"Samantha, I'm sorry. It's all my fault. Cheer up. You can hit me, yell at me—whatever you want, as long as it makes you feel better."

Samantha just stared at him, her eyes wide and glistening like a wounded pup.

She didn't say a word. Just sat there, looking heartbreakingly fragile.

No one else dared to speak.

It took Connor a long time to finally soothe her into sleep.

The moment he rose from the bed and gently closed the door behind him, the warmth on his face vanished completely, replaced by a biting cold.

Downstairs, he glared at the group, rage simmering behind his eyes like it might set the whole room on fire.

"What did you tell me? Wasn't this supposed to be foolproof? Didn't you say that Matt never touches women? What the hell happened?"

Everyone stood frozen, holding their breath, exchanging nervous glances but not daring to speak.

Hannah pressed her lips together in frustration and cautiously stood up, placing her hand on Connor's shoulder. "Connor…"

"Get your hand off me." He shook her off immediately.

Her hand froze awkwardly in the air. After a beat, she scratched at her hair and forced a bitter smile.

"Connor, so what if someone else slept with her? What's the big deal? You don't even really like her, right? Why are you so angry?"

Others chimed in, trying to help.

"Exactly, Connor. Don't tell us you've actually fallen for Samantha? Have you forgotten? She's the one who got Cathy killed!"

The mention of Cathy made the vein at Connor's temple twitch.

He waved a hand irritably. "Of course not. I'm just mad because this didn't go according to plan. The plan was for Samantha to get beaten. But now look at her…"

Without warning, an image flashed in his mind—Samantha, tangled in bed, helpless beneath another man's weight. His breath quickened.

"It's okay, Connor. So what if the plan failed? We still got back at her in a way. Didn't you see how hard she was crying just now? And I've still got more tricks up my sleeve." A sly grin curved Hannah's lips.

"I just—what if she can't take it? She loves me so much. What if she kills herself in a moment of despair? What if she breaks up with me? Then what?"

Even voicing the possibilities made a flicker of anxiety flash across his eyes.

A snide voice replied, "Break up with you? Come on, Connor. Samantha has no one in this world but you. If she leaves you, where would she even go?"

Only then did some of the tension in Connor's body seem to ease.

That's right. Samantha had no one left.

No family. No support. No future.

He was the only one she had.

And the best revenge? Would be to slowly become someone she couldn't live without. Then one day, toss her aside without warning. She'd be shattered. Completely.

Samantha stood quietly at the top of the stairs, hiding behind the wall.

She had heard everything. Not a single word had escaped her ears.

After a while, a smile tugged at her lips. Beautiful, but broken.

Even now—after everything—Connor still wasn't satisfied?

Her parents' ashes were scattered and lost. Her college diploma was gone. She'd nearly been thrown in jail with a criminal record.

What more did Connor want?

What kind of ending would finally satisfy his need for revenge?

Samantha stepped quietly back into the room, closed the door behind her, and made a call.

"Uncle, there's something else I need your help with," she said. "Can you look into something for me? Three years ago, at a dance academy in Reystein City—a girl jumped off a building. I want to know what really happened."

It had only been three months since she'd reconnected with her uncle. Before that, she hadn't known she still had family in this world.

He'd been urging her to come home ever since, to inherit the family estate. But she had loved Connor too much back then—so much that she kept refusing.

Now she finally understood. No matter how passionate love might seem, it could never compare to the quiet weight of blood ties.

This time, she would play the game herself. She would make sure that Connor spent the rest of his life drowning in regret and misery.

…

"Samantha, there's a party tomorrow," Connor said. "Reystein City's elite will all be there. I'll take you with me—introduce you to everyone. Once we're married, events like this will be a regular thing. You should start getting used to it."

He wrapped his arms around her from behind as she stood in front of the bathroom sink. His lips brushed against the delicate curve of her earlobe, lingering there before he inhaled deeply, as though savoring the scent of her hair.

In the mirror, Samantha looked at herself, forcing a smile that never touched her eyes. "Okay," she said.

His hand slid down, fingers tugging at the sash of her nightgown. Instinctively, she reached back and caught his wrist.

"Connor, I'm not feeling well today. Can we not?"

His gaze lingered on her, his eyes searching hers for a moment—quiet, uncertain. Something seemed off. But then he remembered the night she had spent with Matt. His mouth curled into a bitter smile as he nodded.

"Alright. You should rest. I'll sleep in the other room tonight. Don't want to disturb you."

"Mm. Good night, Connor."

"Good night, Samantha."

As the door clicked shut, Samantha's body, tight with restraint, finally began to ease. Her exhaustion spilled across her features.

She braced herself on the sink, ripped two tissues from the box, and scrubbed at the place on her skin where he'd kissed her.

For all she knew, his saliva might be laced with poison.

Men like him—venom lived in their touch, in the sweet nothings they whispered.

And she had no idea what tomorrow would bring.

…

At the party, she wore the gown Connor had sent someone to deliver first thing that morning—a custom piece from a high-end boutique. The pale teal fabric complimented her already fair skin, giving her a fragile, almost untouchable elegance.

She held onto his arm as they moved through the crowd, greeting one person after another. Her expression never faltered—gentle, poised, appropriate.

"Mr. Reddington, it's been a while," Connor said with a smile. "Let me introduce you—this is my fiancée, Samantha."

Fiancée.

The word lodged itself in her chest like a splinter.

Her fingertips trembled ever so slightly where they rested on the sleeve of his suit. Through the thin fabric, she could feel the warmth of his body.

Her nose stung, and she swallowed hard.

That word—fiancée—had once been everything she'd dreamed of. She had longed for it, prayed for it, even begged for it in silence.

Now, it felt like a dagger pressed against her ribs.

"Samantha, are you alright?" Connor's voice pulled her back. He was watching her, concern flickering behind his eyes. "You don't look well."

"I'm fine."

"Come on, I'll take you to sit down for a bit."

"Alright."

Not far off, Hannah approached them, a glass of wine in her hand.

"Samantha, you look gorgeous tonight," she said with a smile, eyes scanning Samantha from head to toe. "No wonder Connor's so taken with you."

There was something thin and sharp hidden in her voice, something just beneath the surface.

Samantha didn't react. Her face remained still. "Thank you," she said.

Hannah trailed behind them toward the sofa. There was something in her presence that made Samantha uneasy, a tension that tightened with every step.

Sure enough, the moment stretched and snapped. Without warning, Hannah stepped hard on the hem of Samantha's dress.

Samantha furrowed her brows, instinctively reaching out to steady herself on Connor's arm.

But she had underestimated Hannah. This wasn't about making her trip or fall. It was about the dress.

Before Samantha could react, a ripple of gasps spread through the crowd.

Her gown—delicate, custom-fitted, elegant—split apart at the seams under the pressure, slipping off her body in a sudden whisper of silk. All that remained was the thin lingerie clinging to her frame.

"I'm so sorry, Samantha, I didn't mean to," Hannah said immediately, though her voice carried no weight of sincerity.

Eyes swarmed over Samantha, unashamed and leering.

Shame struck her like a slap, sharp and burning. She snatched the fabric from the ground, clutching it to her chest. Then, without hesitation, she raised her hand and delivered a tight slap across Hannah's face.

Color bloomed instantly on Hannah's cheek.

Connor stepped forward and yanked Hannah behind him, his eyes turning cold as they met Samantha's. "How could you hit her? She apologized! It wasn't even on purpose!"

Samantha's lashes trembled, but she said nothing. She simply stared at him.

Of course she knew. This had been orchestrated from the start—Connor and Hannah, playing their parts. The dress had been tampered with. There was no other explanation for how it fell apart so effortlessly.

He wanted to humiliate her. To break her pride in front of everyone.

But he had miscalculated.

There was no collapse, no tears, only the distant flicker of disappointment in her eyes—cool, steady, strangely calm.

Something in Connor faltered. Her gaze sent a ripple of panic through him.

His brows twitched. He reached out instinctively to take her hand, but Samantha pulled away.

"I'm sorry, Samantha, I…" He fumbled with his jacket, draping it over her shoulders. "Let me get someone to help you change. Samantha, I'm really sorry."

He kept apologizing, frantic now, but Samantha barely responded.

She let the staff guide her away, and he watched her go, unease blooming in his chest. Something had shifted. She wasn't the same.

And for the first time, he felt it—her eyes no longer held love when they looked at him.

Fear curled cold in his stomach.

"Connor," Hannah leaned in close, voice low enough for only him to hear. "I arranged for a man to go in while she's changing—just a little scare…"

"No!" Connor snapped. "Call it off. Now."

Hannah blinked in disbelief. "What?"

"I said cancel the plan!" His tone was sharp and commanding.

"But—" She faltered.

"She's already been humiliated enough!" His voice dropped again, but the anger remained. "This place is full of important people. You want to blow this up even more? I'll be the one who's shamed."

Hannah hesitated, then finally relented. "Fine."

That night, on the way home, Connor held Samantha's hand the entire time.

Somewhere deep down, he was gripped by a strange premonition. If he let go, she might vanish completely.

"Samantha… I was wrong. I shouldn't have yelled at you. Will you forgive me?"

Samantha smiled faintly, without hesitation. "Okay."