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!"

Sylvie's face turned deathly pale. Without a moment's hesitation, she grabbed her phone, booked the earliest ticket, and rushed to the hospital without stopping.

Along the way, she clutched her phone tightly, her fingers trembling as she silently prayed.

Please, let Mom be okay.

But when she arrived and saw her mother lying motionless on the hospital bed, tubes attached to her frail body, tears spilled uncontrollably down her cheeks.

"How… how did this happen?" Her voice cracked as she turned to her mother’s best friend, who stood anxiously by the bedside. "The nursing home said her blood pressure was stable! Why did she suddenly—?"

The woman hesitated, her face pale with fear.

"I… I don’t know! Rosalie was looking at her phone when she suddenly fainted! We struggled to carry her here in time!"

Sylvie’s heart pounded. She spun around, frantically searching.

Her mother’s phone—where was it?

Finally, she spotted it amidst a pile of medicines.

Her hands shook as she picked it up, her mind racing.

The passcode.

Her birthday.

With a trembling breath, she unlocked the screen.

A video was still playing.

Sylvie hesitated, her pulse erratic, before pressing play.

The moment the footage resumed, her entire body froze.

The screen revealed that nightmare—the day she was assaulted.

The man in black. The struggle. Her cries.

A choked sob escaped her lips as her vision blurred with fresh tears.

Her mother… had seen this?

Had this been the reason for her collapse?

Sylvie’s grip tightened around the phone, her nails digging into her palm.

There was only one person who could have leaked this.

Ivy.

Blood rushed to her head. Her chest heaved as she let out a gut-wrenching scream, her pain echoing through the cold, sterile hospital walls.

—

After her mother’s condition stabilized, Sylvie returned home.

But with every step closer, a searing pain tore through her chest.

It hurt.

Every breath, every movement felt like a blade slicing through her soul.

By the time she reached her doorstep, her feet felt like lead. It took everything in her to move forward.

Then, laughter drifted from inside.

A familiar voice rang out, light and joyful, shattering what was left of her sanity.

"Really? Am I really pregnant?"

Gideon’s eyes shone with uncontainable excitement, like twin suns burning with joy.

"It’s true! I just found out today," Ivy said softly, a faint blush tinting her cheeks.

Gideon ran a hand through his hair, pacing back and forth, his thoughts racing. "I have to tell my parents. How should I even start?"

His excitement was so overwhelming that he almost didn’t notice the figure standing in the doorway.

Sylvie.

"Sylvie, come in!" Gideon beamed, grabbing her hand as if eager to share his happiness. "Ivy is pregnant! I’m going to be a father!"

His joy was radiant, infectious. But Sylvie didn’t feel warmth—only an unbearable cold creeping into her bones.

She stared at him, numb, her fingers icy in his grip.

After what felt like an eternity, she finally whispered, "Congratulations."

The words tasted bitter on her tongue.

Her vision blurred as tears welled up, yet all she saw was emptiness. She pressed a trembling hand to her chest, as if trying to contain the unbearable pain threatening to shatter her from within.

That night, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, Ivy moved into Gideon’s bedroom.

Sylvie lay alone in her cold, empty bed. Her lips were pale, her body curled tightly, and silent tears soaked into the pillow beneath her.

She had lost.

In the dead of night, a sharp knock shattered the silence.

"Sylvie, are you awake? Get up!" Gideon’s urgent voice echoed through the door.

Sylvie forced herself up, her body heavy with exhaustion, and dragged herself to open it.

Before she could speak, Gideon cut in impatiently.

"Ivy is hungry. She wants shrimp wontons. Go make some."

Sylvie froze.

She looked at him, disbelief flickering in her weary eyes.

"It’s the middle of the night," she murmured, her voice hoarse. "Where am I supposed to find shrimp wontons at this hour?"

"If you don’t have them, go buy them! Hurry up!"

Gideon's voice was sharp with impatience, his irritation barely concealed. Without waiting for Sylvie’s response, he grabbed her wrist and half-dragged, half-shoved her out the door—still in her thin pajamas.

The door slammed shut behind her with a resounding bang.

Sylvie stood there, staring at the closed door, her expression unreadable. She lowered her gaze, her thoughts a tangled mess.

The Scottish Highlands winter was unforgiving, its icy winds slicing through her thin clothing, but nothing was colder than the hollow ache inside her.

Shivering, she wrapped her arms around herself and stepped into the darkness.

Fortunately, Sylvie had always been kind to those around her. The local farmers, moved by her past kindness, welcomed her and sold her the ingredients she needed.

When she returned home, the kitchen was silent except for the steady rhythm of her knife against the chopping board.

She was chopping shrimp, her hands moving mechanically. In the pot, a big bone soup simmered, filling the air with warmth she couldn't feel.

She stood there, motionless apart from her hands, staring at the minced shrimp paste with empty eyes.

There was no crying. No anger. Just silence.

When the wontons were ready, she carried them to Ivy’s bedside.

Gideon immediately took the bowl, scooped up a dumpling, blew on it gently, and brought it to Ivy’s lips with the utmost care.

Ivy, wrapped in the quilt, had tears glistening in her eyes, her lips pushed into a pout like a child who had been wronged. She took a tiny bite, then instantly frowned.

"It’s not delicious! I don’t want it!" she whined, her voice sharp with dissatisfaction, her tears threatening to spill over.

"Ivy, just have a bite. It’s the middle of the night—there’s nothing else to eat," Gideon coaxed, his voice soft, his patience boundless.

But Ivy refused to yield. Her emotions flared, and in a burst of petulance, she knocked the bowl from Gideon’s hands.

The bowl shattered against the floor with a loud crack, its pieces scattering in the silence of the night.

The steaming soup splattered across the floor—some of it landing on Sylvie.

She flinched slightly at the sudden heat against her skin.

Sylvie stood motionless, as if she no longer felt pain—the scalding soup on her skin, the sharp ceramic shards beneath her feet. She was like a hollow shell, drained of emotions, staring blankly ahead.

Then, suddenly, Ivy covered her mouth, her face twisting in discomfort.

"Ivy, are you okay?" Gideon immediately stepped forward, his voice filled with concern.

"Gideon, I feel dizzy… and nauseous. Could there be something wrong with the food?" Ivy hesitated, her gaze flickering between the spilled wontons and Sylvie.

Gideon's expression darkened. In an instant, he turned, his sharp, accusing eyes locking onto Sylvie.

"I know you don’t like Ivy. But if anything happens to her, I will never forgive you!"

Without waiting for a response, he scooped Ivy into his arms and strode out.

As they passed, Ivy tilted her head slightly, just enough for Sylvie to see the smug, contemptuous smirk on her lips. Hidden in Gideon’s embrace, she subtly raised her middle finger—mocking, victorious.

Sylvie clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood, trying to suppress the pain welling up inside her. But no matter how much she tried to hold it in, tears slipped past her defenses, streaming down her face uncontrollably.

Just because of her words, you doubt me?

After everything… am I really so worthless in your heart?

Her silent cries soaked her clothes, and the crushing weight in her chest made it hard to breathe. Every beat of her heart felt like it was being torn apart.

That night, Gideon didn’t come back.

Sylvie lay alone in bed, her sleep restless.

She dreamed of suffocating darkness, of something gnawing at her insides, twisting and grinding like rusted gears. As her consciousness sharpened, the pain in her body intensified.

A searing, wrenching agony gripped her chest. Her limbs spasmed involuntarily, cold sweat drenching her back. It felt as if every last ounce of strength was draining from her, leaving her barely able to move.

By morning, the pain had dulled into a numb, empty ache.

Gideon finally returned, Ivy nestled beside him.

He walked in to find Sylvie sitting by the window, her figure bathed in the pale morning light.

She wasn’t crying.

She wasn’t screaming.

She simply sat there, staring into the distance, her eyes hollow and unreadable.

For the first time, a flicker of guilt crossed Gideon’s face.

Maybe… what he said last night had been too harsh.