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.

Sean's stance said it all. He didn't just tolerate Wanda's cruelty; he silently endorsed it.

My body had reached its limit. The alcohol churned violently in my stomach, burning like molten lava. My head throbbed and my vision swam, the room tilting as if it were on a sinking ship.

I tried to steady myself, but the strength drained from my legs. My fingers trembled as I reached out, grasping at air, but there was nothing to hold onto. The last thing I saw was Wanda's triumphant smirk as darkness swallowed me whole.

***

When I regained consciousness, the sterile, biting scent of disinfectant hit me first, stinging my nose and throat. My eyelids fluttered open and I found myself staring at the blank ceiling of a hospital room. The fluorescent light overhead buzzed faintly, casting a cold, unwelcoming glow.

My body felt heavy, weighed down by exhaustion and pain. A dull ache spread from my stomach, radiating outward with every shallow breath. The starched bedsheets beneath me were coarse against my skin, a cruel reminder that I was still alive.

Beyond the thin screen divider, familiar voices filtered through.

"How is she?"

It was Sean's voice. That unmistakable coldness still lingered in his tone, but there was something faint beneath it—something almost like concern, though not quite.

The doctor's voice was calm but carried an edge of urgency. "Miss Natalie's stomach can't handle alcohol. She's extremely lucky to have been brought in on time. If this happens again, it could be life-threatening."

A heavy pause followed.

"How could she not be able to drink?" Sean's disbelief was palpable. "She used to handle alcohol really well."

"Her current condition suggests severe damage to her gastric mucosa," the doctor explained. "It's likely the result of long-term irregular eating habits and stress. In short, she must avoid anything too irritating from now on."

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then Sean's voice returned, colder and sharper. "It must be because the prison food didn't suit her. She's always been picky and spoiled. She ruined her own stomach."

The words struck me harder than I expected, a dull ache blooming in my chest. My lips curled into a bitter smile. What did he know?

In prison, I had fought for scraps—dry bread that crumbled like dust, spoiled meat that reeked of decay. I had starved until my ribs jutted out and shivered through winters with no coat to keep me warm.

Sean never knew. He never cared. Or worse—he had known and allowed it to happen.

***

The doctor left shortly after and Sean stepped into the room. His polished shoes clicked softly against the tile floor, the sound measured and deliberate.

"Three years apart and you still managed to cause such a spectacle at a banquet," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. He stopped at the foot of the bed, towering over me, his presence oppressive. "You turned what was supposed to be a simple welcome-back party into a disaster."

I lowered my gaze to the crisp white bedsheet, my fingers twisting its edge. "I'm sorry for ruining everyone's fun," I murmured weakly.

"If you can't handle alcohol, you should've said so earlier," he snapped. His words felt like ice shards. "If you drank yourself to death, wouldn't that be an even bigger joke?"

I bit the inside of my cheek, forcing myself to remain silent. A former Johnson Family heiress who had given up everything for him—wasn't that already the biggest joke of all?

"Alright," I said softly, my voice barely audible.

The room fell into an uneasy silence, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on us.

After a long pause, Sean's tone shifted, taking on an unfamiliar gentleness. "Since you came back, you've become much quieter. You used to talk non-stop at gatherings. When you were with me, you were even more of a chatterbox."

I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. His expression had softened ever so slightly, a faint glimmer of warmth flickering in his eyes.

"Talking less means being less of a nuisance," I replied flatly, keeping my gaze fixed on the bedsheet.

Sean ignored the bitterness in my tone. His lips quirked upward, almost wistfully. "I remember once when I went away for a competition. Two months later, when I returned, I saw you standing outside my dorm with a huge bouquet of flowers. You stood out so much..."

His voice trailed off, his mind seemingly lost in the memory. For a brief moment, he looked almost human—like the boy I used to love, the one who had once made my heart race.

"I was young and foolish back then," I said, cutting him off. My voice cracked as I forced the words out. "I caused a lot of trouble for you. It won't happen again."

My hands clenched the sheet tightly, my nails digging into the fabric as I fought to hold back the tears that threatened to spill.

The faint smile on Sean's face vanished instantly, replaced by his usual cold mask.

"After being apart for three years, do you really have nothing to say to me?" he asked, his voice quiet but firm.

I froze, his question hitting me like a sudden gust of wind, leaving me breathless.

What could I say? Should I tell him how Wanda's people had tormented me in prison, with his silent approval? Or how I had clawed my way through every moment of despair, only to find myself here again—trapped in his orbit?

Should I tell him that I was tired? Tired of everything. Tired of him.

Or should I tell him the truth? That soon, I would be marrying someone else.

There was no point in telling Sean about my life in prison. His reaction would be the same as always—a dismissive wave of his hand and a scoffed, "Stop making up stories to fool me."

I had learned my lesson the hard way. Hope was a dangerous thing. The more I clung to it, the deeper the wound when it was torn away. So, I swallowed my words and simply shook my head.

Sean's sharp gaze lingered on me, his eyes scanning my face and arms as if searching for something. His brows furrowed, the tension in his expression bordering on irritation.

"What's with all these injuries on you?" he asked at last. His voice wasn't filled with concern, though—it was accusatory, sharp like a blade.

Expressionless, I replied, "I was beaten in prison. Got hurt." My voice was flat, devoid of emotion.

Sean's jaw tightened and he immediately shot back, "What nonsense are you talking about? How could anyone beat you in prison?"

I couldn't stop the bitter laugh that escaped my lips. It was hollow, scraping against the silence like sandpaper. Curling my lips into a mocking smirk, I fired back, "Then maybe you should ask your dear Wanda."

His face darkened, his expression hardening into a cold mask. "You're still trying to accuse Wanda? Stop messing around, will you?" His words sliced through the air, leaving no room for argument.

Before I could respond, he cut me off entirely. "I've already chosen the hotel for our wedding," he announced, his tone brisk as if ticking off an item on his to-do list. "Focus on recovering for now. I will marry you as promised."

The absurdity of his words made me want to laugh again. Instead, I closed my eyes, turning my head toward the window. Outside, the sky was a dull gray, heavy with the promise of rain. It felt fitting—a reflection of the storm inside me.

Once upon a time, Sean would have trusted every word I said without question. But now, the moment anything involved Wanda, I was nothing but a liar in his eyes.

There was no point in explaining anymore.

The air between us turned ice cold. Sean stood there for a moment longer, tension radiating off him. When I didn't respond, he let out a sharp, exasperated snort before spinning on his heel and storming out. The door slammed behind him, the sound echoing in the room like a final judgment.

I lay still, staring at the ceiling as my chest tightened. I willed the tears not to come.

With trembling hands, I unlocked my phone and saw the notification: my passport was ready. Without hesitation, I booked a plane ticket.

'It's fine, Sean,' I thought silently. 'Soon, we'll never see each other again.'