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."

“Dad, don’t work yourself up,” I said, wiping sweat from my brow. “I’ve got my way of handling them. But first, we need to deal with the snakes already inside our walls.”

One week before the wedding, I went to the cemetery alone.

The sky hung low, an overcast sheet of gray, and the air was thick with stillness. I knelt in front of my mother’s tombstone, fingers gently sweeping away the dust settled over her name.

“Mom,” I whispered, “I'm not making the same mistakes this time.”

Right then, my phone buzzed in my pocket.

I glanced at the screen. It was a bank notification.

[$50,000,000 withdrawn.]

The breath caught in my throat.

I immediately dialed my assistant.

“Ms. Mercier,” she answered, voice shaking, “someone forged your signature. They cleaned out the account. Every cent is gone.”

...

Twenty minutes later, I stormed into Gwen’s freshly opened studio. The door slammed behind me, and the room went still.

“Desmond, you asshole!”

The name cracked out of me like a gunshot. Everyone froze.

“Who gave you the right to touch my trust fund?”

Desmond turned toward me, slow and smug, like he’d been waiting for the moment.

“Cassandra,” he said coolly, “you’ve bullied Gwen repeatedly. That money? Consider it your apology.”

Then he raised his voice, projecting it for everyone in the room. “We’re getting married anyway. It’ll all be joint property. Don’t be so petty.”

My pulse pounded in my ears. Black spots clouded my vision.

And then I saw a necklace, gleaming against Gwen’s collarbone.

It was my mother’s pearl necklace.

The one I’d locked away in a safety deposit box.

I pointed at her. “Take that necklace off!”

Gwen blinked fast and stepped behind Desmond, her lip quivering.

He frowned, clearly irritated. “It’s just an old necklace, Cassandra.”

“I said, take it off!” I lunged forward and grabbed at it.

The strand snapped, pearls flying across the hardwood floor like shattered promises.

Before I knew it, my hand lashed out.

I slapped Gwen hard across the face.

She shrieked and stumbled back, clutching her cheek like I’d branded her.

Desmond shoved me.

“Are you insane?!” he roared.

I slowly straightened, stared him dead in the eye, and didn’t so much as flinch.

He faltered, just slightly, taking half a step back.

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he muttered, “I-It’s just a damn necklace… no reason to blow this up.”

I dropped to my knees and started gathering the pearls, shaking my hands. Each one was dull with dust and no longer shining.

Just like the love I’d once believed in—crushed under his heel repeatedly.

...

Back in the car, I sat gripping the velvet pouch so tightly that the veins in my hands stood out. My whole body burned.

Then, I opened my phone.

And there it was, blazing across social media.

[#HeiressPubliclyStripped]

Front and center.

Photos of me: coat gone, hair a mess, humiliated. Gwen wrapped in my jacket, leaning into Desmond’s chest like some tragic love story.

The caption read:

[What’s stolen will never truly belong to you.]

I stared at the screen for a second. Then turned it off.

That line?

I gave it right back to her in my head, ice cold. 'What’s stolen will never truly be yours, Gwen. You've done enough in my past. Not this time.'

The backlash hit fast and brutal. Comments flooded in like knives.

[Mercier heiress really is a joke. Her fiancé straightened her out.]

[Look at that pathetic expression. Geez, no wonder she gets stepped on.]

When I called my assistant, my voice was eerily calm. “Scrub everything. Every post. Every photo. I don’t care how.”

Then, I added, “And I want that money back—every dollar. I don’t care how we do it or who we have to pressure. If the bank delays, get the legal team involved. And if anyone tries to stop us…”

I let out a quiet, humorless laugh.

“Let them learn what happens when they mess with the Merciers.”

...

The morning of the wedding, my phone rang.

Desmond.

His voice slid through the receiver, smug and relaxed like nothing had happened.

“Cassie,” he said, like we were old friends. “About the necklace… You really scared Gwen. She’s pregnant. She can’t handle that kind of stress.”

I stood in front of the mirror, lipstick in hand. I dragged the crimson across my lips slowly, deliberately.

In the reflection, my expression didn’t waver.

Cold. Composed. Lethal.

“So that’s why you leaked the photos?” I said lightly. “To calm her nerves?”

Desmond scoffed. “Don’t forget that your dad’s mining project still depends on my family’s contacts. Without me, who’s going to help you?”