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.

I didn't know how long I had been unconscious when the sharp, sterile scent of disinfectant slowly pulled me back to reality.

The moment I tried to move, a stabbing pain tore through my abdomen, instantly reminding me of everything that had happened.

The doctor, noticing I was awake, hesitated before stepping closer. His eyes held a pity that chilled me to the bone.

"Mrs. Holmes, I'm afraid I have some bad news. Because of your previous miscarriage and the gunshot injury to your uterus—combined with the severe bleeding this time—the situation was critical. To... to save your life..."

He hesitated, lowering his gaze.

"We had no choice but to remove your uterus."

His words hit me like a bolt of lightning. My mind went blank.

"What... what did you just say?"

My pupils dilated as I stared at his moving lips, unable to register the sound.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Holmes. If you had been brought in sooner, perhaps we could have saved it, but..."

His voice faded into a blur.

Tears filled my eyes, blurring my vision.

My heart, which had already gone numb, clenched painfully again.

How could this be happening?

Was this God's punishment for loving the wrong man?

I shook my head violently, tears spilling down my cheeks, refusing to accept the truth.

Just then, the ward door burst open with a deafening crash.

Weston stormed in, his face dark with rage. "Patricia is having massive bleeding because of you. Your blood types match—I need you to give her a transfusion. Now!"

The doctor hesitated, glancing between us. "Mr. Holmes, your wife just had a hysterectomy. She's extremely weak. It's not safe for her to donate blood now."

Only then did Weston seem to notice my pallor, the sweat on my brow, the tears at the corners of my eyes.

For a brief second, he froze—then his gaze hardened with disgust.

"Denise, it's just a bit of blood. You really bribed the doctor to act for you?"

A bitter laugh rose in my throat. The one acting all this time wasn't me—it was him.

The man who had lied, deceived, and destroyed everything I loved.

I wanted to tear off his mask, to scream until the truth echoed in his ears.

But all I managed was a cold, trembling whisper. "I didn't push her. And I won't give her my blood."

His patience finally snapped.

At his signal, one of the bodyguards stepped forward, holding a porcelain urn.

"Denise," Weston said coldly, "did you know? The child you lost—it was a boy."

My heart stopped. I turned sharply, eyes locking on the urn in his hands.

"You wouldn't want your son to have no peace even in death, would you?" His tone was chillingly calm as he slowly raised the urn higher.

My pupils constricted. Panic flooded my body.

"Don't! Don't touch him! I'll do it—I'll give her the blood!"

The moment I said it, a needle pierced my arm.

Cold metal against warm skin, and soon, crimson blood began to flow from my body.

I was already weak from blood loss; dizziness clouded my vision as the room tilted.

After one full bag, my face had turned ghostly pale.

The nurse reached to remove the needle, but Weston stopped her. "Draw two more bags. Keep them ready for Patricia."

"Mr. Holmes," the nurse protested softly, "Mrs. Holmes has already lost too much blood—if we continue—"

"She won't die," he said flatly.

Three light words, each sharper than a blade, slicing into my heart until it bled anew.

The nurse hesitated, then reluctantly continued. Only after three full bags did he finally stop, taking the still-warm blood himself and leaving without another glance.

By the time it was over, my lips were colorless, and the world was spinning.

I could barely breathe.

Yet despite the weakness that crushed me, one thought burned in my chest—I had to leave this place.

I staggered out of the bed, and dragged myself toward the door.