"I still remember my promise. As soon as Wanda recovers from her depression, I'll marry you."

Sean's voice was steady, almost clinical, as if the promise was a matter of duty rather than love. He paused for a moment, his dark eyes meeting mine briefly before looking away. "She's your little sister, so be more understanding of her."

I didn't respond. Instead, I lowered my gaze to the intricate Persian rug beneath my feet, tracing its swirling patterns with my eyes. The words should have made my heart race with joy, as they once would have. Instead, I felt nothing. My love for Sean had died the day he betrayed me, its ashes cold and irretrievable.

Once, I had been cherished. My parents adored me, showering me with attention as the heiress of the Johnson Family—respected, admired and envied throughout Arlington. My word was law in our household. Yet, for Sean, I had thrown it all away.

I still remembered the first time I saw him. He was just a boy then, standing awkwardly in our grand foyer. His school uniform was too big, the fabric faded from countless washes. He had shifted uncomfortably under the weight of my father's kind words, his hands clenched tightly at his sides. But it was his eyes that caught me—clear, determined and defiant despite his obvious discomfort.

From that moment, Sean became the center of my world. I ignored the whispers about his background, the disapproving looks from my friends and the silent disapproval of my extended family. For him, I learned to bake desserts and pack lunchboxes, small gestures that made my sheltered heart flutter. I ran errands, enduring his quiet indifference, convinced that my persistence would one day win him over.

But my devotion became my undoing.

By the time Sean graduated university, he had risen to prominence as one of Arlington's top lawyers. His name was synonymous with success, his face gracing magazine covers as the city's undefeated legal prodigy. At the same time, the Johnson Family began to crumble under the weight of financial scandals and relentless competitors.

The day Sean celebrated his 100th case win, my parents—unable to bear the mounting pressure—finalized my paperwork to study abroad. That same night, they jumped from the rooftop of their office building, hand in hand.

I should have left Arlington then, but fate had other plans. Wanda, my foster sister, had gotten into trouble. She had driven drunk and hit someone, leaving the victim's family inconsolable. Sean had stepped in, but even his formidable skills couldn't secure her freedom. A five-year prison sentence loomed.

I was at the airport, one foot on the threshold of a new life, when Sean stopped me. His expression was unreadable as he informed me of his plan.

The memory of that night still burned.

He had locked me in his house, his once soft-spoken demeanor replaced by icy resolve. I screamed, raged and begged for an explanation.

"Sean, where is your conscience? My family raised you, gave you everything! How could you repay me like this?"

He stood calmly as I hurled accusations, his face impassive. "It's only five years, Natalie," he said evenly, as though that justified everything. "Wanda once saved my life. I can't abandon her."

Something inside me snapped. I charged forward, slapping him with all my strength. The sound of it echoed in the room, the bright red imprint of my hand standing stark against his pale skin.

"The person who saved you that day in the sea wasn't Wanda—it was me!" I cried, my voice breaking.

His hand rose to his cheek, his expression darkening as he stared at me, his gaze now cold and distant. "Enough!" His voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a whip. "Haven't you caused enough trouble, Natalie? Now you're even trying to steal Wanda's credit?"

He took a step closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over me. His eyes, once a source of comfort, now felt suffocating. "You're lying," he spat. "You've been afraid of water since you were a child. How could you have saved me?"

I trembled, my hands balled into fists at my sides. "Sean, you—"

But he didn't let me finish. "No matter what, you'll take the fall for Wanda," he said with finality. His voice was devoid of warmth, as though he were delivering a verdict in court.

"She only went to that bar because of you! She was harassed and nearly assaulted there!"

With that, he turned and slammed the door shut, leaving me alone with my despair.

The next day, I was sent to prison.

I didn't know what to expect inside those walls, but the cruelty of the inmates shattered any illusions I might have held. On my very first day, they dragged me into a corner, yanking out chunks of my hair and slapping me until my face was slick with blood.

I tried to fight back, my pride refusing to let me crumble, but my resistance only fueled their rage. Each blow was a reminder of my powerlessness, each insult a dagger to my soul. Eventually, I learned to endure in silence.

For five years, I lived in fear, my body and spirit battered. The Natalie Johnson who had once ruled her world with a confident smile had been stripped away, leaving behind someone I barely recognized.

I wanted to ask Sean to save me.

In desperation, I begged the prison guards to pass along a message, hoping they'd tell him about my suffering—about the relentless torment I endured day after day. I even convinced myself that if Sean knew, he might pity me enough to arrange a transfer to another facility, far away from these monsters.

But Sean never came. He never visited. He never even sent word.

What I got instead was worse than I had ever imagined. That day, they beat me to the brink of death. My body felt like it had been broken into pieces, my skin hot and sticky with blood. Struggling to breathe, I managed to croak a question to one of them.

"Why?" My voice was barely audible, trembling and thick with despair.

The woman loomed over me, her face twisted in malice. She spat in my face, her breath foul and rancid. "Why?" she mocked, her laugh a grating sound that grated against my ears. Her yellowed teeth gleamed as she leaned closer. "Because Mr. Connor personally told us to take good care of you."

Her words struck me harder than any of her kicks ever could.

And then, without warning, another blow landed—a sharp, brutal kick to my stomach. The world spun as fists and feet rained down, each strike dulling the pain until my body felt numb.

In that moment, something inside me shattered. Sean hated me. Truly, deeply despised me. And yet, I had once loved him so much that I'd abandoned my own dreams for him.

I used to want to become a designer, to create beauty and make my mark on the world. But for Sean, I gave it all up. I settled for being his secretary, hovering by his side, always ready to meet his needs.

Sean had suffered from stomach issues since childhood, a lingering effect of the poverty that had once defined his life. I had never even touched a kitchen knife before meeting him, but I painstakingly taught myself how to cook, learning to make soups that soothed his stomach.

It worked—under my care, his flare-ups became rare. Even my father used to tease me, saying, "You love Sean more than you love me!"

He wasn't wrong.

I clung to Sean like a shadow, hoping, praying that one day he would turn around and finally see me. But all my devotion, all my sacrifices, amounted to nothing. Instead of love, Sean gave me betrayal. Instead of gratitude, he handed me over to hell itself.

Day after day in prison, I endured beatings and humiliation. I learned to kneel, to beg for mercy. I forgot who I was—the proud heiress of the Johnson Family. I learned to slap myself before anyone else could, barking like a dog just to amuse them.

I thought I would never see Sean again.

But five years later, he came to pick me up.

***

Inside my room, I moved toward the window, the floor cold beneath my bare feet. My gaze fell on the yard below and my chest tightened painfully.

The old red maple tree that had stood proudly in the center of the yard was gone. In its place was a barren stump, jagged and uneven, its edges raw and splintered as if it had been cut down in haste.

Surrounding it was a sprawling field of flowers, their vibrant colors stark against the muted tones of the winter landscape.

Tears stung my eyes, hot and unrelenting as they rolled down my cheeks. The sight of the flowers—their beauty mocking me—was a knife twisting in my heart.

That red maple had been more than just a tree. My parents had planted it with their own hands the year they were married. As a child, I would sit beneath its shade, listening to Sean's voice as he told me stories, his tone soft and steady. That tree had been a witness to my happiest moments.

Now, it was gone.

And in its place were flowers.

As if Sean had forgotten. Forgotten that I'm deathly allergic to pollen.

My knees buckled and I sank to the floor, trembling. The memories came flooding back, a torrent of moments that made my chest ache with a pain so sharp it felt physical.

I wiped my face with trembling hands and opened a drawer, the wood groaning in protest. Inside was an old diary, its edges worn from years of handling.

Flipping to the last page, I stared at a number scrawled in faded ink. My breath hitched as I traced the familiar digits with my fingertips.

It belonged to an old friend, a neighbor from my childhood. He had moved abroad years ago, his family's business expanding far beyond Arlington. The night before he left, he'd handed me this number.

"If you ever need me," he had said, his voice gentle but firm, "just call."

I had tucked it away and forgotten it, distracted by Sean's presence in my life.

Now, I dialed it with trembling fingers, my heart pounding in my chest.

The phone rang once, twice. My grip tightened on the receiver as a deep, cold voice finally answered.

"Hello?"

I swallowed hard, my voice shaky as I replied, "Do you still remember me? It's Natalie Johnson."

The person on the other end of the line was silent for a moment. I could hear faint sounds in the background—a clock ticking, the shuffle of papers, the subtle rustle of someone shifting in their seat. When he finally spoke, his tone carried a hint of uncertainty, as if he were trying to piece together who I had become.

"I do remember you," he said, his voice steady but cautious. "May I ask—"

"Can you help me leave the country?" I interrupted, my words rushing out before I lost my nerve. My voice broke slightly, the desperation in it impossible to hide. Right now, I had no one else.

He paused again, the silence stretching between us like a taut string. Then he said, "I can, but... you have to do me a favor too."

My grip on the phone tightened. "What favor?"

I was baffled. The Natalie of today was a shadow of her former self—a once-proud heiress now reduced to a former convict, a woman whose very existence seemed less than ordinary. What could I possibly offer someone like him?

"I'm not young anymore," he began, his voice calm and measured, "and my parents have been pressuring me to settle down. You remember that our families once arranged our engagement, right?"

"Yes," I replied softly, the memory faint but familiar.

"Then fulfill the promise and marry me," he said. His voice was crisp, leaving no room for interpretation.

My breath hitched. There was no laughter, no hesitation. He wasn't joking.

I hesitated, staring at the jagged edges of the tree stump outside the window, feeling the weight of the moment pressing down on me. After a long pause, I whispered, "Alright, I agree."

The moment I hung up, the door to my room swung open with a loud creak. Sean stepped in, his presence filling the space like a storm cloud.

"There's a banquet tonight," he said, his tone commanding. "You're coming with me."

I opened my mouth to refuse, but his cold, dismissive gaze froze the words in my throat.

"You don't have the right to say no," he added sharply before turning on his heel and leaving without another word.

***

The banquet hall was a glittering spectacle, its towering chandeliers casting a golden glow over the crowd. The polished marble floors gleamed beneath the soft light and the scent of expensive perfume mingled with the faint aroma of fine wine.

I stood in the farthest corner of the room, my shoulders hunched as I tried to make myself invisible amidst the opulence. The lively chatter of the crowd was deafening, a sharp contrast to the growing unease gnawing at me.

The grand space was suffocating. Every glance cast my way felt like a dagger, every murmured conversation seemed laced with mockery.

Sure enough, it wasn't long before Wanda caught sight of me. Her eyes glimmered with a predatory light as her lips curled into a sweet but venomous smile. With a subtle tilt of her head, she summoned her entourage, who began to close in on me like vultures circling their prey.

They carried glasses of wine, their laughter sharp and cutting.

Wanda sauntered forward, her slender figure commanding attention as she raised her voice just enough for the crowd to hear. "Natalie used to love drinking. So, let's consider this her welcome-back banquet."

Her words sent a ripple of laughter through the room.

"Natalie, let's celebrate the occasion," she continued, her smile widening as she looked at me. "Drink up, won't you?"

I swallowed hard, my throat dry as the crowd pressed in closer. The overwhelming scent of high-proof liquor stung my nostrils and my stomach churned violently.

Wanda stood at the center of it all, her expression as sweet as honey, but her eyes cold and calculating. Her power over the crowd was absolute—they eagerly echoed her words, eager to please the woman Sean so obviously adored.

They didn't know.

They didn't know the life I had endured in prison, where every meal was a test of survival. I had swallowed moldy bread and rancid gruel just to keep my body moving. My stomach was a fragile, hollow shell now, barely able to handle a proper meal, let alone this much alcohol.

But I couldn't refuse. I knew Wanda too well. She would smile sweetly and play the victim at the slightest provocation. And Sean? He didn't even need to speak. A single shift in his expression was enough to turn the entire room against me.

Steeling myself, I reached for the glass nearest to me, the cold surface slick against my trembling fingers. I raised it to my lips and tipped it back, letting the liquid scorch my throat as it went down.

It felt like swallowing fire. The burn tore through me, igniting a searing pain in my stomach.

The crowd cheered.

"Another one!" someone jeered.

I downed the second glass, then the third, each one a knife slicing through my insides. The alcohol blurred my vision and sent waves of nausea crashing over me, but I didn't stop. I couldn't.

By the time I finished the fifth glass, my legs felt like jelly and cold sweat clung to my skin.

Wanda stepped forward then, her high heels clicking against the marble floor with a deliberate rhythm. She stopped just inches from me, her head tilted as she regarded me with mock concern.

"I'm the one who should be toasting you the most," she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "How about we have three more drinks?"

Her manicured hand reached for the table, picking up the bottle of the strongest liquor in the room. With a smug smile, she poured it into my empty glass, the liquid splashing noisily against the rim.

I lifted my gaze, my vision swimming as I looked toward Sean. He stood in the middle of the crowd, his figure tall and composed, his face illuminated by the soft glow of the chandeliers.

He didn't look at me. Instead, he idly fiddled with his phone.