Isolde Vancrest had witnessed the ultimate betrayal. Her long-time fiancé, Alan Princeton, had gotten his own sister-in-law pregnant, and he had the audacity to defend it.

Alan: "You can't have children. The family can't end with me."

How ironic. This was the same man who had once knelt nine times to propose, swearing he would rather be sterile than ever hurt her. If love was a joke, then pride had lost all meaning.

That night, Isolde called the one man in Southbridge whose name most people feared to speak. By morning, she was his wife. When Alan saw her again, it was at her wedding.

He dropped to his knees, eyes red.

Alan: "Honey, I was wrong. Please… look at me."

Isolde took a step back and fell into the arms of the man behind her. "The Prince," the ruthless ruler of half the city, wrapped an arm around her waist.

"Seems you've forgotten your place." His voice was biting cold as he looked down at Alan. "Now she’s someone you don’t deserve to even look at."

"Alan, is the baby Sandra's carrying… yours?"

Isolde Vancrest froze. The color drained from her face. She couldn't believe what she had just heard.

Seven months ago, Alan Princeton's older brother had died in a car crash. Out of sympathy for his widowed, pregnant wife, Sandra Carter, Isolde had done everything to help her. She would prepare nourishing meals for her every day, accompany her to every prenatal appointment, and treat her like family.

And now this? This was how they repaid her?

Never had she imagined that Alan—the man who once held her as if she were his entire world—would betray her like this.

"Explain yourself!" she demanded, her voice trembling. She fixed her gaze on the man sitting silently on the sofa.

The light caught the lines between his brows, deepening the shadows across his sharp face. His usual composure was gone, replaced by a suffocating heaviness.

Alan exhaled slowly and said in a low voice, "Calm down, Isolde. My family… needs an heir."

The words cut through her heart like glass. Three years ago, Isolde had hurt her womb while saving his life. The doctor had said she might never conceive again.

Alan had held her hand then and sworn, "I only want you. Who cares about babies? I'll never need one."

And now this?

"An heir?" Isolde gave a hollow laugh, tears breaking free. "So you slept with your sister-in-law? How disgusting can you get?"

A sharp crack echoed through the room.

Alan's mother, Ruth Whitmore, stood before her, her face contorted with disdain as she fixed Isolde with a glare. "Watch your mouth! How dare you speak to Alan like that? His brother is gone. It's only natural that the younger one continues the family line. You have no right to question it."

Ruth's shrill voice rose. "Besides, you can't even bear children. What right do you have to act proud? You should be grateful that Alan hasn't thrown you out already!"

'Can't even bear children…' Isolde touched her burning cheek and stared at Alan in disbelief. 'So this is what he thinks. I should be grateful? Grateful he hasn't thrown me out?!'

Alan was the one to propose—nine times. He was the one who swore he could live without a child, who showed her the vasectomy papers while pleading, tears in his eyes, for one last chance. Those papers still lay locked in her safe.

Alan's eyes flickered with guilt and frustration as he looked at the red mark on her face.

After a long pause, he spoke again, his voice quiet but unyielding. "My brother's gone. I have to take responsibility for the family. You can't have children. That's reality, Isolde. We both need to face it."

He hesitated, then added, "You love kids, don't you? When Sandra's baby is born, we'll adopt it. You can raise it as your own. We'll finally have the family we wanted."

Isolde let out a bitter laugh. "So I should thank you, Mr. Princeton, for letting me become a mother without the inconvenience of childbirth?"

Alan frowned. "Isolde, I'm trying to reason with you. Must you take that tone?"

"You ungrateful girl!" Ruth snapped. "You should be thankful you're getting a son at all! How dare you talk back?"

She shoved Isolde toward the door. "Get out! Go think about what kind of daughter-in-law you should be. Don't come back until you've learned some respect!"

It was past ten. Snow fell heavily outside, and the wind was biting at her skin. They were really throwing her out—barefoot, dressed only in a thin sweater.

Isolde turned to Alan instinctively, searching for a word of defense, a sign of mercy. But he only stood there with clenched fists and a frown.

After a moment, he looked away. He didn't stop his mother. He just let it happen.

The heavy oak door slammed shut with a deafening thud. The click of the lock sliced through the silence.

Cold seeped into Isolde's bones as she stood frozen on the steps, her gaze fixed on the closed door. Her mind was a blank void.

'Three years of engagement…' The words echoed bitterly in her thoughts.

Alan had once loved her with a devotion so fierce it had seemed unshakable. He used to tuck the blanket around her each time she kicked it off at night. He'd bought entire designer collections because she had paused for a moment over a single dress in a magazine. He hated traveling, yet he had taken her across the world when she'd grown restless.

Isolde had once believed she had found the right man. Now she finally understood that love could never withstand the weight of family duty or reality.

When that duty came into conflict with their relationship, he hadn't even tried to talk it through. He had simply made the decision for both of them.

Alan knew she had no one in Southbridge, nowhere to turn. He knew she loved him too deeply to walk away. He expected her to bear everything, even his betrayal, and still remain by his side. He believed she was trapped.

Unfortunately, he had forgotten one crucial fact. When Ruth had threatened suicide to stop their marriage, they had settled for a modest engagement party. They had never been legally married.

A cold, fragile smile curved her lips. Beneath the heartbreak, something in her finally steeled. "Alan Princeton, I don't want you anymore."

With trembling fingers, she pulled out her phone and dialed a number she hadn't called in years.

When the line connected, her voice was steady. "Do your words from back then still count, Bruce?"

…

The housekeeper, Helen Danfrey, said anxiously, "Madam, she's gone. Ms. Vancrest has left."

"She's gone?" Ruth snapped. "She dares walk out instead of begging for forgiveness? That woman's lost her mind."

"The news hit her hard," Helen said softly. "Maybe you should go after her, Mr. Princeton. You might still catch her if you leave now."

Alan stared out the window, irritation flickering across his face. "No need."

He knew Isolde too well. Even when she was angry, she never truly left. This was just her temper. She would come back.

"Exactly. As if she could leave him. She'll crawl back tomorrow, begging for forgiveness," Ruth said with a smirk.

"And when she does, she won't get away with a simple apology. She needs to learn obedience if she wants to stay in this family," she added, her voice brimming with contempt.

She then turned to Alan. "Don't go easy on her this time, Alan. You've spoiled her too much. When she comes back, make her work as a nanny. Sandra's delicate and can't handle caring for a child. Let that barren woman make herself useful. If she can't have her own, she can raise ours. Waste not, want not."

Helen drew in a sharp breath. She couldn't tell if Isolde would truly allow herself to be humiliated like that again. After all, she had borne everything else without complaint.

…

The next morning, snow still blanketed Southbridge.

A black Rolls-Royce Phantom pulled up in front of the Princeton estate, its tires crunching through ice.

The door opened, and Isolde stepped out with a brand-new marriage certificate in her hand.

Isolde had returned only to collect her belongings. The moment she stepped through the door, a shrill laugh cut through the air.

The man who had always prided himself on composure was sitting beside Sandra, telling pitiful jokes just to make her smile.

"Achoo!" Sandra let out a dainty sneeze.

"Are you cold?" Alan's expression tensed. He slipped off his tailored jacket and draped it gently over her shoulders.

Sandra looked up at him. Their eyes met, close enough that their noses nearly brushed. For a heartbeat, the air froze, thick with unspoken tension and something far too familiar.

From the entrance, Isolde let out a humorless half-smile. How blind she had been, mistaking Alan's tenderness toward Sandra as simple brotherly duty after his brother's death. In truth, their entanglement had begun long before that.

"Isolde?" Sandra turned, startled, her eyes wide like a frightened rabbit's.

Guilt and panic flashed across her face. "Please don't misunderstand. Alan was only worried I might catch a cold…"

'Worried?' Isolde almost laughed. In a heated house, she sneezed once, and he panicked. Yet last night, when she nearly froze outside in a thin shirt, he hadn't even shown himself.

'Forget it. None of this matters anymore,' Isolde thought.

She didn't spare the nauseating pair another glance. Without a word, she crossed the living room and went upstairs.

'Three years together, and everything fits into a single suitcase,' she mused.

The gifts Alan had given her—diamond necklaces for anniversaries, limited-edition handbags for birthdays, preserved roses for Valentine's Day, even the letters and trinkets from his courtship—went straight into the trash.

The man himself was tainted. Why would she keep anything that would only disgust her?

Isolde slipped the marriage certificate into the suitcase's side compartment and zipped it shut.

As she started to stand, a wave of dizziness struck her. She staggered and gripped the handle to steady herself.

'So I'm really sick…' The snowstorm last night had taken its toll. She would have to stop by the hospital before heading to Bruce's place.

Forcing herself upright despite the spinning in her head, Isolde grabbed the suitcase and moved toward the door. But Alan was there, tall and unyielding, blocking her path.

His gaze fell on the suitcase, and his expression darkened. "I thought you'd come to your senses after a night to cool off."

She almost laughed out loud. As if one night could erase years of humiliation and pain. As if she were some obedient pet, ready to wag her tail and resume the role of dutiful "Mrs. Princeton."

"You're right," Isolde said coolly. "I have come to my senses. A filthy man is no different from a sausage dropped in a gutter. It's best to throw it away and move on. Congratulations, Alan. May you and your sister-in-law live happily ever after, and crank out enough brats to fill your mansion."

"Isolde!" Alan's face reddened with fury. "I told you Sandra's pregnancy is about responsibility. It's for the family. There's nothing improper between us."

He drew a slow breath and said solemnly, "It was done through IVF."

As if that made any difference.

Isolde gave a sharp, cutting laugh. "Oh? So when the child is born, will they call you Uncle or Father?"

"Do you have to be so cruel? I've explained everything. What else do you want me to do?"

"Explain?" Her voice dripped with scorn. "Will your explanation make the child disappear? Turn back time? Since when does saying sorry mean I have to forgive you?"

She shoved past him and dragged her suitcase behind her. "The moment you decided to have a child with your sister-in-law, we were finished."

"Finished?" Alan caught her and pulled her back, his arm locking tight around her waist. "Yell, curse, throw things if you want, but don't ever say it's over. Isolde Vancrest, remember this: you'll always be my wife."

Wife?

Isolde laughed sharply. "Really? Do we even have a marriage certificate?"

Alan froze. He had forgotten that detail.

Then his expression changed. He chuckled softly, almost amused. "So that's what you want? You want it official? Fine. I can do that."

He took her hand and said in a coaxing, almost gentle voice, "Now that Sandra's pregnant, my mother won't object anymore. We can go down to the courthouse and get married today. But Isolde, once we get the marriage certificate, I expect peace. No more fighting. You'll take care of the house and… Sandra."

Revulsion twisted in her gut. Even now, after everything, he thought a piece of paper could fix this. That she would keep playing caretaker to Sandra and their illegitimate child.

"Wake up, Alan Princeton. I've already married someone else." Her voice was frigid.

"Alan!" Sandra's voice came from the doorway.

She clutched the frame, her face pale with pain, and had one hand over her stomach. "My stomach hurts… Can you take me to the hospital?"

Alan's attention snapped to her instantly. He released Isolde and rushed over to steady Sandra in his arms.

"Don't be afraid," he said softly. "I'll take you right now."

He turned back briefly. "Isolde, we'll talk about getting married after I get back."

Sandra leaned weakly against him. "I-I don't think I can walk, Alan…"

Without hesitation, he scooped her into his arms and carried her downstairs. From over his shoulder, Sandra looked back at Isolde, her eyes gleaming with smug triumph.

Isolde smiled faintly. 'So Sandra isn't even pretending anymore.'

She watched the elevator doors close, then pressed down the ache in her chest, tightened her grip on the suitcase, and walked out.

…

At the hospital, the tests were done. Isolde's fever raged, her body heavy and fading toward unconsciousness.

"Ms. Vancrest, the IV contains a sedative. You might fall asleep, so someone should stay with you. Where's your family?" the nurse said gently.

Family? The word sounded almost foreign.

Isolde's cracked lips twitched. Her trembling fingers unlocked her phone. The screen lit up, revealing a social media post made just minutes ago.

In the photo, Sandra nestled against Alan's shoulder on a hospital bed, her face glowing with satisfaction.

The caption read: [Told him it was just a tiny bit of discomfort, but someone overreacted. He canceled his hundred-person meeting just to stay with me. Sigh… Being cared for too much can be such a burden.]

Even with his face turned away, Isolde knew Alan's silhouette by heart.

Her fingertips went numb. The phone nearly slipped from her hand as her body trembled. She stared at the screen for a long time, until her trembling stopped and the last trace of warmth in her eyes went out.

She turned to the nurse. "Please… could you call a caregiver for me?"

Inside the private hospital's VIP ward, Sandra leaned weakly against the bed, sipping the warm water Alan had poured for her.

"Alan, I heard from the maid that Isolde came home this morning in a Rolls-Royce," she said softly. "She didn't come back last night… Do you think she might have stayed out because she was upset and did something foolish?"

"No." Alan didn't even look up. His long, elegant fingers moved awkwardly over an apple as he tried to peel it.

"Isolde would never do something that betrays me. Besides, she told me she wanted to get married today." His tone was calm but absolute.

"You're getting married?" Sandra's eyes widened, jealousy flaring like wildfire.

Her husband was dead. Alan was now the father of her child. Why did Isolde always have to compete with her? Couldn't she let Alan go just once?

The phone on the bedside table rang sharply, and Alan picked it up.

Ruth's irritated voice burst through the receiver. "Alan! What's wrong with that Isolde? She just left the house with a suitcase! She's gone, so who's going to take care of everything now? Who's going to cook for Sandra?"

"She left?" The knife in Alan's hand froze midair. His pupils narrowed in disbelief. She had hinted at the marriage certificate today. What was she playing at now?

"Why is she so bad-tempered? You've already agreed to marry her. What more could she want? Any woman would be lucky to have a man who spoils her like you do… Unlike me, my husband's gone…" Ruth finished.

Meanwhile, Sandra lowered her gaze, tears dripping quietly onto the white bedsheet. "You should go talk to her, Alan. Don't worry about me. If I don't feel well, I can always call a nurse. They're busy, but… I'll manage somehow."

Alan looked at Sandra, who was frail, gentle, and trying her best to stay strong. Then he thought of Isolde, always stirring trouble. Frustration flared through him.

'My mother is right. Isolde really has been spoiled,' he thought. 'Sandra is pregnant, yet Isolde shows no empathy, no sense of decency. She's jealous, irrational—and now she storms out of the house? Completely absurd.'

His expression hardened as he called his assistant. "Freeze all of Isolde's cards immediately. Once she runs out of money, she'll have no choice but to come home."

...

After five IV drips, Isolde finally felt as if she had crawled back from the edge of death.

The caregiver, May Reeva, approached hesitantly, holding out a card. "Ms. Vancrest, I just went to pay your medical fees, but the card was declined. It seems your account has been suspended."

"Suspended?" Isolde's foggy mind cleared in an instant, like ice water had been poured over her.

After their engagement, she had turned down a top-tier job offer to work at Alan's company, the Princeton Group, as the so-called "CEO's fiancée." She managed projects, oversaw operations, and practically ran his empire beside him. Because of that, she had never been on the official payroll.

Alan had handed her control of the company's finances and given her an unlimited black card for expenses. What had once been a gesture of trust and affection had now become a weapon turned against her.

How ironic. He could lift her to the heavens when he adored her and crush her the moment he didn't.

May fidgeted as she whispered, "Ms. Vancrest, you'll have to settle the bill before you can be discharged… and there's my caregiver fee too. Should I call your parents?"

Her parents were in Northbridge, both in poor health. If they learned she couldn't even afford her hospital bills, it would break their hearts. Alan knew she'd never want to worry them. However, what he didn't know was that she wouldn't throw a tantrum or wait for him to come begging this time.

She truly didn't want him anymore. Even if it meant dying on the street, she would never return.

Isolde slipped the dazzling diamond ring from her finger and said steadily, "May, please take this to a nearby luxury resale store and sell it."

She hadn't realized she was still wearing it when she packed her things in a hurry. Perhaps it was fitting. It could buy her a way out. Love that had already died might as well serve one last purpose.

She picked up her phone and called someone.

"Mr. Davis, please help me file for labor arbitration. Yes, against Alan Princeton. He never gave me a contract and withheld my salary for three years." Her tone was cool and resolute.

...

When she left the hospital, Isolde took a cab straight to Crestmont Estate.

Standing at the foot of the mountain, she looked up at the vast property that stretched across the hillside like a sleeping beast. It was familiar and suffocating all at once.

The memories she had fought to bury surged back in waves. If she weren't desperate, she would never have returned. But Alan was powerful and vindictive. He wouldn't let her go easily, and her parents could become collateral damage if she resisted.

If she wanted to sever ties completely and walk away unscathed, she needed someone stronger—someone even Alan feared. That person was Bruce Princeton, Alan's cousin and the true heir of the Princeton family.

He was brilliant, ruthless, and dangerously capable. In the family's internal power struggle, Bruce was the one everyone expected to win. Even Alan had to lower his head and treat him respectfully. No one in Southbridge dared challenge Alan when it came to women, except Bruce.

Isolde took a long breath, then another, until her pulse steadied. She clutched her small suitcase and stepped forward, determination hardening her gaze. She would face him, whatever it took.

The butler, Walter Williams, a man in his fifties dressed in a crisp suit, hurried forward with a polite smile. "Ms. Vancrest, welcome home. Mr. Bruce had to leave on urgent business overseas. He won't be home for a few days."

'He's not home? Perfect!' The tightness in her chest eased.

Walter caught the flicker of relief on her face and smiled knowingly as he led her into the main villa. "This is your room, Ms. Vancrest. Everything has been prepared—clothes, jewelry, daily necessities. If anything doesn't suit you, it will be replaced immediately."

He gestured toward a table. "Here is your allowance: an unlimited black card, 1 million in cash, and a 15-million-dollar check for your personal use. These are the household staff assigned to serve you—108 people in total, rotating in three shifts. You'll be cared for around the clock."

Isolde froze, staring at the rows of maids and attendants. "That's… far too many."

It was more than ten times the luxury she'd had with Alan.

Walter smiled modestly, as if it were ordinary. "Ms. Vancrest, your husband is Bruce Princeton. Compared to him, Mr. Alan's household is, shall we say, provincial. What Mr. Alan couldn't give you—what he didn't deserve to give you—Mr. Bruce considers the bare minimum.

"From now on, everything you wear, use, or touch will be of the highest standard. Mr. Bruce instructed that you live in complete comfort. You need not concern yourself with anything else."

Isolde was speechless. The extravagance was dizzying.

Bruce's face, his deep, commanding gaze, and the low rasp of his breath when he was close flashed across her mind. She even remembered the small mole beneath his collarbone, glistening with sweat.

She crushed the thought quickly, steadied herself, and said quietly, "Walter, please let me know before Bruce returns."

"Of course, Ms. Vancrest. Also, your wedding ceremony is scheduled for the 28th of this month. A top-tier team will handle the arrangements, but the style, venue, and gown selection must be approved by you. When would you like to discuss the details?"

"You can decide," she said too quickly.

"Oh, Ms. Vancrest, that won't do. It's your wedding. Your happiness comes first. Mr. Bruce gave strict instructions that everything must reflect your taste."

'My taste…' The words stung.

When she and Alan held their engagement party, it was a small, joyless affair controlled entirely by Ruth. No one had asked what she wanted.

Alan had promised that someday he would make it up to her with a grand wedding ceremony. Three years later, that promise had turned to dust. And now Bruce was the one to fulfill it instead.

It was truly ironic.

Isolde wondered what Alan would think when he saw her walk down the aisle. A faint, bitter smile touched her lips. "I'm free these days."

"Very well, Ms. Vancrest. Please rest for now. If you need anything, there's a call button by your bed that connects directly to my office." With that, Walter bowed and closed the door behind him.

As the door clicked shut, a pair of dark, unreadable eyes lingered from the end of the dim hallway. A tall figure stood half-hidden in shadow, his presence heavy and suffocating.

He didn't move. He simply stared at the closed door, his gaze sharp and unnervingly intent, as if it could burn through the wood and reach the woman inside.