When my younger sister, Paige Nielson, was three months pregnant, she was struck by a car, killing her and her unborn baby on the spot.

My CEO wife, Christina Ashmore, vowed vengeance on the driver; that he shall pay the price with his own life.

But when she found out that the accused is actually Roland Burstyn, her first love who had disappeared for the past seven years, she decided to sign the letter of forgiveness on my behalf.

Afraid that I might secretly sue Roland once again, Christina had me admitted into a psychiatric hospital. Throughout the next three years, I had six ribs broken by others, not to mention I lost an eye as well.

When the psychiatric hospital is found to not have all legal credentials that can keep it running, I'm finally released from its confines.

When Christina and I meet again, she pats me off-handedly on the shoulder.

"I'm only able to reunite with Roland after so long, so I can't handle the pain of losing him again. Anyway, I already bought Paige the best graveyard plot one can afford. Roland doesn't owe you anything now. As long as you don't target him, I can keep supporting you financially."

I don't respond to Christina at all. Instead, I text my dad, whom I've cut ties with for a decade.

"I can forgive you, but it comes with a condition. You need to avenge me."

The next moment, Dad's call came through, his voice stern.

"Dylan, who bullied you?"

"Christina and R—"

I had barely said his name when my wife, Christina Ashmore—her face dark with rage—rushed forward and slapped my phone out of my hand. Then she stomped her high heels on the shattered phone screen before following that with a hard smack across my face.

"Dylan Nielson," she snarled. "It's been three years, and you're still this stupid?"

Her eyes were bloodshot as she grabbed me by the collar. "If you dare hurt Roland, I'll make sure you leave this place in a body bag!"

She'd used every ounce of her strength earlier. I tasted blood in my mouth, and my ears started to ring.

Spitting out the blood, I turned my head toward her.

"Not just him," I spat, my voice trembling with rage. "I won't spare either of you. Just wait! The two of you can go to hell together!"

"You dare?"

The words had just left her lips when she clamped her hand around my throat, her voice ice-cold.

"Dylan, even if you risked your life for me before… If you dare hurt Roland, I'll strangle you to death right now. I won't show you any mercy!"

Her grip tightened more and more. It felt as if she could send me straight to the grave in the next heartbeat.

But the overwhelming hatred surging in my chest had long since burned away any fear of death.

Christina knew exactly how broken my family was. She knew that my sister, Paige Nielson, had been my only salvation when I was a child.

Without Paige, I might've jumped off a building alongside my depressed mother when I was 15 years old. In fact, it was also because of Paige's kindness that I had ended up with Christina in the first place.

Back then, if Paige hadn't stepped in to stop those street thugs from harassing Christina—another product of a broken home—she would've likely been the one dragged into that alley and raped instead.

I had spent three years dragging Paige—who had tried to kill herself countless times—out of the abyss. Christina had also repented and sworn to me multiple times that she'd protect Paige for the rest of her life.

But the cruel irony was that not only did Paige's husband die in a car accident while delivering documents to Christina, but Paige herself had died on the way to buy her a birthday gift as well. Roland Burstyn's speeding car had hit her, killing both her and her unborn baby.

And because the culprit was Christina's first love—who'd reappeared after disappearing for seven years—she used every means possible just to protect him, even if it meant turning against me.

"Chrissy, don't do this."

Roland suddenly stepped forward and pulled Christina back. With a feigned look of guilt on his face, he said, "Dylan, it's all my fault. If you want to blame someone, blame me. Don't make Chrissy sad anymore. She's been worried about you these past three years. Every day has been hard on her."

"Roland!" A flash of heartache crossed Christina's eyes, and she swiftly stopped him. "You did nothing wrong. You don't have to apologize!"

She then turned to look at me, her eyes cold as she threatened, "Dylan, apologize to Roland right now and swear that you'll never mention that incident again for as long as you live. Otherwise, I'll kill you!"

I stared at her twisted expression, and a laugh escaped me. "Christina, were you even able to sleep these past three years?"

Her eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Have you forgotten how Paige nearly lost her life for you?" I demanded, my voice rising sharply. "Have you forgotten the oath you made? Aren't you afraid the ghosts will come for you in the dead of the night?"

"Shut up!" Christina shrieked, cutting me off.

I had clearly struck a nerve.

She slapped me hard across the face again, and I spat out a mouthful of blood. When I saw Roland's smug face, hatred boiled inside me.

"Stubborn and unrepentant!" I snarled.

Enraged, Christina kicked me in the chest with her high heel, digging it deep into my flesh. I staggered and fell. Shaking, I pressed my hand over the gushing wound.

Still not satisfied, she stepped on the back of my hand and ground down hard. Only when my hand was bloody and mangled did she speak, her voice dripping with malice.

"Since you refuse to learn, I'll just have to teach you myself."

At her command, her henchman—ignoring my struggles—dragged me like roadkill down to the basement, stripped me naked, and tied me to a cross.

Old wounds that had repeatedly split open and scabbed over the past three years tore apart again under the iron chains. Blood continued to gush out, and it was a horrifying sight.

Christina ignored it all. She lifted my chin with a leather whip soaked in salt water, forcing me to meet her eyes.

"I'll give you one more chance. Apologize and swear you'll never mention what happened three years ago again, and I'll let you go."

Roland stood behind her, a triumphant look in his eyes, a smirk playing on his lips.

My whole body shook from the pain. The eye that was glaring at them held nothing but raw hatred.

My gaze made Christina flinch, her brow furrowed as she whipped me even harder.

"Seems like you're tired of breathing."

The whip cracked loudly. My skin instantly split open, and the salt water seeped into the wounds. The pain was so intense I nearly passed out.

Blood flowed even faster from my chest wound, and my ribs—never set right to begin with—throbbed dully.

An undecipherable look flickered across her eyes.

"Dylan, don't be stubborn," she said, her tone softening slightly. "If Paige were still alive, she wouldn't want to see you going up against me like this. Just give in, and I'll take you to the hospital right away."

I snapped my head up, glaring at her. "You don't deserve to say Paige's name, Christina Ashmore! You're his accomplice!"

Seven years ago, when Paige saved her, she had dropped to her knees beside Paige's hospital bed, sobbing hard as she swore she'd protect her for the rest of her life.

After Paige's accident, she clutched my hand and cried until she passed out, vowing that she'd make the perpetrator pay with his life.

Before sending me to the psychiatric hospital, she feigned concern and said that once I got better, we would hold a proper funeral for Paige.

Even everything she had today—her status and her achievements—came from Paige and me downing drink after drink at countless social gatherings.

Now, all those memories felt like knives stabbing straight into my heart.

"Dylan, that's enough. Chrissy's just worried that I'll feel wronged. It hasn't been easy for her all these years," Roland said, leaning against the table, a taunting smirk on his face. "Besides, I was the one who picked out Paige's gravesite. The view is gorgeous. You should be grateful."

"Grateful?" I sneered.

The movement pulled at the wound on my chest, causing me to break out in a cold sweat. "My sister was three months pregnant when you ran into her and sent her flying 100 feet into the air. To this day, you haven't shown even a sliver of remorse, and you want me to be grateful?"

"Shut up!" Christina barked, her expression darkening.

She cracked the whip again, even harder than before. "Roland didn't do it on purpose. Stop harping on about it!"

I was in so much pain, I wanted to bash my head against the wall and just end it all. However, the fury blazing in my chest continued to chip away at my sanity, driving me to struggle, to resist, to kill the murderer with my own two hands.

When the bones in my hand were exposed, I finally broke free from the iron chains and lunged at Roland.

"I told you I'd send you to hell!"

My fists rained down hard. Roland cowered, letting out miserable screams.

"Stop!" Christina yelled, shoving me aside and pulling him into her arms. "Have you lost your mind, Dylan?"

Seeing the murderous frenzy I was in, she grabbed a metal bar from the table and smashed it down on my head.

Blood streamed down my forehead, blurring my vision. I staggered and collapsed onto the floor.

Before losing consciousness, I saw Christina wrap her arm around Roland protectively, then leave without another glance back.

I woke up from the searing pain. When I opened my eyes, I realized I was still in the basement.

"You're awake?"

Christina stood over me, holding an empty basin as she looked down at me.

"Just one basin of salt water and you're already awake? This feeble act of yours is too fake, Dylan. It's been three years, yet you still haven't learned to behave. How disappointing."

The pain left me gasping for air. My wounds were no longer just painful—they were turning white and showing early signs of infection.

Christina's gaze scanned over me, her brow deeply furrowed in disgust. "You think pretending to be on the verge of death will make me feel sorry for you?"

I struggled to look up at her—her expression cold and indifferent. Bitter and furious, I braced myself against the wall and slowly pushed myself to my feet.

She looked at me as if she'd seen something filthy.

"Put this on," she snapped, flinging a piece of clothing at me.

I recognized it as a housekeeper's uniform and looked up at her. Her eyes darted away, but Roland smiled and answered instead.

"My apologies, Dylan. I've already thrown out everything that belongs to you in this house. Chrissy said it was unlucky to have it lying around.

"We were planning to replace them once you got discharged, but… we haven't had time to do that yet. So, just make do with this for now. You don't mind, right?"

He picked up the uniform and dressed me in it, deliberately pressing his fingers into my wounds while he was at it.

Trembling violently from the pain, I abruptly raised my hand and dug my fingers into his shoulder.

"Of course… I don't mind."

Roland cried out in pain and shoved me away, clutching his shoulder as he stumbled backward.

Christina immediately steadied him. Seeing the deep nail marks carved into his flesh, her eyes reddened with distress.

"Dylan Nielson!"

Enraged, she picked up the leather whip, soaked it in more salt water, and rained blow after blow on me.

"Roland was being nice, helping you dress! How dare you hurt him!"

I staggered back from the whipping until I was backed into a corner with nowhere left to go. I stared at her in despair.

For the past three years, I had endured inhuman treatment in the psychiatric hospital. Six of my ribs had broken and healed repeatedly, now permanently set wrong. My left eye was blind, clouded a dull gray-white, rotting in the socket and giving off a constant stench.

But Christina had never shown a trace of concern. If anything, she instructed the staff to go harder on me.

I had merely pinched Roland, and she exploded like a cat whose tail had been stepped on—hissing and striking to kill.

The basement door hadn't been shut tight, so the commotion drew a large crowd of household staff. Dozens of heads crowded the doorway, watching me being whipped, yet no one dared intervene.

I laughed bitterly.

Christina froze, her voice cold and hard. "What are you laughing at?"

"I'm laughing because you're blind, mistaking trash for treasure. Do you think Roland returned to your side because he actually loves you? He only came back because you're a CEO now. Yet you treat a murderer as—"

A harsh slap cut me off. Christina's expression was as dark as a brewing storm.

"I won't allow you to insult Roland! He's not that kind of a person!"

I sneered. Not that kind of person?

Three years ago, Roland had been wearing clothes from the clearance rack. Now he was dressed head to toe in designer clothes, wearing a million-dollar watch on his wrist, and driving a car worth tens of millions of dollars.

Meanwhile, I—the former CEO of Ashmore Group—was now wearing a housekeeper's uniform.

I suddenly remembered the time I had risked my life to rescue Christina from a business rival, who had kidnapped her to threaten me into giving up land rights. Back then, I had seen Roland standing there next to that rival as a hired thug.

At the time, I had no idea he was the first love Christina couldn't forget.

Later, when Paige had her accident, and I saw him again, I never got the chance to reveal the truth before Christina shipped me off to the psychiatric hospital.

And now she had the audacity to claim that he was "not that kind of a person".

The household staff outside began whispering among themselves, talking about Paige's untimely death.

Roland panicked. His eyes reddened as he called for Christina, which made her heart ache unbearably.

"Your sister was the one who didn't watch where she was going and walked into traffic," she roared. "She deserved to die! You forced my hand, Dylan! Don't regret it!"

She dragged me upstairs and shoved open the room where Paige had once stayed before she died. Everything inside was exactly as it had been three years ago.