"I can't go home right now..."

I had just begun to explain when Franklin cut me off with a cold, mocking laugh.

"You can't go home? What could possibly be keeping you?"

His voice was laced with impatience and before I could respond, he delivered his final blow. "Quincy, enough with your games. I'm giving you two hours. If you're not back by then, I'll cut off your dad's medication."

My breath hitched sharply. The call ended before I could protest.

I never thought Franklin would use my dad's condition to threaten me.

Back then, when my dad was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, I had searched everywhere for treatment. But not wanting to be a burden, my dad left a note and disappeared to another city.

I was frantic, searching for him desperately, so lost in my panic that I almost got hit by Franklin's car. Instead of getting angry, he had stepped out, taken one look at my tear-streaked face and gently asked me what had happened.

After hearing my story, he canceled his meetings and mobilized his entire company to help me search for my dad.

Eventually, we found him by a lake—thin, weak, but alive.

Upon learning about my dad's illness, Franklin didn't just offer financial support—he encouraged his employees to contribute as well. Over time, he became a familiar presence, visiting my dad at the hospital and reassuring me that he understood the pain pancreatic cancer patients endured because his grandmother had passed away from the same disease.

Later, he confessed his feelings to me, saying he had fallen for me at first sight. But I had turned him down, fully aware of the gap between our social statuses.

That didn't discourage him. Instead, he began seeking ways to treat pancreatic cancer.

Six months later, he finally heard from a friend about a special batch of medicine overseas—while it couldn't cure the disease, it could significantly alleviate the patient's suffering.

Franklin left his business behind and spent two months abroad to secure the authorization to bring this medicine to the country. As a result, his company lost a 250-million-dollar deal.

I was moved and overwhelmed with guilt, breaking down in his arms. That was the moment I accepted his confession.

All these years, no matter how unpleasant things got between us, he had never used my dad's situation against me. This was the first time—and it made my heart go cold.

I couldn't risk my dad's life.

Enduring the pain, I left a note for the young nurse and slipped out of the hospital. By the time I got home, Franklin was already gone.

Anya was lounging on the sofa in her loungewear, playing on her tablet, her feet happily kicking in the air. She didn't look the least bit unwell.

Seeing me return, she put down her tablet and walked up to me with a sneer, tugging at my hospital gown.

"Oh, you're back? I heard you lost your baby. What are you even coming back for?"

Her tone was mocking, her eyes bright with satisfaction.

"Oh, right. You still have that deadbeat father, barely clinging to life, courtesy of my brother's generosity."

My fists clenched tightly at my sides. I bit my lip, forcing myself to remain calm. In my current state, I couldn't afford to provoke Franklin. And more than anything, I was afraid he'd take his anger out on my father.

"Oh? Why aren't you saying anything? Do you know what you look like right now?"

Anya circled me, her voice dripping with cruelty. "You look like a dog that can't even bark."

Her words stabbed deep, but I refused to react. I forced my pale face to remain expressionless and hurried into the kitchen.

Two hours later, I had finished making the porridge. My arms ached from the effort and sweat dripped from my forehead. The heat from the stove had only worsened my dizziness, but I pushed through, determined to avoid giving Anya any more reasons to torment me.

I placed the bowl carefully on the dining table. Anya scooped up a spoonful, her expression unreadable. But before she could even taste it, she flung the hot porridge at me.

I gasped, but I couldn't dodge in time. The scalding liquid splattered across my chest and forearm, searing my skin.

Anya looked at me in disgust.

"You reek and you still dare to cook for me? Who knows if you put something disgusting in it just to spite me?"

The pain burned deep, but I refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing me break.

I frowned, too exhausted to argue with her.

“I've already made the porridge. Eat it or don't. I'm leaving."

Ignoring her, I turned to walk out, but just as I reached the doorway, a sharp force slammed into my back. Anya had shoved me with all her strength, sending me sprawling onto the floor. The pain shot through my arms as I instinctively tried to break my fall.

Before I could get up, a foot pressed down on my spine, pinning me in place.

"You bitch!" Anya snarled, grinding her heel against my back. "How dare you give me that attitude? My brother doesn't even want you anymore—what the hell are you acting so high and mighty for?"

I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms. But I knew better than to retaliate. Anya thrived on provoking me and I couldn't afford to give Franklin any more excuses to punish me.

"If you know what's good for you, hurry up and divorce my brother and get the hell out of this house!" she spat, her voice dripping with malice.

I felt her foot lift and for a fleeting second, I thought she was done. But then, without warning, she kicked me hard in the ribs. A searing pain ripped through my side, forcing a gasp from my lips. I curled up, clutching my stomach as warm liquid seeped through my hospital gown. Blood. My wound had reopened.

Anya took a step back, wrinkling her nose in disgust. "Somebody, come and throw her out! She's filthy!"

Dragging myself to my feet, I staggered out of the house, gripping the wall for support. My vision blurred from the pain, but I didn't stop until I was far enough away. I told myself that this was it. Anya had her victory. Maybe now, she would finally leave me alone.

But I had underestimated her cruelty.

The very next day, as I lay in my hospital bed, my phone rang. Franklin's name flashed across the screen. My heart pounded as I hesitated before answering.

"Quincy, you vicious woman!" His voice was laced with fury. "Why are you so jealous and spiteful? I only asked you to make some porridge, but you poured boiling hot porridge all over Anya!"

My mind went blank. "What? I didn't—"

"I must've gone too easy on you. This time, you forced my hand."

"What are you going to do, Franklin? I didn't throw porridge at Anya! I didn't! Please, believe me!" My hands trembled as I clutched the phone, desperation clawing at my throat.

But my voice was drowned out by Anya's soft sobbing in the background.

"Franklin, don't be mad at Quincy. It's my fault. I shouldn't have asked her to make porridge for me. She was just angry..."

I could barely breathe. I didn't know if Franklin even heard my pleas before the call ended abruptly. I called him back again and again, but each attempt met the same result—his phone was turned off.

Panicked, I called home instead. The housekeeper picked up and informed me that Franklin had taken Anya to the hospital. I sent him messages explaining the truth, but he never replied.

As dusk approached, I called my father, my only source of comfort. His voice, though weary, was steady. He even chuckled, reminding me gently, "Quincy, make sure you eat well, okay?"

Hearing him treat me like a child made me smile despite the weight in my chest. "I will, Dad. You have to eat well too."

But two days later, my world collapsed.

My father had jumped off the hospital roof.

The moment I heard the news, I tore the IV from my arm and ran from my ward, ignoring the nurse who tried to stop me. My legs carried me as fast as they could to my father's hospital. The attending doctor, his face solemn, handed me a folded piece of paper.

"Miss Quincy... I'm sorry. In a way, maybe it's better that your father is at peace now. He was in so much pain these past few days. Especially the last three days—he wasn't receiving his special medication anymore... He just couldn't endure it any longer."

My breath caught in my throat. "Three days?"

That meant... whether or not I had gone back to make that porridge, Franklin had already decided to cut off my father's medication.

That was my father's life.

Had all of Franklin's words about understanding pancreatic cancer been nothing but lies? He had always spoken so sympathetically, as if he truly understood my father's suffering. But in the end, my father's life meant nothing to him. Less than Anya's fabricated grievances.

My fingers trembled as I unfolded the letter. My father's handwriting, once strong and confident, was now shaky and frail.

[Quincy, from now on, live as you truly wish.]

I didn't understand why he would say that.

My hands clenched around the letter, my nails pressing into the thin paper. I stood there, staring at the lifeless body of the man who had once been my pillar, now lying cold on a stretcher. My chest caved in and the pain was unbearable.

My father was gone.

On the day of his cremation, I didn't inform Franklin. I didn't want him there. But somehow, he found out. Just as the ceremony ended, he rushed to the crematorium.

"Why didn't you tell me about something this important?"

I said nothing. The ashes had already settled and so had my heart.

After ceremony, I finally turned to face Franklin. And I asked him a single question.

"Have you ever really loved me?"

Franklin narrowed his eyes at me, his expression turning unreadable. "What do you mean?"

"Quincy, you're the one who refuses to admit your mistakes. You've hurt Anya over and over again and now you dare to accuse me?"

Accuse him?

I let out a faint, bitter smile. What right did I have to accuse him?

All along, I had been the one taking from him. He had given me everything—his time, his effort, his resources. Because of that, I endured all the pain he inflicted on me. I swallowed every insult, every accusation, every moment of disregard because I thought I owed him. But now, I no longer had a reason to endure.

I thought, maybe, I should let go. So, I said, "Franklin, let's get a divorce."

Silence stretched between us. My heart had already gone numb.

Once we were divorced, whether he wanted to be with Anya, spoil her, or indulge her, it would no longer concern me. I would no longer be in anyone's way.

Franklin stood frozen in place, his brows furrowing as if he hadn't expected those words to leave my mouth. I didn't wait for his response. Without another glance, I turned and walked toward the taxi that had been waiting by the roadside.

Back at the hospital, I curled up on the stiff hospital bed in my thick down jacket, but no matter how tightly I wrapped it around myself, I still felt cold. The numbness had seeped into my bones. The young nurse who had been tending to me now refused to care for me anymore, her expression disapproving as she stood by the door.

"Mrs. Gibson, I can't keep watching you like this," she said, crossing her arms. "You're too reckless. Always running out, refusing proper rest... If something happens to you, I don't want to be the one held responsible."

I said nothing. I simply turned my head toward the window, watching as raindrops began to speckle the glass.

Later that night, Franklin sent me a message.

[I'll forgive your threat this time, for your father's sake. But don't push your luck. Behave.]

I stared at the screen for a long moment before turning off my phone without replying.

For the next two days, I did nothing but eat and sleep, following the most routine existence. It wasn't until I was discharged that I turned my phone back on.

Dozens of missed calls flooded in, along with hundreds of unread messages on social media. My fingers hovered over the screen before I clicked in—every single one was from Franklin.

I didn't bother reading them. Without hesitation, I exited the app.

Back at the estate, I stepped through the front door just as Franklin was coming downstairs with Anya. The moment he saw me, his expression darkened and he immediately moved to shield Anya behind him as if I were some kind of threat.

"You still have the nerve to come back?" Franklin's voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a blade. "Quincy, are you so determined to ruin Anya?"

A sharp pain stabbed through my chest, but I forced myself to remain composed. "Then let's go get the divorce certificate today."

Franklin's pupils constricted and for a second, his grip on Anya tightened. Before he could speak, Anya tugged at his sleeve with a timid expression, peeking out from behind him like a delicate, frightened doll.

"Quincy, please don't use divorce to threaten my brother," she whispered. "Last time, too... It was all my fault. I will leave. I will go abroad. Please don't fight with my brother anymore, okay?"

She let out a soft sigh, her voice trembling just enough to make it seem genuine. "I don't mind some hardship, but now that the Gibson Group's stock is crashing...."

At her words, Franklin immediately pulled her into his arms protectively.

"You didn't do anything wrong. Why should you leave?" he said firmly, brushing a hand over her hair as if she were a fragile little thing. "She's just taking out her anger on you because her father died. She can't stand to see you happy."

His words were a dagger to the chest. He truly believed I was that malicious?

Franklin's gaze hardened as he turned back to me. "Quincy, I want you to apologize to Anya in front of the media. Admit that those photos were photoshopped by you, that the story was fabricated and that everything was driven by your jealousy of her."

Hearing his ridiculous demand, my brows knitted together. "What photos? What story? What are you talking about?"

Seeing my reaction, Anya bit her lip, eyes welling with tears.

"Forget it, Franklin," she murmured, voice trembling. "Let's not force Quincy anymore. Just let me go, okay?"

Franklin's fury escalated. His voice rose sharply as he shouted my name, "Quincy, how long are you going to keep up this act? Do you really think I won't divorce you?"

"Then let's get divorced." My voice was steady, unaffected. I didn't know what was going on, but divorce was my goal anyway.

Franklin let out a cold, furious laugh, his grip tightening into fists. "Alright. Fine. We'll go right now."

Without another word, he released Anya, stormed forward and seized my wrist in a painful grip before dragging me outside.