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.

But Zoey was still too slow. The needle missed.

Maxwell's face was like stone as he watched Zoey unravel. He turned his back on her, inspecting Nancy inside and out, checking her over four, five times until he was sure she was unharmed. Only then did he look back at Zoey, his eyes growing colder, sharper, deadlier.

"Zoey… are you out of your mind?!"

Zoey stared straight into his face, her voice squeezed out from between clenched teeth, her eyes bloodshot.

"She deserved it. She went after Callie!"

Maxwell scooped Nancy into his arms, shielding her.

"She just casually mentioned it. The one who stopped Callie's meds... was me. So why don't you try killing me?!"

Zoey stood there for a second, stunned... and then laughed. A laugh that sounded like broken glass, wet with tears.

'She casually mentioned it... and you stopped the meds. She casually mentioned it... and my child is dead. And somehow... she's innocent. Maxwell—how much do you love her? How far does it go?' Zoey thought hatefully.

Zoey surged forward, straight into his face, hatred burning so hot in her eyes it could set the world on fire.

"I hate her. I hate her, Maxwell. You better pray I never see her again in this lifetime. Because if I do... I'll kill her. Every time I see her, I'll kill her."

Maxwell's stare darkened, his lips pressed into a line so tight it was barely visible. He glanced down at Nancy, still sobbing in his arms.

Without another word, he turned and walked away.

The massive villa fell silent.

And then his voice echoed back. Low. Icy.

"Zoey... you're just like that mother of yours. Vicious. Rotten. If anything happens to Nancy... you die with her."

In the twenty-six years they'd known each other, the ten years they'd been married, Maxwell had never once mentioned her mother. Not even during their worst fights.

But now, for Nancy... he insulted her mother and struck her where it hurt the most.

Zoey collapsed to the floor, curling in on herself as small as she could. Her entire world caved in, shattered into dust.

Tears fell, one after another. Her voice, when it finally came, was thin, hollow, and full of despair.

"Why?" she whispered. "Maxwell... was it not enough? Was it not enough that I was willing to die for Nancy? Why did you have to take my child too? I gave you everything... everything I had, for that child. You knew that. So why... why were you still so cruel?"

She choked out every word, syllable by syllable, but Maxwell didn't even pause.

The only reply was a bodyguard's ice-cold voice.

"Mr. Porter said... you attempted to harm Ms. Westbrook. She was traumatized. Per family rules, you're to reflect on it in the freezer."

The moment the words dropped, two bodyguards lunged. They dragged her—kicking, clawing—straight toward the industrial cold storage.

Zoey clung to the half-knitted scarf in her arms, the yarn twisting and fraying.

Her eyes were vacant and bloodshot.

The cold hit her like knives, slicing through skin, muscle, straight to bone.

Her whole body trembled violently, her breath fogging up instantly, turning to frost in the air.

Minute after minute passed. Her heartbeat slowed... softer... quieter... until finally—

Her body gave out.

Darkness swallowed her whole.

When she opened her eyes again, Zoey was lying in a hospital bed.

The first thing she saw was Maxwell's bloodshot eyes, full of rage. He grabbed her by the collar, dragged her halfway up from the bed, and through clenched teeth growled, "Zoey... Don't even dream of dying that easily. I want you to suffer for the rest of your life."

Zoey lowered her head. A small broken laugh escaped her lips.

He didn't need to worry so much. She was already going to die anyway.