When Zoey opened her eyes again, all she could see was the blinding white ceiling of a hospital room.

The sharp smell of disinfectant flooded her senses. She scrambled up in panic, but the stinging shooting across her face and body forced her still.

"Miss!"

Dr. Willow rushed over, grabbing her hand just as she was about to tear at the skin on her face.

"Don't move! You just underwent skin graft surgery. Right now... It's still fragile."

Skin graft...?

Zoey froze.

She stumbled toward the sink, staring at the mirror.

Her face—what was left of it—was covered in open wounds of all sizes. Fresh blood seeped from raw, mangled skin. The sheer sight of it made her eyes shut tight in despair.

Dr. Willow's voice was still behind her, firm but helpless.

"Miss, you shouldn't move. I know... I know it looks bad. But if you take care of it properly, there's still hope. It might heal..."

Tears slipped down her cheeks, soaking into the raw wounds and making them burn worse.

"But I... I don't have a future."

A shadow fell over the doorway.

Maxwell stood there. His gaze was dark and bottomless.

"This... is what you owe Nancy."

His voice was cold and detached.

"That slap you gave her left a gash on her face. Her skin is delicate... she's disfigured now. You're compensating for it. And the fight earlier today... yeah, it was her fault first. But she's been punished already."

Zoey laughed. She laughed so hard it hurt. Her face split open again, and blood oozed out.

"Punishment?"

Maxwell frowned slightly, as if her question annoyed him.

"She's terrified of pain. You think skin graft surgery doesn't hurt enough?"

Zoey had always known he was biased—blatantly biased. But hearing it said out loud still sent tremors through her body, breaking something in her completely.

"So, Maxwell... my face. Thirty-something wounds. Torn flesh. Grafts. All of this... this is equivalent to her feeling pain? This is what you call punishment?"

The air around him turned icy, but his expression remained frozen, as if carved from a block of ice thousands of years old.

"Zoey... what exactly are you still struggling for? Just be obedient. Admit you were wrong. It'll be easier for both of us."

Her fingernails dug deep into her palms until she felt warm blood. Her hands trembled as she grabbed her phone and opened the emergency dial.

Maxwell watched her lazily, completely unfazed.

"Didn't you say it yourself earlier? We're still legally married. That surgery... the consent form? I signed it. So go ahead. Call the police if you want." His lips curved into something colder than a smile. "See if there's a single cop in this city who'll dare touch this case."

With that, he turned, not even bothering to look back.

The door closed.

She sat there, staring at the blurry numbers on the screen—911.

Her hand trembled. Her vision blurred as she thought bitterly, 'I hate him. God, why did I ever love him...'

She didn't bother with further treatment. She went straight home.

When she stepped inside, Nancy was already there.

Nancy was casually sitting in the living room, posing for selfies, fixing the lighting, choosing the right angle to show off her best side for her social media post.

Zoey ignored her completely. She didn't have the energy. She just wanted to get upstairs, find the deed to the house. This house—her parents' last inheritance—she was selling it. No matter what, she wouldn't let it fall into Maxwell's hands.

But the second Nancy saw Zoey, she yelled, "Stop right there."

Zoey didn't respond.

In the next second, her wrist was yanked hard. Her body, too weak to fight back, stumbled forward, dragged until she was face-to-face with Nancy.

Zoey noticed the thin, nearly invisible scar on Nancy's face.

Nancy raised her chin, smug. "Look at this necklace Maxwell got me. There's only one like it in the entire world."

Pride glowed on her face. If it weren't for Maxwell's blind indulgence, Zoey knew, Nancy would never have the guts to act like this.

Zoey didn't answer. Head down, she forced herself to breathe, to conserve what little strength she had left. She needed to get upstairs.

But Nancy wouldn't let her go. She grabbed Zoey's chin, forcing her to look up.

"What's with this act, Zoey? You're furious, aren't you?" Her voice dripped with venom. "The man you've loved for so long... never loved you. Not even once."

Zoey lifted her eyes slowly.

A laugh slipped from her lips as if she'd just heard the most absurd joke in the world.

"And you?" she said, voice sharp as a blade. "A mistress who wrecked someone else's marriage. You really think marrying him means you'll be safe? You're not scared... that one day, another mistress will take your place? Pathetic."

The words sliced deeper than any knife.

Nancy's fragile pride shattered instantly. Her face twisted with rage.

"You... You wait, Zoey." Her voice trembled. "I'm going to take the thing you care about most!"

Zoey thought she meant Maxwell.

But that night... the villa went up in flames.

Smoke billowed. Fire roared.

Someone yanked her roughly from the ground. Firefighters shielded her as they pulled her away from the collapsing house.

The moment her feet touched solid ground, she froze.

"No... No, no, no..." Her scream broke into a sob.

She lunged, trying to rush back in to grab her parents' urns. But strong arms held her back.

The fire swallowed everything.

Nancy was already out. Maxwell was holding her tightly, his arms wrapped around her like she was some fragile porcelain doll. Nancy's face was still twisted in defiance.

"I'm not wrong!" she shrieked. "I didn't do anything wrong! She called me a mistress! She hurt me! This is what she deserves!"

For the first time, Maxwell didn't defend Nancy. His face was cold, his voice even colder.

"Shut up."

But Zoey heard nothing. Nothing at all.

All she could see was the fire. The fire that burned away the last piece of her home, the last piece of her life.

Her scream tore through the night.

Then, everything inside her gave out.

She coughed up blood and collapsed.

Zoey's consciousness drifted in and out, slipping like sand through her fingers.

It was the second day since Zoey had woken up, yet her voice was still broken. Not a single word crossed her lips.

Across from her, Nancy twisted her hands, her eyes red as if the whole world had wronged her.

"I... I'm sorry," she stammered, voice trembling. "But... but you started it. You bullied me first."

Maxwell stood quietly behind her, speaking for her without hesitation.

"Nancy was... immature. It's her fault this time."

Zoey didn't react. She barely even breathed.

"She's young and reckless. It's normal for her to make mistakes," he continued. "I'll include the house as compensation in the divorce agreement."

Zoey sat motionless on the hospital bed. Without warning, she hurled everything within reach.

Her voice rasped out in a hoarse, broken whisper, not even sounding human anymore.

"Get out. All of you. Get out!"

Maxwell didn't argue. His first instinct was to shield Nancy behind him.

After that, he stayed by Zoey's side the entire day.

Even when her throws left bruises on his face, even when her curses tore into him like knives, he stayed. Just like he used to, sitting by her side, helping her practice pronunciation.

But Zoey knew better.

Maxwell was a man who couldn't stand owing anyone anything.

This—this was him paying off his debt. His guilt. For Nancy.

He held her IV bag to keep it warm. He tucked sugar cubes behind bitter pills. His care was so meticulous, so gentle, that for a terrifying moment… Zoey almost let herself believe that he had fallen in love with her again.

But that illusion shattered later that same night.

Her throat burned with pain, forcing her out of bed to find water. The room was dark, and instinctively, she followed the dim glow spilling from the hallway until the sound of laughter and conversation stopped her cold.

Voices. Familiar ones.

Maxwell's friends were over, loud and rowdy. She heard Maxwell's voice, quieter but firm.

"Keep it down. Don't wake her."

His friends chuckled knowingly.

Nancy pouted, her voice full of playful complaint. "Maxwell... you've been with her all day. When are you gonna spend time with me?"

Maxwell didn't answer. He only reached out and pinched her cheek, a soft, indulgent gesture that sent his friends into a chorus of teasing.

They were playing Truth or Dare. The bottle spun on the table, landing in front of Maxwell.

Grinning, one of the guys finally asked the question everyone had been holding back.

"Bro, seriously... back then, you could've pulled off your revenge plan without teaching her to speak, right? Why go through all that trouble?"

Maxwell's expression didn't change. His eyes stayed gentle when he looked at Nancy.

"Because..." His smirked. "If she couldn't speak... she wouldn't be able to moan in bed. Where's the fun in that?"

The room exploded. Cheers. Laughter. Slaps on the table.

And not one of them noticed the trembling figure standing just behind the door.

Zoey pressed both hands over her mouth, trying to choke back the sob rising in her throat. She refused to let herself cry. Not here. Not like this.

She already knew he didn't love her. She knew.

So why... why did it still hurt so much?

Her heart felt like it had been hollowed out. The ache was suffocating.

All those memories—those moments she once believed were real—turned into blades, slicing her open from the inside out.

She stumbled back to her bed.

Turned out... she really was the fool.

From the beginning, Maxwell had come into her life for revenge. Nothing more.

She sat there the entire night, motionless, hands clenched, back straight, staring into nothing.

When Maxwell walked in the next morning, her ghostly pale face made him falter—just for a second.

She stared hatefully at the guy who no longer resembled the boy she once loved.

Her voice broke the silence, brittle but steady, full of loathing.

"Maxwell, you don't need to do any of this for me. You disgust me."

His hand stilled mid-reach. The words hit sharper than any slap. Her speech caught him completely off guard.

Before he could even say a word, she spoke again. Her tone wasn't angry. It wasn't emotional. It just sounded... final.

"Four days from now… we're getting divorced. And you're coming with me to see Callie and sign the adoption papers for her." Her lips pulled into a cold, bitter smile. "Any kid stuck with a father like you… it's pathetic."

Maxwell's gaze darkened as it lingered on Zoey, but in the end, he nodded. He agreed.

But he had one condition. Nancy was moving into the villa—the same one he had bought for Zoey when they first got married.

That afternoon, Nancy arrived.

Rain poured outside. Her feet didn't even touch the ground as Maxwell carried her tightly in his arms. Her cheeks flushed pink as she whispered, half embarrassed, half playful, "You idiot... why didn't you tell me there were so many people here? Put me down..."

Maxwell's expression didn't shift. Only the corner of his lips tugged upward, a trace of indulgence mixed with warning.

"Call me that again... and I'll cut out your tongue."

Zoey froze.

He'd said the exact same words to her once. Back when they were newly married.

Maxwell only ever said things like that to the person he loved.

In that moment, Zoey realized—he really did love Nancy.

Her heart had long since gone numb. But her hands stayed busy, moving instinctively.

Callie, ever since being brought to the orphanage, had become quieter, more withdrawn. Every time Zoey went to see her, Callie tugged her hand and called her Mama, it felt like something inside her was being crushed.

But she was dying. Soon, she wouldn't be able to protect Callie. All she could do was save money, buy Callie some clothes, and try to find a good family.

She had suffered her entire life. She refused to let her child suffer too.

Maxwell kept telling her to wait.

"Wait until Nancy moves in. I'll take you," he said. So she waited.

"Wait until Nancy settles down," he said again. So she waited through another long night.

And then—"Wait until Nancy finishes unpacking," he added.

But Zoey knew exactly what her body was telling her. She didn't have time left. She couldn't wait anymore.

So she snapped at him. The coldness in her eyes made him tremble.

At last, he agreed to take her.

But what she saw... wasn't Callie. It was an unmarked tombstone.

Maxwell stood behind her, his voice eerily calm—rational in the most inhuman way.

"She had leukemia. No donor. She wouldn't have survived. Zoey... don't be stupid."

But she remembered—so clearly—that day when she miscarried. He was the one who adopted Callie. He'd held Callie in his arms and said, "This baby is ours now."

Her blood turned to ice.

All she could do was stare helplessly at the nameless grave. Again and again. Her knees gave out, and she sat there for a long, long time, completely hollow.

Zoey couldn't remember how she got home.

But once she was back... she didn't speak. Not a word. Not a sound.

She simply sat, calm and mechanical, slowly finishing the scarf she had left half-knitted.

Maxwell stood by silently, watching her. At six o'clock sharp, he appeared at the door with a bowl of plain porridge.

"Eat something," he said. "Your body can't take this."

But Zoey didn't even blink. She just kept knitting. Kept going.

Thread by thread. Stitch by stitch.

All the way until midnight.

Maxwell finally lost his patience. He shut his eyes tight, frustrated beyond words, and when his hand accidentally brushed against hers—he flinched.

Ice. Her skin was ice-cold.

"I'm getting you medicine," he snapped. "If you're gonna die, don't die here. What a curse."

Face dark with anger, he stormed out.

It was only after the door slammed that Zoey slowly lifted her head.

The moonlight outside seemed too bright. Her vision blurred. She shut her eyes like someone drowning, gasping for air.

And then—agony.

Pain shot from her scalp.

She opened her eyes, dazed, only to see Nancy, who had appeared out of nowhere, yanking her hair viciously. Her voice, sharp and shrill, was laced with pettiness and cruelty.

"What are you playing at now, huh? Still pretending to be weak?" Nancy sneered. "Zoey, it's just a dead kid. What's with the act?!"

Her voice pierced Zoey's ears like needles. Zoey instinctively shut her eyes.

"I hate this pathetic look on you!" Nancy's grip tightened. Her words grew more venomous. "That kid deserved to die! Even if she hadn't, if I became her stepmother, I'd make sure she suffered. I'd bring her nothing but pain. Zoey... what could you have done about it?"

She forced Zoey to look her in the eye.

And what Zoey saw there... was pure malice. It made her stomach twist. Her heart convulsed in her chest, trembling from pain, from rage, from disbelief.

Zoey's eyes turned bloodshot. Like a cornered snake, her gaze locked onto Nancy.

But Nancy only laughed. To her, it was pathetic.

She raised her hand. A slap landed hard across Zoey's face.

"You dare slap me?" she sneered. "I've been way too nice to you. Even if I told Maxwell to cut off that kid's medication, what can you do?"

Something inside Zoey snapped.

A tidal wave of hatred surged up. She had never hated like this before—not even close.

She hated herself for being weak. Hated herself for being blind. Hated herself for... ever loving Maxwell.

Her hands scrambled blindly across the floor. Searching. Desperate. Until her fingers closed around something cold and sharp.

The knitting needle.

Zoey's breath hitched.

And then, without hesitation, she lunged at Nancy.