On her wedding day, Helena fell from a glamorous bride to a despicable criminal—cuffed and handed over to the police by the very man she had trusted as a husband.

After three years, the day she was released, she limped on an injured leg, stumbling and dragging herself toward Jackson's house.

The door was slightly ajar.

From inside, Shawn's amused voice drifted. "Jack, Helena is out of prison today. Are you really planning to hold the postponed wedding next month? If you hadn't forged the evidence and sent her away three years ago, she'd be Professor Hamilton's prized student by now—her future would've been limitless."

"A reformed convict? What future could she possibly have?" Jackson's voice was cold, emotionless.

"The promise to marry her after she got out was nothing more than a lie to comfort her—a way to make her go to prison willingly and clear the path for Laica."

Helena froze as if struck by lightning. The words landed like knives, each one slicing her open.

"You're indeed ruthless," Shawn said, almost admiringly. "You stole her research and handed it to Laica. You even told the prison guards to break her leg."

"Now she's a cripple and a criminal—she'll never be able to compete with Laica again." Shawn clicked his tongue with relish.

Helena's mind went blank, her world collapsing in an instant.

Forged evidence? Broke her leg?

All of that... was Jackson's doing?

She covered her mouth and bit down hard on the back of her hand to keep from making a sound, but her tears fell uncontrollably, like strings of pearls snapping apart.

"Professor Hamilton only accepted one student. Helena's talent surpassed Laica and he clearly favored her, so she had to step aside."

The words were spoken so casually, yet they crushed Helena's world to dust.

Shawn's tone turned suggestive. "Still, Helena's face and figure—even after three years in prison, she's stunning. And technically, you two are still husband and wife, right? You could..."

"Wife?" Jackson let out a cold laugh. "That marriage certificate from three years ago was fake."

"I never intended to marry her."

Helena's whole body began to tremble violently. A sharp, metallic taste rose in her throat, and she nearly lost her balance.

Fake...

Even the wedding she had treasured so much was nothing more than a carefully orchestrated lie.

Back then, she had cut ties with her family and stayed in Boston for him, but all she got in return was pain and betrayal

Hands trembling, she dialed a number she hadn't called in years. When the line connected, she held back sobs and forced her voice steady. "Brother... I was wrong to stay in Boston for Jackson. I want to cut him off completely. I'm going to slowly withdraw our family's investments from his company!"

On the other end, Henry's voice was steady. "Leave the divestment to me. The emigration paperwork will take at least seven days; I'll send the flight details to your phone."

"Great," she said, sniffling. "One more thing—help me look into the Jordan family daughter's academic fraud and that kidnapping from three years ago. She destroyed everything I had. Now, I want to destroy them."

"I'll get everything sorted and send it to you before you leave," he answered.

After she hung up, Helena took photos of the research she'd hidden for years and sent them to her brother. She then removed the engagement diamond ring and tossed it into a trash bin with a decisive motion.

Three years ago, she had been framed, trampled, stripped of everything. But now, she would not leave without a fight.

'Jackson—you ruined everything I had. Now it's my turn to ruin you.'

—

On her wedding day, Helena fell from a glamorous bride to a despicable criminal—cuffed and handed over to the police by the very man she had trusted as a husband.

The wail of sirens ripped the wedding's romance to shreds.

Dressed in white, clutching Jackson's hand as if that grip could anchor her, Helena shook her head with everything she had left.

Her makeup was ruined; tears and despair streaked her face.

"It wasn't me—believe me! Jackson, I didn't hurt Laica!" she cried.

Jackson's eyes were cold as ice. He pried her fingers apart one by one with deliberate force. "The evidence is solid. Laica was assaulted—the law cannot bow to sentiment," he said, as if reading from a ledger. "Three years in prison is nothing. When you get out, we'll remarry."

Those three years became a nightmare she could never fully forget—countless beatings, sleeping in filth, humiliation that carved itself into her bones.

On the day she was released, she limped on an injured leg, stumbling and dragging herself toward Jackson's house.

The door was slightly ajar.

From inside, Shawn's amused voice drifted. "Jack, Helena is out of prison today. Are you really planning to hold the postponed wedding next month? If you hadn't forged the evidence and sent her away three years ago, she'd be Professor Hamilton's prized student by now—her future would've been limitless."

"A reformed convict? What future could she possibly have?" Jackson's voice was cold, emotionless.

"The promise to marry her after she got out was nothing more than a lie to comfort her—a way to make her go to prison willingly and clear the path for Laica."

Helena froze as if struck by lightning. The words landed like knives, each one slicing her open.

"You're indeed ruthless," Shawn said, almost admiringly. "You stole her research and handed it to Laica. You even told the prison guards to break her leg."

"Now she's a cripple and a criminal—she'll never be able to compete with Laica again." Shawn clicked his tongue with relish.

Helena's mind went blank, her world collapsing in an instant.

Forged evidence? Broke her leg?

All of that... was Jackson's doing?

She covered her mouth and bit down hard on the back of her hand to keep from making a sound, but her tears fell uncontrollably, like strings of pearls snapping apart.

"Professor Hamilton only accepted one student. Helena's talent surpassed Laica and he clearly favored her, so she had to step aside."

The words were spoken so casually, yet they crushed Helena's world to dust.

Shawn's tone turned suggestive. "Still, Helena's face and figure—even after three years in prison, she's stunning. And technically, you two are still husband and wife, right? You could..."

"Wife?" Jackson let out a cold laugh. "That marriage certificate from three years ago was fake."

"I never intended to marry her."

Helena's whole body began to tremble violently. A sharp, metallic taste rose in her throat, and she nearly lost her balance.

Fake...

Even the wedding she had treasured so much was nothing more than a carefully orchestrated lie.

Shawn burst into laughter. "You really outdid yourself! But Helena's real strength is her research. What a waste to let that go, huh?"

Jackson tapped the table once, twice—a slow, clinical rhythm that landed like a hammer on Helena's chest. "She doesn't need to know the truth about three years ago. From now on, she'll stay at home, quietly clearing the way for Laica's work. She'll be nothing more than Laica's stepping stone."

Those words were the last straw. Helena couldn't listen any longer. She spun on her heel, and stumbled out like someone running from a fire. The pain in her injured leg stabbed with every step, but it was nothing compared with the ache in her heart.

She could not believe the man who once took a bullet for her and almost lost his life—the man she thought loved her—had been plotting her ruin from the start. The marriage certificate was fake; there were no legal ties to hold her. Leaving would be easier than she'd feared.

She ran back to the marital suite she had designed three years earlier and unlocked the secret safe in the basement she had installed herself. Inside lay the fruit of years of effort—all the research she'd poured her life into and the proof that she had quietly financed assistance to the Cabrera Group.

Those research papers held everything she had ever been proud of—the sum of her dreams, her youth, her life's purpose.

With trembling hands, she dug up a number she hadn't called in years and dialed. When the call connected, a low male voice answered, "Who is it?"

Hearing it broke her. The tension she'd carried for three years unraveled in a flood of grief and fury.

"It's me," she said, voice cracking. "Brother... I was wrong to stay in Boston for Jackson. I want to cut him off completely. I'm going to slowly withdraw our family's investments from his company!"

On the other end, Henry's voice was steady. "Leave the divestment to me. The emigration paperwork will take at least seven days; I'll send the flight details to your phone."

"Great," she said, sniffling. "One more thing—help me look into the Jordan family's daughter's academic fraud and that kidnapping from three years ago. She destroyed everything I had. Now, I want to destroy them."

"I'll get everything sorted and send it to you before you leave," he answered.

After she hung up, Helena took photos of the research she'd hidden for years and sent them to her brother. She then removed the engagement diamond ring and tossed it into a trash bin with a decisive motion.

Three years ago, she had been framed, trampled, stripped of everything. But now, she would not leave without a fight.

'Jackson—you ruined everything I had. Now it's my turn to ruin you.'

The next day.

Helena was awakened by the sound of flirtatious laughter drifting up from downstairs.

Before she could sit up, the door swung open. Jackson stood in the doorway, tall and cold-eyed, his expression carved from ice.

Laica followed behind him, affectionately holding his arm and looking at Helena with a proud attitude.

"Helena," Laica cooed, "we heard you got out. I even threw you a little welcome at the bar—everyone in our circle will be there. It's a perfect chance for you to get back into society."

Helena's lips curled into a bitter, mocking smile.

A welcome party?

Or an opportunity for the entire Boston to see how the once-promising prodigy had returned—crippled, disgraced, a convicted felon?

Her voice was dry but steady. "I'm not going."

Her refusal instantly made Laica's eyes glisten with feigned sorrow.

"Jackson, is she still blaming me for her imprisonment?" She pouted.

Jackson's face darkened, the air turning sharp with tension. "Helena, you don't have the right to refuse."

He stepped forward, towering over her. "If you don't want Jennelyn to be comfortable inside the prison, then you can stay here and lie down."

"Jennelyn?!" Hearing that name made Helena's heart race. She looked at him in shock and asked anxiously, "What did you do to her?"

Jennelyn had been the only light in that darkness. When fever racked Helena and the cell felt like an oven, it was Jennelyn who had slammed her palms bloody against the iron door until a guard came.

Jackson's gaze lingered on her terrified expression, and the corners of his lips curled in satisfaction.

"I didn't do anything to her," he said smoothly. "But as long as you behave, she'll keep living well in there."

The thinly veiled threat wrapped around Helena's throat like a steel wire. Her blood ran cold, freezing her from the inside out.

It took her a long moment before she forced out a single word bitterly. "...Fine."

Jackson turned and walked away without looking back, his tall figure disappearing beyond the door—leaving nothing but suffocating emptiness behind.

Helena changed into the clothes his people had brought—a delicate white dress that sat against her scarred body like an insult. The contrast between the fabric's elegance and the bruises beneath it made her feel absurd and hollow.

The bar was loud with music and chatter. The moment she entered, every head turned. Once, these were people who had fawned over her brilliance. Now, their eyes gleamed with ridicule and satisfaction—every smile sharpened with malice.

Laica sauntered over, her red slip dress hugging every curve, a wine glass in hand. "Helena, welcome back. Let me toast to you."

Helena stared at the crimson liquid and shook her head weakly. "I can't drink."

Her stomach had been ruined by years of spoiled food and filthy water. Now, even a drop of wine would burn like molten metal down her throat.

Laica's smile sharpened. She stepped closer, her voice soft but edged with poison. "I know you can't drink. But so what? Do you think you can refuse me today?"

Then, as if on cue, she turned teary-eyed toward Jackson.

"Helena... do you think I'm dirty? Is that why you won't drink the wine I offered you?"

In an instant, every pair of eyes turned to Helena—accusing, judging, sneering.

Jackson's expression darkened. He stepped forward, shielding Laica behind him like a precious gem, his voice cutting like ice. "Apologize."

He pointed to the table. "Drink every glass of wine and apologize to Laica."

Helena stared at him in disbelief, her heart twisting painfully in her chest.

When she didn't move, Jackson sneered and pulled out his phone.

He dialed a number.

A monotonous female voice came through the receiver. "Hello, San Francisco Prison."

Jackson's voice was low, deliberate. "Find me a prisoner named Jennelyn."

"No!" Helena's pupils shrank. Panic surged through her as she lunged toward him, trying to snatch the phone away.

But he caught her easily—his grip iron-strong as he flung her hand aside.

"I'll drink!" Helena's voice cracked as she screamed the words, desperation spilling out of her like shattered glass.

Under the man's cold, watchful gaze, Helena lifted cup after cup and forced the fiery liquid down her throat.

Each swallow felt like swallowing flames. The alcohol burned through her throat, seared her stomach, and tore through her insides like a thousand steel needles. Pain twisted her body until she could no longer stand—she crumpled, clutching her abdomen, trembling.

"Tsk." Laica looked down at her, amusement flickering in her eyes. She bent slightly, lowering her voice so only Helena could hear.

"Helena, I heard someone's been investigating my research paper from three years ago. That was you, right?" Her voice was soft and poisonous.

"Consider tonight a little punishment. After all, we still need you alive to do research for me. Don't forget—Jackson is on my side."

Helena's head jerked toward the corner where Jackson stood. For a fleeting second, their eyes met—then he turned away, expression blank.

A fresh wave of pain tore through her chest. Both her body and heart felt pierced beyond repair.

Laica straightened, then raised her glass high with a dazzling smile. "Everyone! Let's toast to our dear Helena's return!"

The crowd erupted with laughter. One after another, glasses were emptied—wine, whiskey—cold liquid splashed down on her hair, her face, her shoulders. The stinging smell of alcohol filled her lungs, soaking through her thin white dress.

By the end of the "welcome" party, Helena couldn't tell if her face was wet from tears or liquor. Her body felt like it was falling apart. She lay motionless on the cold marble floor, her stomach twisting so violently she thought she might die there.

With the last of her strength, she reached out and clutched Jackson's trouser leg.

"Jackson... take me... to a hospital," she gasped. "It hurts... so much..."

Suddenly Laica screamed. "Ah! My hand!"

People looked. A shard from a broken glass had nicked the back of her hand; a few beads of blood appeared.

Jackson's expression changed instantly. He wrenched Helena's hand away and rushed to Laica's side, lifting her into his arms as though she were made of glass.

"Don't be afraid," he said anxiously. "I'll take you to the hospital right now."

Helena's vision blurred. The pain in her abdomen rolled like black waves, swallowing her whole. Then everything went dark.

When the waiter came to clean later that night, he found her curled in a corner—unconscious, pale, barely breathing.

...

The acrid scent of disinfectant hit her nose.

Helena opened her eyes to a white ceiling.

She was still alive.

But the realization brought no comfort—only a suffocating heaviness pressing down on her chest. A tear slid silently across her cheek, sinking into the pillow and leaving a faint wet stain.

She remembered the days when Jackson would panic over the smallest paper cut on her finger, holding her hand and blowing gently on the wound.

Helena, he once said, even your frown hurts my heart.

Now, she could collapse in agony before him, and he would still turn away—for another woman's shallow scratch.

She was wrong...

So wrong.

She regretted ever loving Jackson Cabrera.

Her stomach still throbbed painfully. She pulled the IV needle from her arm and dragged herself out of bed, one hand pressed to the wall as she searched for a doctor to ask for painkillers.

Halfway down the corridor, a door stood ajar. A familiar voice drifted out.

"Mr. Cabrera, are you sure you want Miss McCarthy to use this special medication?" the doctor asked hesitantly.

"Three years ago, she had a miscarriage in the first month of her imprisonment. Her body's already damaged. This drug will help her stomach temporarily, but the side effects are severe. She might never be able to conceive again."

Boom!

The words detonated inside Helena's mind.

Miscarriage? Child?

Her body trembled violently. She lowered her head, both hands clutching her flat abdomen.

Was there really... a child here?

A child that belonged to her and Jackson?

Fragments of memory flashed before her eyes. During her first month in prison, she'd been wracked with unbearable pain in her lower abdomen, pain so sharp it nearly made her faint. Blood had poured from her body for days, but the prison guards only cast a few indifferent glances.

She had thought it was just her period, worsened by hunger and cold.

But now she understood.

It hadn't been her body failing her.

It had been her child—leaving her in blood and agony, alone in the dark.

And the man who sent her there—the man she once loved—had destroyed not only her life, but their unborn child as well!

Outside the ward, Helena's fingers dug into the wall until her nails tore, leaving streaks of blood and broken paint behind.

Inside, Jackson's calm, detached voice gave the final order.

"It's fine," he said. "Use the medicine."