading, he pulled out a handkerchief and gently wiped the blood from my face.

That was all it took.

I reached out and, without a second thought, selected his family token.

The room went dead silent.

My father’s face froze, like he couldn’t quite believe what he saw.

“Cassandra,” he said, voice low, like I’d just announced I was marrying a corpse. “You…”

“I want him,” I replied firmly.

He stared at me for a long, heavy beat, then leaned back and let out a slow, tired sigh.

“Fine. But if he ever lays a hand on you—”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. Everyone in the room felt the weight behind the warning.

...

As I exited that suffocating room, I ran right into Desmond.

And Gwen.

Her eyes were red and watery. Her shoulders trembled like the whole world had come crashing down on her delicate little frame.

“Ms. Mercier,” she said, her voice shaky, “I know you hate me. But that studio... it meant everything to me. Why’d you destroy it?”

Before I could even breathe, Desmond stepped in front of her, as if shielding some precious treasure.

“Cassandra,” he snapped. “You really stooped this low just to force me to marry you?”

I looked at both of them, my voice flat. “I didn’t do anything.”

I turned to leave, but Desmond grabbed my wrist tightly.

“Apologize. Pay for the damages. Or forget ever setting foot in the Caldwell estate again.”

Gwen yanked at his arm. “Desmond, don’t! Cassie, it’s all my fault."

Turning to me, she said, tears welling in her eyes, "I’ll kneel if I have to. Just please... give me back the studio.”

Desmond’s anger only grew at her words. “Apologize to Gwen. She’s not in good health. Hand over that wellness center you own—she needs it.”

And he kept going. “Give her twenty of your best staff. Please make sure they’re professionals, the best ones. And a private medical team on standby 24/7.”

I suddenly yanked my hand out of Desmond’s grip and let out a sharp, loud laugh. “God, Desmond. Do you really think that highly of yourself?”

I looked him square in the eyes, not blinking. “The name I picked... wasn’t yours.”

For a split second, something flickered in Gwen’s eyes—there and gone before she masked it with a wide-eyed blink.

“What did you just say?” Desmond’s pupils narrowed. But he quickly twisted his expression into a smug sneer. “Give it a rest. You’re jealous I treat Gwen the way you always wanted me to. That’s what this is.”

I didn’t bother replying. I turned my back on him and walked out.

It felt good. Clean. Like shutting a door and finally locking it for good.

For the first time, I had picked someone else. Someone who wasn’t Desmond Caldwell. Just thinking about it sent a slow, sweet satisfaction burning through my chest.

...

The next day, I headed to Gallery71—my gallery. I wanted to find something to give Terrence, something personal.

A painting for our first meeting. Something symbolic.

But the moment I stepped inside, I stopped cold.

The walls were lined with portraits of Gwen.

Gwen lowered her head, seeming both modest and fragile. Her cheeks glistened with tears, and she shook slightly.

Turning back, she offered a timid smile.

Each painting was meticulously framed and illuminated by soft light, reminiscent of sacred artifacts.

“Do you like them?” Desmond’s voice drifted across the room. Smooth, warm, like it hadn’t once been used to damn me.

He stood beside her, gently brushing a hand down Gwen’s cheek.

“Every year on your birthday,” he said, “I’ll give you the most special gift.”

Gwen flushed, voice syrupy. “Desmond, you spoil me.”

Then she stood on her toes and kissed him. Just a little peck.

But not for long.

Seconds later, it deepened, their bodies pulling together like they’d forgotten the rest of the world existed.

I leaned against the doorframe and knocked my knuckles once against it.

They jolted apart like I’d hit them with a stun gun.

Desmond’s face darkened. “What are you doing here?”

I kept my tone flat. “This is my gallery. Do I need permission to walk into my own space?”

My chest was tight. I could feel the pressure building behind my ribs.

This place—this gallery—was one of the last things my mother left me. I handed it over to him in my last life. I had trusted him with everything.

And this was what he did with it.

Desmond’s mouth pulled into a crooked smirk. “What’s with the attitude?”

He let out a quiet laugh, the kind that always made me want to slap it off his face. “You’ve been chasing after me since we were kids, Cassie. Is this the part where you pretend you don’t care? Playing hard to get now?”

“C'mon, cut the act,” he snapped, his tone sharp and ugly. “We both know you’re obsessed with me. You’ll never let go.”

I didn’t even blink.

“Security,” I said, loud and clear. “Get these two out of here. And take down every single one of those paintings. Trash them.”

“No!” Gwen cried out. “Don’t throw them away! They’re all gifts from Desmond!”

She rushed at me, grabbed my wrist, and then collapsed.

Her body slammed into the coffee table, glass shattering beneath her. A sharp edge caught her leg. Blood trickled down her shin in a bright red line.

“Cassandra!” Desmond roared.

He shoved me hard.

I stumbled back and slammed into a metal easel. Something warm slid down my cheek. I reached up, but I couldn’t feel it. My body was too numb.

Then Desmond grabbed a bucket of paint from the corner and hurled it at me.

“You’ve gone too far!” he shouted.

He swept Gwen into his arms like some kind of tragic prince and stormed out with her in his arms.

I sank to my knees in the middle of the chaos—torn canvases, shattered glass everywhere.

"Where’s my mom’s painting ‘Spring Bloom’?” I asked, my voice hollow.

A staff member pointed toward the corner. His hand trembled.

I followed his gaze.

There it was.

The painting my mother had poured her soul into was her last work before she died. It had hung in this gallery since the day it opened.

Now it was ruined. Smeared in red paint like someone had bled across it. The vibrant colors were lost under the sludge—twisted, smeared, defaced.

I stumbled over and sank to the ground in front of it.

“Mom…” I whispered.

I clutched the wrecked canvas to my chest, ignoring the glass biting into my palms. Blood from my forehead dripped down onto the painting, mixing with my tears.

...

Wheels rolled softly across the tile floor.

I looked up.

There, just outside the reach of the light, someone sat watching me. The sharp edge of a silver mask caught the glow, polished and cold. But behind it, his lashes were trembling.

Terrence D’Angelo.

“Stop crying,” he said. His voice was low. Steady. Not unkind.

His eyes flicked to the cut on my forehead, then quickly looked away.

“Here.”

He held out a small tube of ointment. His hand was steady, but when our eyes met, his fingers curled slightly and pulled back.

“If you don’t use it,” he said quietly, “it’ll scar.”

I looked at the ointment in my hand, still stunned. Then something clicked.

The D’Angelo family. Of course.

They were the most respected medical family in the city. They were behind almost every hospital and pharmaceutical breakthrough. They practically ran the entire healthcare industry.

As I reached for the medicine, I felt his fingertips tremble just before he pulled away completely.

“I know you were forced to pick me,” Terrence said, his voice rough.

He spoke slowly, like every word cost him something.

“I’ll cancel the engagement. You don’t have to force yourself.”

A soft, rusty creak announced the wheelchair's turn, the prelude to his leaving.

“Wait!” I rushed forward, stepping in front of him.

He stopped short. His head turned sharply to the side, as if he didn’t want me to see his expression.

"I meant what I said," I told him, steady. I met his eyes and didn’t look away. "You’re the one I chose."

His hands clenched the armrests so hard his knuckles went pale. The tips of his ears turned a deep, vivid red.

A long pause hung between us.

Then, barely audible, Terrence said, "Mm."

...

Over the next few days, boxes of medicine and supplements appeared at my door.

All from Terrence.

The wound on my forehead had scabbed, healing slowly. But every time I changed the bandage, I remembered how red his ears had gotten that day, how stiff and nervous he looked. And every time, something warm settled quietly in my chest.

A few days later, I stepped into a luxury boutique and practically walked into a scene straight out of my nightmares.

"Desmond, I love all of these!" Gwen’s sugary voice floated through the air when I walked in.

Her fingers brushed across her stomach, subtle but intentional.

Desmond’s voice followed, indulgent and cool. "Then get them all. Put it on Cassandra’s tab."

I stepped further inside, my cold laugh cutting clean through the air.

Desmond spotted me, but he didn’t even flinch.

No guilt, no hesitation.

"You pushed Gwen the last time you saw her. She got hurt," he said, like he was reading from a script. "This is compensation."

Gwen's eyes lit up the moment she saw the jacket I was wearing.

"Desmond," she said, breathless, "I really want Cassandra’s coat."

The shop assistant looked trapped. "I'm sorry, but this coat is a global, limited edition. Ms. Mercier reserved it six months ago."

Gwen looked down, playing the part. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "It’s fine. Someone like me doesn’t deserve something that expensive."

And right on cue, her hand found her stomach again.

Desmond's eyes narrowed.

Then he turned to me, voice like stone. "You have more clothes than you could ever wear. Give her this one."

I stared at him. "Why should I?"

“Call it compensation,” he said, voice dipping lower. “You shoved her at the gallery, and her knee’s still bruised.”

Just as I opened my mouth to respond, Gwen suddenly wobbled.

Desmond caught her, instantly alarmed. "You okay?"

"I’m fine," she murmured, weakly shaking her head—then, again, touched her stomach.

Desmond turned to me, his voice cutting. "Cassandra. Give. Her. The. Coat."

I let out a short laugh and turned to the two bodyguards posted by the door. "Throw them out."

But they hesitated.

One of them said softly, "Ms. Mercier, you’re marrying into the Caldwell family eventually... maybe you should just hear Mr. Desmond out."

Before I could respond, Desmond shot them a look.

That was all it took.

Next thing I knew, I was slammed onto the cold marble floor. Pain shot through my back.

"Take it off," Desmond barked.

The shop assistant stood frozen, horrified. "Sir..."

Desmond looked down at me and sneered.

Then, he turned to the assistant and said, "Don't bother. She’s been chasing me for years. After we get married, I’ll be the one calling the shots anyway."

The assistant trembled as she reached for the coat, undoing the buttons with shaking hands.

When they yanked it off me, my whole body trembled with fury.

I wanted to scream, to claw the smug look off his face.

Desmond gently wrapped the coat around Gwen, his voice soft. "Gwen, you look way better in it."

Gwen bit her lip. "But... is this okay? What if Cassie gets upset, Desmond?"

Then Desmond whipped out his phone and started snapping photos of me, disheveled, humiliated, on the floor.

“Cassandra,” he said coldly, “if you ever come after Gwen again, I’ll make sure the whole internet sees you like this.”

“Desmond, you're a fucking bastard," I retorted.

My fists clenched tight, nails digging into my palms.

The look on his face was exactly like the one from my past life—arrogant and sadistic.

One of the shop assistants finally moved, stepping forward to hand me a silk scarf. No words. Just quiet solidarity.

I wrapped it around myself and walked out, head high, chest burning.

...

When I got home, bruised and shaken, my father took one look at me and froze.

The antiseptic smell was thick in the air. A teacup rested on the table beside him.

He picked it up and hurled it across the room. It exploded into shards against the wall.

"That goddamn Caldwell brat laid hands on you?" His voice was thunder. "We’re dealing with the Caldwells. Now."