"Gideon, save me!"

Ivy crawled to Gideon’s feet, her tear-streaked face tilted up at him, eyes filled with desperation.

"Sylvie accused me of orchestrating today’s attack!" she cried, her voice trembling. "She said the man in black was my ex-boyfriend and that I told him to do it!"

She clutched at Gideon’s pant leg, her entire body shaking.

"But I swear—I didn’t! My ex-boyfriend has been threatening to kill me! That’s why I ran away from him!" Ivy sobbed harder. "I had no idea he would show up today! I didn’t know any of this would happen!"

Her voice grew smaller, more pitiful.

"But Sylvie threatened to call the police and throw me out…" She clung to Gideon’s arm. "Please, Gideon, help me! I’m terrified! If you make me leave, I don’t know what my crazy ex-boyfriend will do to me!"

Gideon’s gaze flickered between the two women—Ivy, crumpled on the floor, drowning in tears, and Sylvie, standing frozen, her face drained of all color.

After a long silence, he exhaled sharply.

"Sylvie, let it go," he said at last. "This isn’t fully settled yet. Just be more careful next time."

Sylvie’s breath caught.

"What?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"Forget it?" Her chest tightened, her fingers curling into fists. "She just admitted to sending that man after me! She wanted me—" her voice broke, "—she wanted me to be violated!"

Gideon’s jaw tightened. "Didn’t Ivy explain? She’s a victim too. And you already slapped her—shouldn’t that be enough?"

Sylvie’s body went cold.

She watched in stunned silence as Gideon bent down, gently helping Ivy to her feet, his movements careful, protective. Without another word, he led her into the house.

Sylvie stared at their retreating figures, laughter suddenly bubbling from her lips.

But it wasn’t amusement.

It was disbelief.

It was bitterness, clawing its way up from the depths of her chest.

Her vision blurred as memories came rushing back.

Years ago, fresh out of college, Sylvie had barely earned enough to get by. She and Gideon had scraped together their wages to rent a tiny, windowless basement in New York for $200 a month.

One night, a torrential downpour slammed against the city.

Sylvie and Gideon lay squeezed together on a narrow bed, the only space they could afford.

Half-asleep, she felt something splash against her cheek.

Frowning, she opened her eyes to water dripping from the ceiling.

And it was dripping directly onto Gideon’s side of the bed.

That night, Sylvie had shaken Gideon awake, insisting they switch sides on the bed. The ceiling leaked, and she refused to let him sleep under the dripping water.

"If you don’t move, I’ll break up with you!" she had threatened, arms crossed, lips pursed.

Gideon had only rolled his eyes, grabbed his pillow, and swapped places with her.

"You’re so dramatic," he muttered, but there was a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Sylvie had hugged his arm, snuggling close.

"This is what it means to go through hard times together," she had whispered before drifting off to sleep.

That same man, the one she had trusted with her whole heart, now refused to believe her.

Just a simple "forget it"—and everything was supposed to be over?

Sylvie stood frozen, watching as Gideon carefully rolled an egg over Ivy’s bruised cheek. His touch was gentle, filled with concern.

Her nails dug into her palms, her breath unsteady. The bitterness swelling in her chest finally spilled out.

"Gideon… am I really so untrustworthy to you?"

Gideon didn’t even glance up.

"Sylvie, why are you still holding onto this?" he sighed, his voice tinged with impatience. "Ivy is a girl—it’s not easy for her. If we don’t help her, who will? You’re being unreasonable."

Sylvie parted her lips as if to argue, but she stopped herself.

A bitter smile flickered across her face.

She said nothing.

Turning away, she walked back to the room, each step heavier than the last.

That night, she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, her vision blurred by the tears that silently soaked her pillow.

The next morning, Gideon took the initiative to invite her for a walk.

Sylvie stood still, staring at him—the man she once knew, yet now felt like a stranger.

Gideon approached with a smile, reaching out to hold her hand as if nothing had happened.

They had barely reached the entrance of the scenic area when his phone rang.

"Sylvie," he said, already turning away. "A fellow practitioner just asked for help sorting out some scriptures. I’ll go assist him first. You go ahead, I’ll catch up later."

Without waiting for her reply, he walked off, his figure blending into the crowd.

Sylvie stood motionless, watching his retreating back.

She let out a soft, bitter laugh, then lowered her head and stepped into the scenic area alone.

The Scottish Highlands landscape remained breathtaking, unchanged.

But the people beside her were no longer the same.

Sylvie strolled around aimlessly, her interest fading as she stepped out.

A sudden urge pulled her toward the chapel where Gideon practiced.

"Excuse me, which prayer hall is Gideon in?"

"He didn't come today."

The chapel attendant looked at her with confusion.

"Alright, I see."

Sylvie nodded in thanks, but a sense of unease crept into her heart. A bad premonition took root, making her restless.

She hurried back home, torn between rushing to confirm her suspicions and dreading the truth that might await her.

Reaching her doorstep, she placed a trembling hand on the handle, ready to push it open.

Then, a soft gasp came from inside.

Her hand froze. Her heart pounded.

Slowly, she leaned toward the door, peeking through the narrow gap.

Her breath caught.

Inside, Ivy lay atop Gideon, her delicate skin deliberately exposed. Her slender fingers traced lazy circles on his chest.

"Don't you want this to happen too?" Ivy's voice was low, laced with temptation. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes smoldering with intent.

Gideon chuckled, his tone deep and hoarse. "Isn't this what you wanted? It’s much easier without that nuisance around."

Ivy said nothing, only offering a sly smile.

She inched closer, her breath warm and sweet against his skin. Her lips hovered near his Adam’s apple, her gaze innocent yet filled with mischief. The air between them thickened with anticipation.

Gideon grasped Ivy’s wrist, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a deep swallow. His breath came hot and heavy, the hunger in his eyes burning uncontrollably.

With a low growl, he flipped her beneath him, pressing his lips to hers in a feverish kiss.

The room filled with breathless sighs and hushed gasps—sounds that pierced Sylvie like a dagger.

She stood frozen, eyes hollow, as if her soul had been wrenched from her body. Tears, long held back, finally spilled over, streaming down her cheeks, soaking into her clothes.

But she remained unmoving.

Then, as if the weight of her sorrow became too much to bear, her knees gave way, and she collapsed silently to the ground.

Her fingers trembled as they clutched the hem of her shirt—a desperate attempt to hold onto something, anything. Curling in on herself, she buried her face in her arms, her sobs muffled but uncontainable.

She wandered the streets like a ghost, her steps sluggish, her expression lifeless.

Eyes dull, gaze unfocused, she looked as though she had been hollowed out, left as nothing more than a fragile shell. Only the tears staining her cheeks proved she was still alive.

Then, she took a misstep.

Her foot caught on a stray stone, sending her sprawling onto the pavement.

Pain shot through her palms as her nails dug deep into her flesh, but it was nothing compared to the ache inside her chest.

And then—memories came rushing back.

...

Years ago...

Sylvie was still in college, home for the summer.

That night, just as she was preparing for bed, a knock sounded at the door.

She opened it to find Ivy standing outside, alone.

“There’s a power outage at my house,” Ivy said with a pitiful look. “Can I stay here for the night?”

Sylvie’s parents had gone to the countryside, leaving her alone. Without hesitation, she agreed.

In the middle of the night, a faint sound stirred her awake.

She cracked open her door just in time to see Ivy slip into her father’s room.

Curiosity gnawed at her, and she crept closer, peering through the narrow gap.

Inside, Ivy stood with her back to the door, dressed in shorts and a camisole.

“Uncle,” she cooed, her voice dripping with something Sylvie couldn’t quite place, “can I keep you company tonight?”

Sylvie’s father turned, his face impassive.

“Little girl, go back to sleep,” he said, his voice calm, dismissive.

But Ivy didn’t move.

Instead, she took a step closer, eyes locked onto him.

“Uncle…” Her voice softened, almost pleading. “Haven’t you been lonely all these years without your wife?”

Slowly, she reached out, her delicate fingers trailing over his shoulder.

Her gaze shimmered with something unsettling—pitiful yet calculating.

The girl's faint fragrance drifted toward Jude Harrington, mingling with the stillness of the night. Ivy’s fair skin glowed under the dim light, an unspoken temptation lingering in the air.

Since his wife left, Jude had dedicated his life to raising his daughter, never seeking another partner. To say he wasn’t lonely would have been a lie.

When he didn’t push her away, Ivy took a bold step forward, settling herself onto his lap.

Jude stiffened, frozen by the unexpected warmth in his arms. He dared not move, his breath hitching as he stared at the girl before him.

Ivy’s eyes shimmered with something unreadable—love, mischief, desire. She wrapped her arms around his neck, tilting her face up, her lips mere inches from his.

His Adam’s apple bobbed involuntarily. His breath grew heavy and warm.

Slowly, his hands rose to her shoulders.

Just as he was about to close the distance, the door burst open.

Sylvie stood at the threshold.

Silent.

Unmoving.

The air between them crackled with tension.

No one spoke.

The weight of unspoken words pressed down, suffocating, unbearable.

Jude’s gaze darted away, his face paling with the panic of being caught.

Ivy, however, remained calm. Without a word, she slid off Jude’s lap and strolled out, as if nothing had happened.

Sylvie’s gaze lingered on her father, cold and unreadable, before she turned and left without a single word.

From that day on, Jude never met Sylvie’s eyes again.

He spoke to her only in hushed tones, his head perpetually bowed, shame weighing down on him like a heavy chain.

And Ivy?

She never spoke of that night.

Never acknowledged it, as if it had never happened.

One afternoon, after school, Sylvie returned home to an eerie silence.

A silence so thick it pressed against her chest.

Something felt wrong.

She walked toward her father’s study, her fingers tightening around the doorknob before she slowly pushed it open and froze.

A pair of feet hung lifelessly in front of her, swinging gently.

Jude had hanged himself.

A scream tore from Sylvie’s throat—a sound of anguish so raw it could break stone.

But no amount of screaming could wake him.

No amount of tears could bring him back.

Jude had been on the verge of something great.

A well-respected writer, sought after by publishing houses. His novels were already printed, ready to hit the shelves. A signing event had been arranged.

He had a future.

A name to make.

A legacy to leave.

But now—

Now, he was gone.

The police ruled it suicide.

There was no evidence to suggest otherwise.

No one was punished.

And Ivy walked away, untouched by it all.

From that day forward, Sylvie never spoke to Ivy again.

Not once.

Not ever.

Ivy’s sudden reappearance shattered the fragile balance of Sylvie’s life.

First, she had ruined her once.

Now, she had stolen her boyfriend.

Wasn’t it enough?

Did Ivy intend to take everything from her?

The thought ignited a fire in Sylvie’s chest—hot, raging, consuming. But no matter how fiercely it burned, it could never erase the deep, suffocating pain within her.

It was late at night when Sylvie finally returned home.

The moment she stepped through the door, a concerned voice greeted her.

"Sylvie, where have you been? I couldn't reach you."

Gideon.

She barely lifted her gaze. "My phone died. I lost track of time while playing."

Her voice was hoarse, drained of warmth. She lowered her head, pretending to fumble with her slippers.

The air still carried the faint traces of laughter and sweetness. A home she once cherished now felt suffocating. Disgusting.

Without another word, Sylvie walked past him and shut herself in her room.

From that day on, something changed.

Sylvie no longer looked Gideon in the eye. Her words became fewer, her touch colder.

One evening, Gideon cornered her, his voice soft but laced with confusion.

"Sylvie, what’s wrong? I feel like you’re avoiding me."

She turned her face away, her tone indifferent.

"It’s nothing. The staff at the nursing home informed me that my mom's blood pressure has been high recently. Her heart condition isn’t good. I’ve just been worried."

"Then go spend time with her," he said gently, patting her shoulder.

She nodded, but said nothing more.

Days later, the phone rang.

A trembling voice on the other end.

"Sylvie! Hurry! Come to the hospital—your mother had a cerebral hemorrhage! The doctor says it’s serious!"