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.

The moment I opened the door, Patricia was already standing outside.

Behind her stood a group of men dressed in black, each holding a box in their hands—eight in total.

Her lips curved into a faint smile as she stepped toward me, her eyes glinting with malice.

"Sis, where are you going?" she asked sweetly. "I heard you gave me three bags of blood. I really ought to thank you for that."

I had no intention of arguing with her. "Move," I said coldly.

Patricia's smile widened, her tone sharpening.

In the next instant, the men in black slammed the door shut behind her.

"What are you doing?" I demanded, taking a step back, my pulse quickening.

"Relax," she said with a laugh. "The truth is I never needed your blood—nor your child's umbilical cord blood."

Then, without warning, she lifted the three blood bags and poured them onto the floor, red liquid splattering everywhere.

Her taunting gaze locked with mine. But I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I simply stood there, silent.

However, my calmness seemed to drive her mad.

She moved closer until her breath brushed my ear.

"Do you know, Sis? When your baby was born, he was still breathing," she whispered, her voice low and poisonous. "He looked so much like you."

My body went rigid. I turned, my eyes sharp with disbelief.

"When the doctor took him out, he was alive—kicking, crying..." Her voice turned into a mocking laugh. "But I smothered him. With my own hands."

The words sliced through me like blades. My entire body went cold, trembling violently.

"Denise, it's your fault! You're the reason your baby died!" she shouted triumphantly, savoring my pain.

I raised my hand, wanting to slap her across the face, but she caught my wrist and twisted it hard, throwing me to the floor.

The next moment, someone pinned me down.

Patricia's smile grew darker. She ripped the black cloth off the boxes one by one.

Under the harsh light, I saw what was inside—and my pupils dilated in horror.

"Do you like my gift?" she cooed. "It took me a lot of effort to keep them from decaying."

Inside each glass case was a perfectly preserved fetus. Eight of them.

"You're lying," I choked out. "You're lying! They were cremated—the ashes were placed at the temple... Weston told me—"

Patricia burst out laughing. "Oh, Sister. You didn't really believe his lies, did you? He told you they were buried properly, didn't he? That the ashes were sent to a temple?"

Her grin twisted cruelly. "It was all a lie! Hahaha!"

I struggled to stand, but she kicked me down again.

"Since you've now seen them one last time," she sneered, "it's time you send them off properly."

"What are you going to do?!" I shouted, terror seizing me.

At her signal, someone brought in a large black dog on a chain.

Patricia snapped her fingers. The men in black opened the glass boxes and hurled the tiny bodies toward the dog.

"No!" I thrashed violently, trying to reach them, but they held me down.

"Patricia, you monster! Give my children back!" I screamed until my throat tore, but it was useless.

The sound of the dog's teeth tearing flesh filled the room. I felt something inside me shatter completely.

I collapsed to my knees, sobbing uncontrollably. "Please... I'll do anything! Just stop! Don't hurt them!"

Patricia's expression softened into something almost sweet. "Well, since you're begging so nicely," she said, "kneel and kowtow a hundred times—to atone for your sins against my child."

My jaw clenched, and slowly, I lowered myself to the floor.

Bang—

My forehead struck the tiles.

Again, and again.

The dull sound echoed through the room, each hit drawing blood until my vision blurred red.

Finally, I lifted my gaze toward her, silently pleading. But she only looked down at me with a sneer.

"Sister, you're really stupid," she said, laughing. "Did you actually believe me? I've hated you for eight years! How could I let you go?"

"If I had known you were so easy to deceive, I wouldn't have had to plan for eight years!"

Her laughter grew manic. With a flick of her hand, the men resumed throwing the remains toward the dog.

"No—!" I lunged forward, but one of the bodyguards kicked me hard, slamming me to the floor.

They held my head down, forcing me to watch as my children were devoured before my eyes.

"Stop... please stop..." My voice broke. I could barely breathe through the sobs.

"Patricia!" I screamed, tears streaming. "I'll make you pay with your life for what you've done!"

Fueled by anguish, I charged toward her—aiming for the life in her belly. But before I could reach her, a guard kicked me aside.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor.

Patricia's expression shifted instantly. She slapped herself twice then tore her clothes, and knelt beside me, sobbing.

"Sis, I'm sorry! Please don't hurt my baby!"

"Patricia! Are you alright?"

Weston burst through the door, rushing to her side.

"Weston," she whimpered, clinging to him, "I only came to thank Sister for saving me... but she had her men humiliate me instead..."

Her voice trembled, her tears falling like pearls.

Weston's face darkened as he looked around at the blood on the floor.

The men in black dropped to their knees.

"Mr. Holmes—we were only following Madam's orders!"

He turned toward me, his eyes burning with disgust. "Denise. Apologize!"

I stared at him for a long moment, then laughed—laughing until the tears streamed down my cheeks.

"Weston, you're right," I said hoarsely. "I was wrong."

"My mistake was not sending you both to hell sooner."

His expression faltered for a split second, unease flickering in his eyes. But then he looked at the trembling woman in his arms, and his heart hardened again.

"Lock her in the water dungeon," he ordered coldly.

The water dungeon—his private torture chamber for his enemies. Once inside, few ever came out alive.

I was dragged away and thrown into its freezing depths.

The pain, the humiliation, the endless cold—it all blurred together until my body gave out.

And at last, everything went dark.