By the time I returned home and pushed open the door, a wave of warmth—tinged with the sharp scent of ginger—washed over me.

Kurt was bent over the table, placing down a steaming bowl of porridge.

And beside him sat Olivia, looking up at him with soft, adoring eyes.

Their shoulders were almost touching. Their conversation was light, intimate—the atmosphere was so tender it formed its own quiet little world.

At that moment, stepping into the apartment felt like intruding into a home that no longer belonged to me.

The door clicked shut behind me.

Both of their smiles froze.

Kurt's body shifted subtly toward Olivia, not me—drawing an invisible line with his stance, shielding her behind him.

His expression stiffened, but he forced a casual tone. "She just came back from abroad. She doesn't have a place to stay yet, so I told her she could stay here for a few days."

He said it with such natural certainty, as if my opinion had never mattered.

In the shadow behind him, Olivia lifted her chin and gave me a delicate, razor-thin smile.

A sharp pain stabbed through my chest, stealing my breath.

I couldn't get a single word out. "...Oh."

I only wanted to go to my room and pack my things.

But I had barely taken a step when Kurt called after me.

"Why are you being so rude now? You can't even greet your old senior?"

Before I could respond, Olivia gently tugged his wrist, her voice fragile and coquettish. "Kurt, forget it... Maybe she's in a bad mood. She doesn't have to greet me."

Then she turned to me with a soft smile.

"Did you eat, Daniella? You must still be weak... after the abortion."

My blood turned ice.

All the pain, the panic before I lost consciousness, the calls he refused to answer—and that sentence on the phone: "I don't want the baby. It's not mine. It's dirty."

All of it crashed back into me like a tidal wave.

Kurt's expression darkened, as if reminded of something filthy he'd rather forget. Still, he forced himself to walk toward me.

He frowned, glanced at Olivia, then lowered his voice, "Daniella, I know this past year has been hard. I saw how Arturo humiliated you. Don't worry—one day, I'll help you get revenge."

He deliberately avoided mentioning the baby. To him, the child was a stain—something too repulsive to acknowledge.

Olivia added gently, "Don't be sad, Daniella. You'll have a baby with someone you truly love someday."

At that, something inside me broke. Tears spilled uncontrollably.

My voice came out hoarse and scraped raw, "That baby wasn't Arturo's. He never touched me. Not once."

Nine months ago, Kurt had closed a million dollar contract and was so ecstatic that he ended up scraping Arturo's luxury car.

I rushed over to help—and caught Arturo's attention. He wanted me as his personal assistant. If I refused, he demanded one million in compensation.

That would wipe out Kurt's first big contract.

Kurt held me in trembling arms and said, "I won't sell you for money."

Yet every night he came home, he complained—about work, about pressure, about Arturo targeting him, about the contract possibly being canceled...

For his future, I gritted my teeth and agreed.

It wasn't the first time.

In high school, I gave up my studies so he could go to university.

Sacrificing for him was already woven into the fabric of my life.

He hugged me, and apologized, "Daniella, when I make money, I'll give you a good life."

I was foolish enough to believe him. I thought, as long as he loved me, everything was worth it.

For nine months, I stayed on guard around Arturo, blocking every advance. Each time he tried something, I ate garlic and gagged right in his face. Eventually, he couldn't even stay hard around me.

Enraged, he resorted to other ways to torment me—but I endured everything. Until I matched him with a socialite he'd been eyeing, and he lost interest, discarding me like trash.

But Kurt never believed nothing happened.

Every time we were intimate, he turned off the lights, refusing to look at the scars on my body.

I thought he was being gentle.

Now I realized, he probably thought those scars came from being with another man.

That they were dirty.

That I was dirty.

Kurt's eyes flickered—he still didn't believe me.

Olivia cut in, trying to take my hand. "It's okay if you don't want to admit it. I trust Kurt. He'll understand you."

I jerked away from her touch. "I said he never touched me!"

But the next second, Kurt shot to his feet, fury exploding across his face. "Daniella, what the hell are you doing? Are you trying to bully Olivia again?!"

I stared at him, stunned. Then I laughed—cold and breathless.

"Me? Bully her? When have I ever bullied Olivia?"

Kurt's voice dropped into a harsh whisper, "You shouldn't act like this. You think I don't know—"

Mid-sentence, he froze, as if realizing the slip of his tongue. Then he quickly changed his tone, lowering his voice again.

"Enough. Just apologize to Olivia. She was only trying to comfort you. You shouldn't treat her like this."

I looked straight at him.

I had never bullied anyone.

Not once.

If he had just told me his accusation, at least I could defend myself.

But he didn't.

He simply believed it. Believed I was cruel. Believed I was the villain.

His face was full of disappointment—and his forced tolerance making it even worse.

Pain squeezed my heart until I could barely breathe.

I exhaled slowly.

Fine. Just seven more days, then I'd be gone. Why waste grief on someone so unworthy?

A flicker of triumph flashed in Olivia's eyes—so fast it vanished instantly.

She lowered her lashes, picked up the shrimp porridge from the table, and walked toward me, voice soft and coaxing, "It's okay, Daniella. No need to apologize."

She held the bowl in front of me carefully, as if afraid I'd be upset.

"This porridge... Kurt and I made it together. We thought you should eat something warm after the abortion. Why don't you try some?"

I was about to refuse—when her hand suddenly trembled. The entire scalding bowl of porridge came crashing down my forearm.

Heat seared straight through my skin, pain exploding up to my scalp.

I nearly cried out.

Meanwhile, only a few tiny drops landed on Olivia.

Yet she suddenly screamed, "Ah!!"

Then she collapsed to the floor, trembling like she'd been terribly wronged.

She put her hands together as if begging for mercy.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! It's my fault! Please don't—don't hit me, okay?"

"I was wrong! I was really wrong!"

Olivia was kneeling on the floor, crying, her face full of fear—as if she'd truly suffered some inhuman abuse at my hands.

I froze. Her sudden collapse took me entirely off guard.

My arm was blistering red, bubbles rising beneath the skin, the pain sharp enough to numb my fingertips.

I opened my mouth, just about to say I hadn't even touched her—but the next second, Kurt rushed forward and scooped Olivia into his arms, holding her as if she were something fragile and precious.

His voice was so gentle it was almost trembling, like he was afraid the air itself would scare her.

"It's okay, Olivia... don't be afraid. No one will hurt you. I'm here. I'm here."

"I'll protect you."

The way he held her was exactly the way he used to hold me when I was a child—when my parents beat me, when I cried until hiccups shook my chest, he would pat my back and whisper the very same words.

Only now, the one in his arms wasn't me. It was another woman.

My heart twisted painfully. I swallowed hard, trying not to choke on the ache.

But knowing all too well what it felt like to be wrongly accused, I didn't want things to escalate further.

I forced myself to steady my voice.

"I... didn't spill that porridge. She did it her—"

"Enough." Kurt's cold voice cut me off like a blade.

He lifted his head, looking at me as if I were some troublesome, spoiled child.

"Daniella, you're really getting too unruly. You need to calm down. I've spoiled you far too much."

He suddenly stood and grabbed my wrist hard—hard enough to make me wince.

Fear surged up from somewhere deep in my memory, cold and instinctive.

"Kurt, I really didn't do anything... Why won't you believe me? I didn't hurt her—"

Kurt said nothing. He just dragged me up the stairs.

My blood turned to ice. My mind snapped back to a nightmare I thought I'd buried long ago.

"Let go of me... Kurt, let go... please—" My voice cracked into a sob.

He pushed me into the attic and slammed the door, followed by the click of a lock.

His voice echoed from the other side of the stairs. "Stay inside and reflect on your behavior. When you realize your mistake, I'll let you out."

"Kurt!" I screamed, hoarse. "You know I'm afraid of the dark! You know—"

My voice broke into pieces. But his footsteps faded further and further away.

The attic swallowed me whole.

Nothing but darkness. Thick, suffocating, absolute.

I collapsed to the floor as my breath caught in my throat.

He knew. He knew when I was little, my father locked me inside a sealed suitcase and dragged it around for an entire day and night. He knew I couldn't handle small spaces. He knew darkness made me panic, made my heart spasm, made me claw at my own skin for air.

And he still did it for Olivia.

He didn't even want to hear me explain.

In that suffocating void, I clutched my chest as if my ribs were closing in on me.

If this were any day before today... If Kurt had done this to me then—I would've cried and convinced myself I must've done something wrong. That I'd made my brother angry again.

I would've repeated every word, every gesture, trying to figure out where I'd gone wrong, hoping that if I behaved, if I tried harder, he would smile at me again.

That if I was obedient enough, he would never abandon me.

But now I finally knew what hid behind his years of "guidance," "discipline," and "correction."

And none of it—not a single bit—had ever been my fault.

The night felt endless.

I pounded on the door until my knuckles burned, and screamed until my throat tore.

The darkness seeped into my bones, dragging me back into the old terror, drowning me all over again.

It wasn't until the next morning that the lock finally clicked open.

Light stabbed into my eyes.

I looked up, but I couldn't even raise my arm to shield myself—my burned skin was swollen, blistered, raw and numb from the pain.

Kurt stood there, brows furrowed as if he were looking at a disobedient child who'd caused him trouble.

He stepped forward quickly and lifted me from the floor.

"Why are you sleeping on the ground? Silly girl."

I had no strength left to respond.

Kurt crouched, opened the ointment he brought, and began applying it carefully to my wounds.

"Does it hurt?" His voice was gentle, as if nothing had happened the night before.

"It was my fault yesterday," he murmured with a sigh. "I lost my temper. I just... I'm afraid you'll turn out like our parents—violent."

His tone was helpless, tender. As if he truly worried about me.

But only I knew that "violent" accusation came from rumors he'd never bothered to verify.

His gentleness was just another snare—another method of control.

He applied the ointment with exaggerated care.

But he didn't see the despair in my eyes.

"Don't be angry anymore," he said, rubbing my fingertips like soothing a sulking child. "Take a couple days to rest. I'll take you to Disneyland you've always wanted to go to, okay?"

The closer his gentleness pressed against me, the clearer I saw the truth hiding behind it—a man ready to push me straight into the abyss.

I drew a quiet breath.

"Brother," I whispered.

He paused and looked up. "Mm?"

I stared at him and asked slowly, "Do you... love me?"

Kurt didn't hesitate to answer. "Of course, I love you."

My vision blurred. He didn't remember.

He didn't remember telling me once, "Daniella, I won't say 'I love you' lightly. I want to prove it with my actions, not sweet words. I cherish you. I love you, and I want to protect you."

All of that... meant nothing now.

I no longer knew whether he ever loved me at all. But maybe that answer didn't matter anymore.

Because in six days—I would be gone.

The "compensation" Kurt promised never happened.

These past few days, he stayed glued to Olivia's side.

If he wasn't "helping her get a new ID," he was "accompanying her to school to handle paperwork."

Every day they came home together looking like an ordinary couple.

And every evening, he would hand me a small cake—a token apology, a prop to placate me.

He hadn't called me "little sister" in a long time.

But these days, he said it constantly, avoiding words like "baby" on purpose.

I noticed every change.

My heart stung a little, yet my determination to leave grew firmer by the day.

I prepared the supplies I would bring to Africa.

Using my own savings, I bought a house in a city far away from him.

I even went back to the old house I once vowed never to return to... and dug out the surveillance footage I'd spent all my money to obtain back in high school—the video of Kurt pushing my father down the stairs.

While I was drawing out my path to freedom step by step, my phone suddenly rang.

The caller was one of Kurt's friends, his voice shattered with panic. "Daniella! Come quick! Kurt is drunk—he's allergic to alcohol! If you don't come, something will—"

Before I could respond, he hung up.

I froze.

My heart clenched so tightly it hurt to breathe.

After all, we had depended on each other for more than ten years.

I couldn't truly let him destroy himself. I closed my eyes and whispered to myself, "...Just one last time."

I carried my plane ticket in my bag and rushed to the private room.

But the moment I pushed open the door, I stopped dead.

Kurt was sitting neatly on the sofa, clothes spotless, expression calm. His hands were steady.

There were no wine glasses on the table. Only juice.

The people around him all stiffened when they saw me.

Their eyes looked at me like I was some joke they had summoned for entertainment—surprised, uncomfortable, impatient... and threaded with a pity that cut deeper than disgust.

I understood instantly.

I had been played.

My chest felt like it had been struck by a blunt weapon.

I stepped back, ready to leave.

But just then, someone spoke up. "So this is Kurt's little sister? Wow, you've grown."

I forced a polite smile.

If this were before, I would've run over happily, chatting with them like old friends—because I used to believe they were just like Kurt, that they treated me as family.

But now—I could feel it clearly: hidden beneath their gazes was an unmistakable layer of disdain.

Some looked at me with emotions barely restrained: contempt, suspicion, wariness—as if I were some troublesome stray dragged in from nowhere.

They believed Olivia's story about being "bullied."

They thought I had inherited my parents' "violent genes."

They looked at me like I was a walking problem.

Needles pricked all over my skin.

Worse still—I couldn't explain.

Not yet.

Not until the truth came out in three days.

Right now, I had to pretend I knew nothing of their hostility. So I swallowed every ounce of injustice, as if swallowing burning stones.

A senior who had always treated me kindly pulled me over. "Since you're here, sit with us."

Her motions looked natural, but I could feel her grip was tighter than before—as if she feared I might suddenly cause trouble.

Kurt added gently, "Sit. We're just about to eat."

His tone was the same as always, but his eyes... his eyes were distant, veiled with something unreadable.

Different from before.

I realized he must have heard from Arturo that I was planning to leave.

I tugged the corner of my lips and let the senior guide me to a seat.

The room was filled with laughter, and his classmates talked around me as if I didn't exist.

"Back then, Kurt and Olivia really were a great match."

"They almost ended up together, right? Too bad her parents were against it."

"I heard she messed up her college entrance exam around that time..."

My knuckles whitened as I clenched my hands under the table.

They weren't even lowering their voices.

Each sentence sliced into me like a blade.

The more I listened, the clearer the truth became.

After Olivia "confessed," she and Kurt only grew closer. Teachers and classmates practically treated them as a couple. Until her parents stepped in and tore them apart.

They even spoke to Kurt personally. Only then did he distance himself from her.

After that, she failed her college exams and went abroad...

At this part, some of their expressions turned complicated.

Their eyes swept over me with barely hidden resentment.

I knew exactly what they were thinking, "If Olivia hadn't been bullied, she wouldn't have failed her exams."

"If not for this little sister, those two would've been together already."

"She's the cause of everything."

They didn't say the words, but their eyes had already hurled every accusation at me.

Under the bright lights,

I sat there like a criminal on trial.

A waiter brought out a plate of salted egg yolk pumpkin, gleaming golden under the light.

My favorite dish.

In the past—whether at home or out—the moment it appeared, Kurt would wordlessly serve me a piece.

Today, he picked up his chopsticks as usual.

But halfway through, he changed direction and placed the pumpkin into Olivia's bowl.

She lowered her head shyly and thanked him.

The people around them cheered, teasing her into drinking.

She refused a few times, and then Kurt suddenly took her glass.

"She can't drink. I'll drink for her."

But he was allergic to alcohol— even a sip would leave him flushed, gasping for air.

I knew he was doing it on purpose.

He knew I wouldn't watch him trigger a reaction.

Because I couldn't watch the only family I had die.

My eyes burned. I snatched the glass from him and downed it in one gulp.

"Daniella—"

For some reason, panic flashed across his face.

He reached toward me as if to stop me, but Olivia held onto his arm, and he couldn't get a word out.

The alcohol scorched down my throat into my stomach.

Someone whistled, calling me bold, calling me loyal.

Then more glasses appeared in front of me.

I took them mechanically.

Drink after drink, I gulped down everything.

Kurt frowned, lips parting as if to speak—but his classmates teased him for being "too protective," calling him a "sister-obsessed fool."

Laughter drowned him out. He lowered his head awkwardly, unable to say a thing.

Still playing the role of "helpless," aren't you?

I laughed—and tears slid silently from the corners of my eyes.