The moment the words left my lips, Erving’s expression changed.

He strode toward me and grabbed my wrist. His grip wasn’t as tight as before, but his voice carried a trace of panic.

“Don’t say things you don’t mean. My love for you was never fake…”

My heart fluttered.

It was the first time since the nude painting incident that he’d shown even the slightest hint of vulnerability.

But the next second, his eyes flicked past me to Anya standing behind me. Just like that, his brows knitted once more.

“Anya’s holding her first exhibit today. Your words just now made her tear up. Can’t you give her a break?”

Then, the warmth I’d felt vanished instantly.

I forced a smile, but before I could speak, a ripple of gasps ran through the exhibition hall.

People were stepping back in panic. Someone shouted, “The scaffolding’s collapsing!”

I looked up. The temporary display scaffolding was tilting, ready to topple. Several unsecured oil paintings teetered at the top. The sharp wooden beams were crashing straight toward Anya and me!

Time slowed. I saw Anya scream and stumble backward in fear, and Erving pivot almost instinctively.

Even though I was right in front of him, he spun toward Anya instead, wrapping his arms around her. He used his back as a shield from the falling scaffolding.

A heavy thud followed.

The beam scraped his shoulder and slammed onto me.

The next second, pain erupted through my body. My vision instantly went black. And just before darkness swallowed me, the last thing I saw was Erving, bending over and soothing Anya.

He didn’t even look at me.

I had a dream.

I was back years ago when a deranged fan had kidnapped me and dragged me to a warehouse in the suburbs.

Erving had come alone to save me. In that split second when the man was distracted, he lunged for the knife.

In the chaos, the blade cut his leg. Blood soaked through his trousers, but he held me tight, his voice trembling yet unwavering.

“Don’t be scared. I’m here.”

Ever since, he carried that scar on his leg.

Every time I touched it, he’d smile and say, “From now on, matter what happens, I’ll always come running to you without any hesitation.”

“For you, even if it costs my life, it’s worth it,” he added.

The warmth of that memory lingered on my fingertips as I woke to the cold hospital ceiling above me.

A second later, pain spread through my body like shattered bones.

Those promises from the dream felt like they belonged to another lifetime.

I reached for my phone on the nightstand. The moment the screen lit open, notifications flooded in.

[#ErvingPollockRisksLifeToProtectAnyaHeffernan]

[#MandyEisenmanTheNudePortraitMuseInjuredAndIgnored]

I opened the trending page, only to find cruel comments.

[No one saved her even after she got hit. Poor woman, that’s just tragic.]

[Wasn’t that nude painting just for attention? Now, is she faking getting injured for publicity?]

[Erving clearly doesn’t care about her. He only remembered she exists after saving Anya? Damn.]

I dug my nails into my palms and closed my eyes.

Just when I opened them, the hospital door creaked open.

Erving stepped in carrying a small bag containing food. Seeing I was awake, he paused.

His voice came out apologetic. “You’re awake. The doctor says your back is bruised. You’ll need to rest for a while.”

He set the bag on the bedside table, adding, “Yesterday was chaotic. Anya was trembling all over. I had to get her somewhere safe first, so I wasn’t able to check on you right away.”

I looked at him and let out a quiet laugh—light but with a chill that couldn’t be shaken.

“Check on me? Come on, Erving, you’re just worried that if I die, Anya will lose her muse, right?”

He froze. When he realized what I meant, his expression darkened immediately.

He reached for my face, as if to caress it, saying, “Mandy, don’t say that—”

But I jerked my head away, dodging his hand.

His arm froze midair, and the air in the hospital room went completely still.

After a long, tense silence, Erving finally let out a sigh.

He opened the bag and pulled a wrapped sandwich, placing it carefully in front of me.

In a gentle tone, he said, “Eat something first. I made this especially for you. You haven’t had a thing all day.”

When I didn’t move, he added, “Don’t take it out on your body. I’ve set your mom’s funeral for the day after tomorrow. The cemetery spot she liked, the sunny one she once mentioned; I’ve gone over every detail. Everything I promised, I’ll make sure it happens.”

At the mention of my mom, the tension in my back finally eased slightly.

I closed my eyes, swallowing the rage in my chest, and took the bowl.

The funeral day was gray and overcast.

Dressed in black, I stood at my mom’s grave, clutching a white chrysanthemum. Tears welled in my eyes, and grief weighed heavily on my face.

The wind lifted my skirt and ruffled the hair at Erving’s forehead.

He stayed by my side the entire time, greeting guests while still keeping an eye on me. Everyone said I had married a good man.

I forced a smile; it didn’t reach my eyes.

Then, the sound of hurried footsteps shattered the quiet.

I turned and saw a swarm of reporters charging in, cameras flashing like lightning in the solemn cemetery.

“Mr. Pollock! Are the photos of you kissing Anya Heffernan in the hotel hallway real?”

“Mandy! Did your husband turn to Anya because of your nude portrait scandal?”

“Sir, you’re at your mother-in-law’s funeral while rumors swirl about you and another woman. Aren’t you worried about what people will say?”

Their sharp questions hit all at once. My eyes widened as I turned to Erving.

His face went stone pale, and he raised his hand, demanding, “Guards! Get them out! Who let them in?” he barked.

In the chaos, Anya ran in, her eyes red. She grabbed my wrist.

“Mandy, please don’t blame Erving. I was drugged. He was just trying to make sure I wasn’t harmed…”

“It’s none of your business!” Erving stepped forward, putting her behind him. His voice shook with urgency. “Mandy, she was a victim, too. Don’t put this on her…”

A victim?

I stared at him shielding her, at the guilt in his eyes. A bitter laugh escaped me.

Even though I had expected this, the pain still stole my breath.

“When I was in the hospital, barely able to move without screaming in pain… when my mother hadn’t even been buried… you were in a hotel room with her? Erving, is that what you mean by returning the favor to that woman?”

His shoulders stiffened, his eyes flicking away from mine. “I didn’t have a choice. Anya… She was drugged. I couldn’t let anyone else touch her—”

“So you touched her yourself?” I stepped closer, right in front of him, my voice shaking but every word sharp and clear. “Erving, look at my mom’s grave and tell me—did you or did you not touch Anya?”

The reporters kept snapping photos, the bodyguards were shouting to hold them back, but I only had eyes for him.

I waited for him to deny it; even a lie would have been enough.

I just wanted, in front of my mother, to give her a little dignity.

But Erving’s lips parted. His throat moved as he swallowed hard, then he muttered, “Mandy, I’m sorry. I… I have to take responsibility for her.”

I froze. The words hit like a hammer, shattering my heart.

I remembered the scar he got saving me years ago.

I remembered him promising, “From now on, no matter what happens, I’ll come running to you without any hesitation.”

I remembered him holding my hand at my mom’s sickbed, promising to care for me for life.

All those memories, the ones that once made my heart race, now felt like the cruelest joke.

I shoved him away, pointing at my mom’s grave. I couldn’t stop the tears in my eyes, but I managed to firmly say, “Erving. You’ve tainted my mom’s funeral and destroyed everything we ever had! From today on, it’s over between us!”

With that, I turned and walked away.

From the day of my mom’s funeral, I had moved into a hotel—anything to keep Erving completely out of my life.

I blocked every way he could reach me, thinking that would finally sever the ties between us. But no matter how many times I cut him off, he always found new numbers to text me from. And every message carried the same pleading words.

[Mandy, I know I messed up. Please come back. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Just forgive me this once, okay?]

I didn’t even have the energy to open them. I would just glance at the preview, then turn off my phone.

Those delayed apologies had long since lost their meaning—buried along with my mom under the cold gravestone, scattered across countless sleepless nights when I tossed and turned, wondering how everything had gone so wrong.

A few days later, it was finally time for me to leave.

The hotel curtains were drawn tight, shutting out all sunlight. I went through my luggage one last time, carefully tucking my passport and plane ticket into my bag. When my fingers touched the unfamiliar destination printed on the ticket, a small, cautious sense of relief finally stirred inside me.

Then my phone vibrated again. A new number flashed on the screen. I didn’t need to look; I knew exactly who it was—Erving.

I took a deep breath, about to hit mute, when the door suddenly burst open with a deafening bang.

He stormed in, eyes bloodshot, his coat carrying the chill of the night. In one swift movement, he pinned me against the wall. His hand clamped hard around my throat, cutting off my air, while his hoarse, furious voice tore through the room.

“Anya’s been kidnapped! Did you do it?!”

I struggled to pry his fingers away, gasping, my voice barely audible. “I didn’t—”

“Didn’t?” He laughed, sharp and bitter, as if I had just told the most absurd lie. Then he slammed his phone down in front of me.

The screen showed a video. A man pressed a knife to Anya’s face, shouting brutally, “Mandy sent us! She said to break your hands, slash your face—let’s see how you steal her man then!”

The clip ended in seconds, but Erving’s rage did not. He yanked me forward by the collar. His eyes were terrifyingly bloodshot, as if he wanted to devour me alive.

“Still pretending? If anything happens to Anya, I swear, Mandy, you’ll die with her!”

The hatred in his eyes was so absolute that my heart already full of countless wounds, gave up.

I summoned all my strength to retort, “Why would I kidnap her? Erving, after everything between us, do you really think I’d stoop that low? You actually believe her over me?”

“Who else am I supposed to believe?!”

He sneered, cold and humorless, and shoved me hard to the floor.

My back slammed against the corner of the table. Pain shot up my spine, stealing my breath. Tears stung my eyes, but not from the pain.

It was from the man standing before me—the man who once vowed to protect me for life—now refusing even to hear me.

He didn’t spare me a glance as he walked toward the door, threatening me. “I’m going to find Anya. If you even think about running, you won’t be able to handle the consequences!”

The door slammed shut behind him, and silence settled over the room again.

I lay on the cold floor, staring at the chandelier above. Tears rolled silently down my cheeks, soaking the carpet, leaving faint, dark stains.

That afternoon, two men in black suits burst into the room. Before I could react, they grabbed my arms and dragged me out.

I kicked, struggled, and begged. But they were far too strong. I was shoved into a car and driven back to the one place I swore I would never enter again: Erving’s villa.

As soon as I stepped in, I heard Anya’s tearful voice echoing from the living room.

Erving was sitting on the couch beside her, gently holding her hand. His thumb traced the band-aid on her wrist. His voice was soft and careful—like speaking too loudly might shatter her.

It was a tenderness I had never seen before.

“Does it hurt? The doctor said it’s just a scrape, thank God.”

When Anya looked up and saw me, her crying grew louder. “Erving, please don’t be mad at Mandy. I know she didn’t mean it…”

“Didn’t mean it?”

Erving’s head snapped toward me. The softness on his face and voice vanished instantly, replaced by a cold fury that cut straight through me.

“You were bold enough to do it, but now, you’re denying it?”

He nodded to the guards. Just like that, they pinned me to the floor. My knees hit the hardwood with a sharp crack, pain shooting up my legs until I went numb.

Erving picked up a solid wooden stick from beside him and walked step by step to me, his voice without any warmth.

“The kidnappers said you wanted to destroy Anya’s hands so she could never paint again. Maybe it’s time you learned what happens when you touch something you shouldn’t.”

“I didn’t!”

I looked at him, my eyes still holding the last shred of ridiculous hope.

“Erving! Can’t you believe me just once? Check the hotel security footage. Ask the staff. I haven’t left my room in days! You won’t even look for proof! Just based on that woman’s claims, you’re going to punish me?!”

He said nothing. He only lifted the stick.

The very next second, the wooden stick slammed down hard onto my right hand.

Pain exploded through my hand. My whole body shook. Sweat drenched my clothes. I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood. But I didn’t cry. I just stared at him, refusing to look away.

There was no hesitation in his face. No trace of pity, only deep coldness.

It was as if I were nothing more than an enemy, not the woman he once held like she was precious.

When he raised the stick again, Anya tugged on his sleeve. “Erving, stop. Please. If you keep hitting her, something terrible might happen…”

Finally, he lowered his hand. He tossed the stick aside and crouched in front of me.

“Remember this,” he warned. “If you ever hurt Anya again, I’ll make sure you lose your other hand, too.”

By the time I was taken to the hospital, my right hand was swollen twice its normal size. Every slight touch on the misaligned bones sent waves of agony.

The doctor quickly set my hand with a splint and was about to explain the follow-up treatment when Erving called, and I was whisked away.

He said Anya was too shaken to sleep and needed someone to watch over her through the night.

So the doctor left. The room fell silent again, so silent I could hear my own steady breaths.

With my uninjured left hand, I slowly pulled my bag from under the pillow. Inside were my passport and plane ticket—my only chance to escape.

My right hand throbbed with pain, each movement sending sharp jolts through my bones, but I forced myself to ignore it. Leaning on the wall for support, I pushed myself upright and took it step by step out of the hospital until eventually, I hailed a cab to the airport.

By the time I arrived, the sun was sinking, painting the sky in orange and red—a beauty so breathtaking it brought tears to my eyes.

I clutched my ticket and walked toward the gate. Before boarding, I glanced back at the city one last time.

This place had held five years of love. It had seen me rise from obscurity to stardom, where I’d earned everything I once took pride in. But more than that, it had left me scarred—full of pain I could never forget.

Soon, the boarding announcement sounded. I took a deep breath and stepped onto the plane.

From that moment on, Erving, Anya, and New York, the city that had hurt me so deeply—all became a past I would never return to.