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.

When they returned to the villa, Jackson carried Helena into the guest room and gently set her down on the bed.

But that gentleness cut deeper than a knife.

Helena lay there motionless, staring blankly at the ceiling—like a puppet whose strings had been severed.

Jackson didn't leave. He stood by the window, his tall figure bathed in silver moonlight, the shadow he cast stretching across the room until it swallowed her whole.

"Helena," he finally said, his tone calm but distant. "What happened back then was your fault. You should take care of yourself now and stop causing trouble."

Her lashes fluttered, but she said nothing.

How ironic. After lying for so long, had Jackson started believing his own lies?

Her only mistake—her greatest mistake—was falling in love with him.

When she didn't answer, Jackson's voice softened.

"If you still want a child... I'll give you one in the future."

He paused for a moment before continuing, "And about your research—I'll have a lab built at home so you can continue your work in peace."

Helena slowly closed her eyes, hiding every trace of emotion beneath her lashes.

A private lab at home—how convenient. He wanted her to keep working... for Laica.

Seeing that she seemed to be asleep, Jackson stood there for a long while before quietly closing the door behind him.

...

Sometime past midnight, thirst pulled Helena out of her restless sleep.

She slipped out of bed, bare feet brushing against the cold floor, and tiptoed toward the kitchen for a glass of water.

As she passed the study, a faint light leaked through the gap in the door—and voices drifted out.

Shawn's voice was low and tense.

"Jackson, you went too far today. Sending people to kidnap her, taking those kinds of photos—aren't you afraid Helena will hate you for life if she ever finds out?"

Helena froze. The cup in her hand nearly slipped.

Inside, silence lingered for a few seconds before Jackson's voice broke through—quiet, controlled, and utterly cold.

"She won't know."

His tone carried the faintest hint of a smirk. "Never."

"Still," Shawn said, "Laica told me Helena's been digging into what happened three years ago. You're only making things worse—"

"She's safe now," Jackson cut him off, his voice turning even colder. "After what happened tonight, she'll rely on me again. She won't dare go anywhere. She'll stay home, focus on her research, and help pave the way for Laica's success."

Outside the study, Helena's body trembled so hard she could barely stand.

She pressed both hands over her mouth, stifling the scream that clawed up her throat.

It turned out... everything that happened tonight—the kidnapping, the fear, the near violation—was all his plan.

Every second of terror she felt had been part of his carefully staged performances.

She stumbled back to her room in a daze, her mind spinning with Shawn's words.

Those kinds of photos...

For Laica—to protect Laica's image, her future—Jackson had gone this far.

Her vision blurred with tears, but her heart felt frozen solid.

"Jackson..." she whispered hoarsely, gripping the edge of the bed until her knuckles turned white.

"You really do have a cruel heart."