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."

That single sentence shattered the last fragment of love Helena still clung to.

On what right—what right—did he have to decide the life or death of her child? To strip her so casually of her right to be a mother?

Rage and grief flooded her veins, drowning all reason.

Bang!

The door flew open. Helena stormed in and, without hesitation, struck Jackson across the face with all her strength.

The sharp crack echoed through the room. His head snapped to the side, and five crimson fingerprints bloomed across his cheek.

Her voice trembled, raw with fury.

"Jackson! What gives you the right?"

Her eyes blazed through a haze of tears. "On what basis do you take away my right to bear children?"

For a moment, Jackson froze. Her hatred hit him harder than the slap itself, cutting through his chest like glass.

"I did it for your own good," he said quietly.

Helena let out a broken laugh—cold, hollow.

"For my own good?" She enunciated each word, her tone icy and sharp. "Jackson... I can't afford your kindness."

Without another glance, she turned and walked out, leaving him standing there in silence.

The moment she thought of her lost child, she could no longer breathe the same air. She signed her discharge papers and left the hospital that very day.

Outside, she scrolled through her contacts until she found a name she hadn't seen in years—her senior from university, now a renowned lawyer who once owed her a favor.

When the call connected, her tone was steady but cold.

"Senior, I need your help. There's a prisoner named Jennelyn—I'll arrange a way for you to meet her. Help her overturn her case. You can name your price."

Jackson had used Jennelyn to threaten her; she wouldn't let that happen again. Jennelyn had once saved her life—now it was her turn to return the favor.

But Helena didn't know that a pair of eyes had been following her since she left the hospital.

A black van slowed beside the road. Before she could react, rough hands dragged her inside.

...

In an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city, Helena was thrown hard onto the concrete floor. Pain shot through her limbs as four or five men closed in, smirking.

The one with yellow-dyed hair licked his lips.

"Pretty little thing," he sneered. "Boss is gonna like you."

Helena's face drained of color. She clutched her torn collar and backed away, trembling.

"Get away from me!"

Her fear only fed their excitement.

"Feisty, huh?" one of them jeered. "Makes it more fun."

A filthy hand shot out, grabbing her wrist, another tearing at her blouse—

Rip!

The sound of fabric tearing echoed through the empty space. Cold air hit her exposed skin, and a dozen camera flashes followed.

"Stop! Please—let me go!" Helena screamed, thrashing helplessly as tears streamed down her face.

But her struggle was useless against their brute strength.

Suddenly, a loud bang echoed.

A dark figure exploded through the shadows, his kick landing squarely on the leader's chest. The man slammed into the wall and collapsed with a groan.

Before the others could react, they were struck down one by one—heavy blows, quick and merciless. Their cries filled the warehouse, then faded into silence.

Helena looked up, shaking, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

Jackson stood amid the wreckage, his face cold, his entire body radiating murderous rage.

He shrugged off his blood-spattered suit jacket and strode toward her.

Without a word, he wrapped the jacket around her trembling body—still warm from his skin.

Helena's whole frame quivered as he pulled her into his arms.

For a moment, she wanted to resist. But her strength was gone. All she could do was let him hold her—just this once.