"Weston, are you sure this won't endanger Denise's life?"

Inside the ambulance, Vivian looked at my pale, bloodless face and finally broke the silence.

"Relax, Mom," Weston replied calmly, his tone disturbingly cold. "I've handled her miscarriages before, haven't I? I know what I'm doing."

He said it like he was discussing a business transaction, not a life.

"Besides," he continued indifferently, "Patricia is also the daughter you raised for eighteen years. You can't be this biased. She's dying, yet all you worry about is Denise?"

Vivian frowned, glancing at me on the stretcher before lowering her voice.

"Biased? Do you even know why I brought Denise back in the first place?" she said, her tone tinged with panic. "It's because Patricia has a rare blood disease, and only Denise's blood type matches hers!"

"I worked so hard to find and bring her home," she went on, "not to make up for lost years—but to make her Patricia's walking blood bank!"

She grew more agitated as she spoke. "If something happens to Denise now, what will we do about Patricia?"

"Enough," Weston cut her off sharply. "Even if that's true, you shouldn't have forced me to marry her."

"That's because... because—" Vivian faltered, a flicker of something complicated flashing through her eyes. Whatever she wanted to say, she swallowed it back down.

In the end, she only left two cold warnings.

"I don't care what happens between you and Patricia. First, Denise must live. Second, she must never learn the truth."

Weston's lips curved into a faint, mocking smile. "And what if she does? What can she possibly do—leave me?"

Under An's mother's furious glare, Weston finally nodded, saying nothing more.

Neither of them noticed the slight tremor of my eyelashes on the stretcher, or the single tear that silently slid down my cheek.

Even when I once learned that Vivian had gifted Patricia a luxury villa and an unlimited black card, I merely smiled faintly. After all, she had raised Patricia for eighteen years—how could she not love her?

And since I returned to the Holmes family, Vivian had done everything to "improve" our relationship.

I had foolishly believed she wanted to make up for the motherly affection I'd missed. But it turned out she only wanted to keep her other daughter alive.

The monthly blood donations, even during pregnancy, weren't out of kindness or care. They were sacrifices—for Patricia.

Denise, you are truly foolish.

I mocked myself silently

For abandoning the foster father who gave me unconditional love...For returning to a mother who only saw me as a tool...For cherishing a husband who never cherished me...For loving a man so deeply that even my child had to suffer for it.

Overnight, I lost my baby, my husband, and my mother.

The wound in my heart was torn open once again. If felt as if salt had been ruthlessly rubbed into it—pain so sharp I could barely breathe.

As I drifted into uneasy sleep, I saw a vision.

A little boy stood at the gate of heaven, waving at me with a bright, innocent smile.

"Mom, I'm leaving," he said softly. "Don't worry. I'm just going to find my brothers and sisters."

His small voice trembled with warmth. "Mom, don't cry, okay? You have to be happy."

Before I could reach him, he turned and climbed the radiant stairway where several children waited with open arms.

"No! Baby! Don't go!" I screamed, running after him—but the light disappeared, and I fell into darkness.

"Don't!"

I jolted awake with a gasp, drenched in cold sweat, only to find myself lying in a hospital bed.

"Denise, it's alright," Weston's hoarse voice murmured beside me. "We'll have another child."

His red eyes and trembling hands only made the emptiness inside me grow deeper.

My trembling hand touched my belly.

Once round and full of life—now utterly flat.

"My child...my baby…"

Disbelief, pain, and despair surged through me all at once.

"Ah—!"

My scream tore through the sterile ward.

"Denise, I'm sorry...I'm so sorry…"

An's mother held my hand tightly, her face full of guilt and false tears.

But her apology only deepened the knife in my heart.

The memory of their conversation in the ambulance echoed in my ears—and I knew none of it was remorse.

"Get out! Both of you!" I screamed, grabbing anything within reach and hurling it at them.

Weston shielded An's mother, his voice soft and gentle. "Denise, please, don't be like this. You still have us."

"Go away! Go away!"

Seeing that I refused to listen, they finally left—leaving behind nothing but the sound of my broken sobs echoing through the empty ward.

The next day I lay in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

A soft knock at the ward door broke the silence. "Sister, I heard you had a miscarriage. I came to see you."

At the doorway stood Patricia, one hand resting lightly on her slightly rounded belly as she studied me with exaggerated concern. Weston hovered beside her, fidgeting nervously.

"Denise, Patricia is pregnant. Please don't be like you were yesterday..." he said, worry heavy in his voice.

My gaze locked on her belly. Patricia seemed startled by my stare and took an involuntary step back.

"Don't scare her," Weston scolded, frowning as he tried to smooth things over.

"Is the baby in her belly yours?" I asked, cold and steady.

For a moment both their faces were drained of color.

"No...of course not…" Weston stammered, his gaze darting away.

Patricia's eyes reddened and she stepped forward, clutching at the explanation like a rescue line. "Sister, please don't misunderstand Brother-in-law. I only thought—after what happened, the doctor said you might never be able to have children again...I just wanted to give you my child to raise when the baby is born, so you and Brother-in-law won't be so sad."

Weston cleared his throat, trying to reassure me. "Denise, Patricia meant well... Perhaps—"

"Let's separate." I cut him off before he could finish. "I'm tired. I won't play along anymore."

"If you loved each other so much, fine. Then have each other."

A flash of delight lit Patricia's face for a beat, then it was gone.

Weston's pupils narrowed. "W-what did you say?" He took a step toward me but stopped dead at the sound of Patricia's sudden sob.

"Sister, I'm sorry! I shouldn't have come back. It's my fault—I'll go now!" she wailed, and fled the room.

Weston hesitated, then looked at me with a soft, pleading expression. "Denise, I know you're grieving, but don't say things you don't mean. If you don't want to raise Patricia's child, fine—don't say that in anger. Wait until you recover, and we can have another baby later."

After saying that, he left in a hurry, unaware of the cold smile curling at my mouth.

I wasn't angry, but eerily calm. Countless thoughts swirled in my mind as I pulled out my phone and called Assistant Lenon.

"Send that billion-dollar contract to the Lane Group as my dowry," I said. "Let it be my wedding gift."

The Lane Group had always been Weston's greatest rival. Without my adoptive father's covert support over the years, Weston's company would've been devoured long ago. Now, I would cut off his last escape.

Over the next few days, Weston returned often, practically glued to my side. However, I ignored him like air.

On the day I was discharged, he personally drove me home. The villa looked newly redecorated;

I frowned as we stepped inside. Suddenly Patricia appeared from the bedroom—wearing my pajamas.

"Denise, Patricia is pregnant. I was worried about her living alone, so I brought her here. You won't be angry, right?" Weston asked cautiously.

Patricia cowered behind him like a frightened rabbit. "Sister, please don't kick me out."

Watching them exchange those small, intimate glances made my skin crawl.

Expressionless, I nodded then went to my room and started packing.

When I opened the wardrobe, I found a neat stack of tiny baby clothes tucked in the corner. Each shirt had been made with my own hands.

My throat tightened. I had prayed in temples until my voice was hoarse for this child's safe delivery—I had even promised to offer ten years of my life if only the baby could be born safely.

The abbot had seen my sincerity and told me to sew one hundred garments and place them before the shrine for consecration. I had done it all.

"Baby, I'm sorry," I whispered into the fabric, burying my face and sobbing softly. "Mommy... couldn't protect you."

Without warning, Patricia stood in my doorway, smiling sweetly as she picked up one of the tiny shirts. "Sister, these little clothes are beautiful—can I have this one?"

"Put it down." My voice was icier than I intended.

Her smile faltered, and tears immediately welled up in her eyes. "Sorry, sis, I was just curious."

She grabbed my arm suddenly and gripped it hard. "Do you hate me so much? Don't make me leave... please don't hurt my baby."

"Let go!" I flung her hand off and in the struggle, she stumbled and fell to the floor.

"If you don't like me, I'll go. Just—please don't hurt my child!" Patricia sobbed. Weston burst into the room.

"What happened?" he demanded.

"Brother-in-law," Patricia cried, "I only wanted to look at these clothes, but my sister said my baby was the reason for her miscarriage! She pushed me down!"

Weston's face darkened inch by inch. I said nothing; I only watched him, composed and cold.

"Denise," he said at last, tone hard, "I know you're hurting over your loss, but you cannot take it out on a pregnant woman. If this happens again—even though you are my wife—I won't indulge you."

He scooped Patricia up and left. As the door closed, she shot me a triumphant little smile.

She thought she had won. She didn't know how wrong she was.

I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

When the time came, I would make them pay a price they wouldn't forget.

In the days that followed, it was as if they were deliberately punishing me.

Everywhere I turned, I would "accidentally" stumble upon their moments of intimacy—Weston feeding Patricia tenderly, massaging her hands and swollen feet, or gently applying pregnancy oil to her growing belly.

Sometimes, at night, I would hear him whisper stories to the child in her womb—the same stories he used to tell to my unborn baby.

They looked like the perfect, loving couple, eagerly awaiting their child's arrival.

And I...simply watched in silence. Only waiting for the right moment to strike.

I knew Weston kept something in his study—something that could expose everything he had done.

Finally, one day, my opportunity came. Weston had gone out, and the house fell silent.

I slipped quietly into his study, turned on his computer, and began searching.

When I finally found the evidence I needed, I shut the device and turned to leave.

Just as I was about to head back to my room, a faint burnt smell made me stop in my tracks.

I followed it and turned the corner—only to see Patricia standing by the brazier, tossing something into the flames.

"What are you doing?" I demanded, my brows knitting in suspicion.

Patricia turned, her face painted with that sickeningly gentle smile.

"Sister, I know how sad you've been since the miscarriage. I was afraid these baby clothes would make you even sadder, so...I'm helping you let go."

As she spoke, she flicked her wrist and threw the last tiny piece of fabric into the fire.

"No!"

I lunged forward, shoving my hand into the flames, desperate to save what I could. By the time I pulled back, all that remained was a charred scrap of fabric.

After losing my child, those little clothes were all I had left.

Every night, I slept with them beside my pillow. Now, even that last thread of comfort was gone.

I clutched the scorched cloth to my chest, tears falling heavily onto the ashes.

"Sister, what's wrong? I only did this for your own good," Patricia said, stroking her belly with mock innocence, though pride glimmered behind her eyes.

Her false sweetness made my blood boil. My hand moved before I could think—slap!

"You... you dare hit me?" she gasped, disbelief etched across her face—then, suddenly, she laughed.

"So you've found out, haven't you?" she hissed. "You know how all your children died?"

Her voice was low, venomous. She seized my burned hand and squeezed until pain shot through my fingers.

"It's not enough, Denise. You've lost too little." Her voice was venomous, her eyes twisted with hatred. "I'll make sure you lose everything."

The pain in my fingers was unbearable. I wrenched my hand free with all my strength.

"Ah!"

Patricia screamed as she lost her balance and tumbled backward down the stairs.

"Patricia!"

Weston's voice roared through the hall just as he walked in. He rushed forward and caught her limp body at the bottom of the staircase.

Through trembling lips, Patricia sobbed, "Sister...why did you push me?"

The world froze.

When I lifted my gaze, I met Weston's. His expression was dark, thunderclouds gathering behind his eyes.

I knew that look too well—it was the same one he wore before he destroyed anyone who crossed him.

I backed away, trembling. "I didn't...she tried to burn the baby clothes I made...I just wanted to stop her."

"You know how important those clothes were to me…" My voice cracked. "I didn't push her—she fell by herself!"

But Weston was already consumed by rage.

"Just a few scraps of fabric are more important to you than your sister's life?" he snarled. "Do you even know she's pregnant? How could you be so cruel?"

"Didn't I warn you never again?"

I tried to step back, but before I could move, Weston's hand shot out—pushing me hard.

"No!"

My body hit the stairs, pain exploding through me. My abdomen throbbed violently—the old wound had torn open.

Warm blood spread beneath my hands. My face turned pale as the world blurred.

But the pain in my body was nothing compared to the agony in my heart—watching the man I once loved become my enemy.

"Weston…" My voice trembled as tears streaked down my cheeks. "I really regret it...I regret ever loving you."

For a moment, Weston froze, holding Patricia tightly in his arms. But he still didn't turn around.

He walked away without a backward glance.

I dragged myself out of the villa, each step heavier than the last, until my strength gave out and I collapsed on the roadside, unconscious.