Brian's smug grin surfaced as he shoved a bag of groceries into Charlotte's arms.

"What are you standing there for, mute? Get cooking already. Or should I tell Eric you've been slacking off again?"

Charlotte glanced at the groceries—mostly seafood and meat, with not a single vegetable in sight. She sighed quietly. She was allergic to seafood and disliked meat; clearly, this meal wouldn't be for her. Still, the thought of the remaining twenty-something days reignited a flicker of determination.

Barely half an hour had passed when Emily came rushing into the kitchen.

"Charlotte, why isn't the food ready yet? Don't tell me you don't want to cook for me?"

"She wouldn't dare," Brian barked, his voice laced with impatience. "Charlotte, hurry it up! Emily's hungry!"

With a resigned breath, Charlotte moved to reheat the broth and adjust the portions. But before she could, Emily suddenly snatched the pot of steaming soup from her hands. In a swift, calculated motion, she pretended to stumble, sending the boiling liquid splashing onto Charlotte's back and arms.

"Ah!" A guttural sound of pain tore from Charlotte's throat as she bit down hard, refusing to cry out. The scalding soup soaked through her clothes, leaving her shaking in agony, her body humiliated by the burns.

"Charlotte, are you okay?" Emily's voice trembled with feigned concern, though her crocodile tears betrayed her. She cradled her own hand, where a faint blister had begun to form. "I-I only wanted to help… Oh, this hurts so much!"

Brian arrived on cue. Supporting Emily, he muttered, "Emily, your delicate skin… This could scar! We need the doctor immediately."

Eric burst into the scene shortly after. Without sparing Charlotte so much as a glance, he scooped Emily into his arms and stormed off.

"Charlotte," his cold voice echoed behind him, "you can get yourself to the hospital. The family doctor's needed for Emily."

As the chaos subsided, Charlotte remained behind in the kitchen, her body trembling from pain and her lips curled into a bitter smile. The farce was over, leaving her alone to fend for herself.

She gestured for a servant to fetch her a set of thicker clothes to cover her injuries, but the staff paid her no heed. Instead, they fussed over Emily, offering her various ointments and pain relief remedies.

Left with no other choice, Charlotte gritted her teeth and pulled herself together. She retrieved some clothes on her own, carefully draping them over her blistered skin, and hailed a cab to the hospital.

By the time she arrived, her injuries had worsened. The doctor frowned deeply as she examined the burns. "Your clothes are fused with the skin. This will be painful to treat," the kind-faced doctor said. "You should have come in sooner. Do you live alone?"

Charlotte's throat tightened at the question. She shook her head silently, her fingers quickly typing out a message on her phone: Doctor, I'm mute. Please just write down the instructions for me. Thank you.

The doctor paused, a pang of sympathy flashing across her face. "Alright," she sighed. "Make sure you apply the ointment regularly, and avoid getting the burns wet…"

When Charlotte finally returned to the Lorvis household, the sky had already turned dark. Her body, swathed in bandages, appeared pitiable yet faintly comical. A junior maid, pitying her plight, helped maneuver her wheelchair up the stairs.

"The Madam really has it rough," the maid whispered to another as they passed. "She's covered in injuries, yet Mr. Lorvis is still doting on Miss Emily."

"You're too naive," the other retorted. "That woman has plenty of tricks up her sleeve. She's clung to Mr. Lorvis for years like a stray dog, even as a stand-in for Miss Emily."

"Serves her right, then," another chimed in. "Who told her to take over someone else's place? Everyone laughs at how shameless she is."

The whispers reached Charlotte's ears, but she didn't react. Instead, she typed out a request for the junior maid: Could you come to my room after nine to help with the ointment? I can't reach the burns.

The maid flushed, momentarily stunned, and nodded hurriedly.

When Charlotte entered the house, the dining room scene greeted her like a twisted tableau. Eric and Emily sat close, practically intertwined, feeding each other like starry-eyed lovers.

"Emily, try this," Eric murmured, his gaze dripping with tenderness. Emily giggled, her cheeks pink with joy.

Charlotte's expression remained calm, though a fleeting thought crossed her mind—if they seemed so perfectly suited now, why hadn't Emily married Eric in the first place?

The moment Emily spotted her, she leapt to her feet with exaggerated nervousness. "Charlotte, you're back!"

Charlotte nodded and moved to leave, but Eric's voice stopped her.

"Did you treat your injuries? Do you need me to help with the ointment?" His tone was that of a benevolent master offering charity, which made her chuckle inwardly.

She typed a response on her phone, holding it up with an unbothered smile: No need. Please enjoy your meal. I'll rest now.

Without waiting for his reply, she wheeled herself away, leaving Eric staring after her with a furrowed brow.

She didn't notice the sudden shadow over his expression.

A thought took root in his mind, both ridiculous and undeniable. Was Charlotte angry? Was she… jealous?

At precisely nine o'clock, a knock came at the door.

Charlotte, expecting the maid, got out of bed and opened it, only to find Eric standing there. He was holding a bundle of gauze, iodine, and ointment.

"I know you're upset," he said, "but you have to understand, Emily has always seen me as her brother. There's nothing between us."

Charlotte's gaze lifted to meet his eyes, and for a fleeting moment, she caught a flash of guilt. Calmly, she began gesturing to express her thoughts.

"I believe you," she signed. "But it's unnecessary. I can handle this myself."

She reached for the medicine in his hand, but he didn't let go. They stood there, locked in silent resistance, until a maid came rushing toward them, panting.

"Miss Emily slipped in the bathroom! You need to come quickly!"

Without a moment's hesitation, Eric dropped everything and left, disappearing down the hallway without a backward glance.

Charlotte stood frozen for a second, an inexplicable bitterness welling in her chest. Once upon a time, if she had been the one injured, he would have scolded her while carefully tending to her wounds. Now, he left without so much as a second thought.

But the feeling passed just as quickly as it came. She pushed it aside. No matter how good Eric was—or had once been—he was destined to be someone else's. And truthfully, he hadn't been good to her in a long time.

Later, the maid arrived, looking sheepish and tearful.

"I'm so sorry, Madam," the girl stammered, wringing her hands. "Mr. Lorvis insisted on taking the medicine earlier. I had no choice—"

Charlotte shook her head to reassure her. There was something endearingly genuine about the young maid's guilt.

She typed out: It's fine. Let's get started.

The maid hesitated, then smiled as she finally noticed the words displayed on the screen.

That night, Eric didn't return to their room. Charlotte didn't mind. Instead, she started sorting through her belongings—things accumulated over the years. It didn't take long; there wasn't much.

Her clothes were plain and practical. The few pieces of jewelry and dresses she owned had only ever been worn with his approval.

The gifts she had given him over the years were all collecting dust somewhere, discarded without care. A wind chime she had made by hand, a tie she had painstakingly stitched, a custom ring—none of them had meant anything to him. The most expensive was a watch worth over 15,000 dollars, something that had taken her a full year of scrimping to afford.

But that was her reality. Without the support of a family like the Spencers, and being mute, job opportunities were scarce. When she had finally landed a job as an editor, Eric had forced her to quit, deeming it "undignified." She had lived on the edge of frugality ever since.

Not that it mattered anymore. Soon, she'd be leaving this world altogether. Money and possessions would mean nothing.

With that in mind, she carefully packed up the gifts he had spurned, along with clothes she no longer wore. They were destined for the orphanage. The next morning, she quietly hailed a taxi, her phone dead, and slipped away unnoticed.

At the orphanage, the children swarmed her as soon as she arrived. Their voices chimed in unison, bright and eager.

"Charlotte, you're finally here! We missed you so much!"

One boy, Leslie, clung to her arm, his face glowing with pride. "Charlotte, I've learned all the everyday signs in two weeks! Even the director says I'm really smart!"

Charlotte couldn't help but smile, signing back, "Leslie, you're amazing! So clever."

The day passed in a blur of smiles and chatter. She handed out gifts, one by one, watching their excitement bubble over. The joy on their faces reminded her of a time long past, a time when she had someone who cared for her.

Her thoughts drifted to Meghan Vanderwall, the woman who had raised her in this very orphanage. Sister, mother, protector—Meghan had been all of these and more. Although they were not related by blood, Charlotte had always treated Meghan like a sister.

Nine years ago, Meghan had died in a chain-reaction car crash while rushing to the school after hearing Charlotte had fallen. Meghan was only twenty-five then.

The memory hit Charlotte like a tidal wave. She hadn't even realized she was crying until her vision blurred. She could still see Meghan's bloodied body, and the ache in her chest felt as fresh as it had that day.

Clutching the locket that held Meghan's photo, Charlotte whispered silently in her heart, "Meghan, wait a little longer for me."

That night, under the children's and the orphanage director's insistent pleas, Charlotte stayed at the orphanage. When she finally left the next day, she carried the warmth of their laughter with her.

It wasn't until she borrowed the taxi driver's charger that her phone buzzed back to life. The screen lit up with over 300 missed calls—more than 200 of them from Eric.

The phone rang again almost instantly. It was Brian.

"So, you've finally decided to answer," his voice snapped, dripping with disdain. "Did you know how worried Emily was? And Eric? He's been searching for you everywhere. What's your game, Charlotte? Playing hard to get? Let me tell you something—no matter what you do, Eric will only ever love Emily. You're nothing but a substitute, so stop dreaming of taking her place."

Charlotte scratched her head, a vague sense of unease settling over her. For the past few days, Eric had been coming and going at odd hours, barely leaving a trace of his presence in the villa. Why would he suddenly need to call her?

She didn't return the call—not because she held any grudge, but because it seemed unnecessary. Besides, she couldn't speak.

It wasn't until she stepped back into the Lorvis family's sprawling residence that the young maid came rushing toward her.

"Madam, where have you been? You were gone for a whole day, and Mr. Lorvis was beside himself with worry! He wouldn't eat anything, kept yelling at the chef, and even scolded some of the other maids for talking behind your back."

Charlotte's eyes widened in surprise. Was Eric's tantrum really just about unsatisfactory food? What did any of that have to do with her? She had less than three weeks left, and she didn't owe him anything.

The maid ushered her into the living room, where the air was unsettlingly calm. Sensing no reason to linger, Charlotte made her way upstairs to their bedroom, only to find the curtains drawn tight, casting the room in an oppressive gloom. The acrid scent of alcohol hung in the air. Eric was slumped against the cabinet, fast asleep.

She had no intention of disturbing him, but it was too late. His eyes fluttered open, bloodshot and clouded with fatigue.

"Where were you? And what's with the missing clothes from your wardrobe?"

Caught off guard, Charlotte quickly typed out a response on her phone: I went to the orphanage. I gave away some of my clothes and other things to the children there.

His brows knit together, his voice sharp. "Why this sudden charity?"

She found the question strange. She'd been visiting the orphanage for years, but he'd never shown the slightest interest before. She typed another line: Just felt like it.

Eric nodded as he reached out, gripping her chin with unsettling force.

"Fine. But don't you dare leave without telling me again. You're my wife. You'll do as I say."

She nodded, hiding her anger beneath a calm facade. Internally, though, she was cursing him with every fiber of her being.

"Good. Now go make me breakfast."

Her defiance was instant. She shook her head, pulling out her phone again to explain: I burned myself pretty badly. I can't touch water.

Eric froze for a moment, clearing his throat to mask his unease.

"Are you upset because I had the doctor look at Emily first? She's been spoiled since she was a child. She's soft and delicate. You, on the other hand, have thick skin. You'll heal quickly."

His words landed like stones, each heavier than the last. "Fine, I won't ask you to cook for her anymore. But stop making a fuss over such trivial things. You're lucky I married you at all."

Charlotte felt her worldview shatter into jagged pieces. Eric always had an endless supply of justifications, each more infuriating than the last.

She nodded wordlessly, turning away to ask the maid to prepare the guest room for her. She needed rest. More importantly, she needed to face her remaining days with composure. She was finally going to meet Meghan, and she wanted to look her best when that moment came.

The system's voice reminded her of the inevitable. [Host, I've scheduled a full-service lung cancer treatment. Ten days and all this will be over. Endure, and victory will be yours.]

At the hospital, the diagnosis was handed to her with little fanfare: terminal lung cancer. She stared at the paper, her face serene, while the doctor explained options she had no intention of pursuing.

Seeing that the patient nodded no matter what he said, the doctor found it a bit strange. It wasn't until Charlotte handed him her phone with a few words typed on it that he realized Charlotte was mute.

"There's hope," the doctor said, mistaking her calm for resignation. "Chemotherapy can extend your life by a few months. Do you have family who can support you?"

She typed her reply quickly and handed him the phone: No family. I won't seek treatment. Thank you.

The doctor's expression grew heavier, but Charlotte was already walking away. As she turned a corner, she stumbled upon a scene that froze her in place: Eric stepping out of the obstetrics department, his hand hovering protectively over Emily's arm. Her hand rested lightly on her belly.

The three of them locked eyes. An unbearable tension filled the hallway.

Eric's voice broke first, unsteady and tinged with defensiveness. "Emily's pregnant. Brian couldn't be here, so I accompanied her for the check-up. Why are you here?"

Charlotte nodded, her gaze lingering on Eric. The explanation rang hollow, yet she didn't challenge him.

She simply lowered her head and began typing: The orphanage director is ill. I accompanied her for tests. The results were only ready today. Please keep this private. I don't want her to feel worse.

Relief flickered across Eric's face, though it was brief. He glanced at the paper in her hand, his voice faltering.

"That diagnosis—it's not yours, right?"

She shook her head, her eyes betraying no emotion, though her fingers trembled faintly as she typed her reply: It's not mine.

Eric felt an inexplicable pang in his heart as he looked at the redness around Charlotte's eyes.

He must be overthinking it. Charlotte was perfectly healthy. Seven years ago, she had taken three stabs for him and even survived alcohol poisoning. How could someone so young possibly have cancer?