Just then, a call came in for Scarface.

"Rest assured," he replied. "We've already 'taken care' of things exactly as you instructed. I guarantee Mr. Whitethorn will never see through it."

After hanging up, they dragged me out of the van like I was roadkill. My hands and feet were secured tightly together with rope, and I was then tied to the rear bumper of the vehicle.

"What are you doing?" I yelled.

Seeing the empty stretch of highway in front of me, a chill ran down my spine. "It's against the law to kill people!"

"To hell with the law!" Scarface snarled, kicking me squarely in the chest. "We're getting paid to do a job. Even God himself couldn't stop me now."

Amid the searing pain, my eyes caught the familiar tattoo of a black dragon on his arm, and a spark of hope ignited inside me.

That was the symbol that I'd designed for Dad's underground organization, the Blackscale Syndicate, when I was eight years old.

The Whitethorns' empire was massive, stretching across the globe and crossing both sides of the law, and the Blackscale Syndicate was in charge of handling the dirty, messy work behind the scenes.

"You're with the Blackscale Syndicate!" I exclaimed.

"Well, well, well, this chick knows her stuff. You even know about us Blackscales, huh?"

"I'm Rosalie, Dominic Whitethorn's daughter. Your leader, Whitefang, is my personal bodyguard. That symbol? I was the one who drew it. Now untie me, and I'll spare your lives!

"Otherwise, you won't be able to handle the Whitethorns' wrath."

The burly men froze for a second, then erupted into raucous laughter.

"You're nuts! Mr. Whitethorn's beloved daughter is Ms. Rosalie Whitethorn. She's as priceless as the moon in the sky. Who the hell are you to impersonate her?"

"I am Rosalie Whitethorn!"

"Aren't you fucking Emilie Holloway?" Scarface spat, looking at me as if I were an idiot. "Still trying to lie to me when you're on death's door? You must have gotten tired of breathing!"

I understood that, at their level, they never had the standing to meet me in person. All they knew was that the Blackscale Syndicate had a "princess" whom they absolutely couldn't afford to offend. And everything I had on me that could prove my identity had been destroyed by Kate.

I never imagined that the members of the Blackscale Syndicate would be this fanatically loyal to an outsider. It seemed that Whitefang was getting far too lax in his management.

I stared Scarface right in the eyes. "Whitefang, the leader of the Blackscale Syndicate… His real name is Joshua Whitethorn."

The smile on Scarface's face froze instantly.

The leader's true name was the highest-level secret known only to the elders. Scarface himself had only discovered this out of sheer luck after taking a bullet for Joshua once.

"Give me your phone," I said coldly.

"If you're lying to me, you're dead," he snarled, before handing the phone over hesitantly.

The air inside the van grew suffocatingly tense. Everyone held their breath.

I dialed the number that had been etched into my very bones.

It rang for a long time. Just before it was about to go to voicemail, someone finally picked up.

"Dad, it's me, Rosie! The Holloways abducted me! I'm on Kingspire Highway right now. Come save me, quick!" I yelled.

"Hello?"

But there was only dead silence on the other end of the line.

"Dad?"

A woman's voice, babbling in Jetulian, came through, and I froze. Why was our Jetulian maid answering Dad's phone?

Scarface snatched the phone from me, his expression contorted with fury.

"You bitch! How dare you play us!"

I struggled desperately. "I didn't! My dad really is Dominic Whitethorn—"

He grabbed me by the hair and slapped me repeatedly. Stars exploded before my eyes, and my mouth filled with the coppery taste of blood.

The rough asphalt road scraped and ground against my back and legs like a giant file. Large patches of my skin tore open and peeled away, leaving behind a horrifying trail of blood.

"Let me go! I'll die if you keep going!" I screamed. "You dare treat me like this? Dominic and Joshua will tear you all into a thousand pieces!"

The van screeched to a halt, and the immense inertia flung me forward like a broken, bloody ragdoll.

Scarface crouched, looming over me. "You're still talking back? It looks like you haven't learned your lesson yet!"

That was when Scarface noticed the way I instinctively protected my hands.

"No! Don't!" I screamed.

His boot came down hard on my fingers. The sharp, sickening crack of bones breaking rang out clearly, making my scalp crawl.

He ground each finger under his heel, as if he were crushing ants.

"I was wrong… Please, I'm begging you… Let me go…"

As a painter, my hands were everything to me.

"Too late," he said, sneering.

He grabbed my hair and started dragging me toward the tires.

Just as total despair swallowed me and I thought I was going to be crushed into pulp, a blinding set of headlights appeared behind us, followed by a sharp, urgent honking that cut through the silence.

The person who stepped out of the car was none other than my "dear big brother", Callum Holloway. He was followed by Kate, who was smiling ever so sweetly.

A big, fawning grin immediately appeared on Scarface's face.

Kate snuggled into Callum's side and cooed sweetly, "Cal, what if Mr. Whitethorn thinks her face doesn't look quite like mine and sees through it? I'm really scared… Why don't we make sure she can never speak again, and her face can never be seen by anyone again… That would be the safest thing to do."

Callum's brows furrowed tightly before he nodded.

"You're right, Kate," he said, his voice icy and without a trace of warmth. "That face is indeed a liability. In that case, destroy it."

He drew a dagger and walked toward me, step by step.

"Have you lost your mind? I'm your real sister, Callum!" I screamed with the last of my strength, trying to awaken his conscience.

"Real sister?"

He laughed mockingly as he stomped down on my bleeding hand, grinding it viciously. "The only sister I have is Kate. You? You're just a stray mutt meant to shield Kate from harm.

"Did you really think we brought you home so you could live the good life? Stop dreaming! If Kate hadn't needed this life of yours, you wouldn't even be worthy of stepping through our front door!"

My heart instantly froze into shards of ice.

Callum advanced toward me, his expression dark, while Kate stood behind him, her grin smug.

My body trembled uncontrollably, but more than anything, I couldn't help the quiet, inward sighs.

The last person who had accidentally scratched me… had been killed eight years ago.

It had just been a small nick on my finger, but Dad had ordered someone to hack the man's limbs off and turn him into a human pig to be tortured for three days and three nights. Only when the offender was on his last breath was he tossed into the open sea.

Dad loved me as if I were his own life. At the slightest injury to me, he would lash out at whoever was in charge of taking care of me, killing or maiming them. My hands bore the blood of countless innocent people.

That was exactly why I had both respected and feared him for the past 20 years.

If he found out that the Holloways had been tormenting and humiliating me all this time, then they would…

My breath caught.

This was getting way out of hand. The Holloways were done for.

Trembling, I warned them one last time. "My father really is Dominic Whitethorn. You're all going to die! Every single one of you will be wiped out without a trace!"

The next second, Callum ordered someone to pin me down. Without the slightest hesitation, his knife sliced across my face. The tip carved freely from my brow bone all the way down to my jaw, spilling blood across the ground.

The agony stole my voice. I felt like I was suffocating.

Kate gleefully pulled out her phone, filmed my bloody, mangled face up close, then quickly uploaded it online.

The caption was sensational.

"Shocking! The Ravenfield Holloways finally reclaimed their real daughter—only to discover that she's a junkie, ready to drag the whole family down just to survive!"

In the video, she painted me as a deranged drug addict who had angered a powerful figure, attempted to threaten my family but failed, and ended up harming myself instead.

In less than three minutes, the comments section exploded.

"How evil! She couldn't save herself, so she's dragging her whole family down with her?"

"Goodness! People like that deserve to be ripped to shreds! Poor Holloways!"

"She deserves to be disfigured! Let her die!"

Kate held the phone right by my ear, reading out every vicious comment aloud, laughing so hard that her whole body shook.

Half of my face had gone numb from the pain. Blood blurred my vision, and agony dragged me toward unconsciousness.

When I came to again, my head was covered with a hood, and I'd been dumped onto an ice-cold floor.

Ten minutes later, the van door opened, and I heard Callum's fawning voice.

"Desmond, we've brought the chick. She's definitely a clean one."

"Bring her out. Let me inspect the goods."

The familiar voice reignited a flicker of hope in me, and my heart started pounding again.

That voice belonged to Desmond Hume, Joshua's most trusted right-hand man.

He'd seen me before. I was going to be saved!

I was yanked by my hair and thrown to the ground like trash. Then the hood was violently ripped away.

The blinding light nearly knocked me out again.

I struggled to open my swollen eyes, but I couldn't see anything clearly. The world was nothing but a blur of red.

Had I… gone partially blind?

But I didn't have time to worry about that. I turned in the direction of the voice and, with a throat so hoarse that it barely made a sound, cried, "Desmond, it's me, Rosalie Whitethorn!"

A rough, calloused hand clamped down on my chin, brutally wiping the blood and grime from my face and reopening fresh wounds.

My face was a bloody mess, and the pain suffocated me.

"Bitch! Who do you think you are to even say that name? You two—grab her and follow me!"

Kate leaned forward, eager. "Is Mr. Whitethorn going to see us now?"

Desmond sneered coldly. "Who the hell do you think you are, expecting Mr. Whitethorn to lower himself to meet you in person? Cut the crap. I said to follow me—so move!"

He hadn't recognized me.

I was dragged along like a ragdoll, the back of my head thudding dully against the cement floor with every step.

"You're lucky. The boss is here today as well. The princess is out having fun and hasn't returned yet, so both Mr. Whitethorn and the boss are pissed off. Stay sharp later. Don't fucking drag me down with you!"

The boss… Joshua, my brother… The person who knew me best in the world definitely wouldn't fail to recognize me!

I could hear my heart pounding like a drum. The moment I was dragged into the room, I used the last of my strength to break free of their grip and lunged toward the blurry source of light.

"Joshie! It's me, Rosie! Save me!"

I crashed onto the ground hard, and the room fell into a deathly silence.

Moments later, a warm hand—carrying the familiar scent of sandalwood—gently wiped my face with a towel.

It was him—Joshua.

I desperately tried to make out his features, but all I saw was a blurred glow.

He wiped for a long time, his movements gentle, as if he were handling something fragile. Then, in a voice I'd never heard before—chilling to the bone—he asked, "Where did this lunatic come from? Drag her outside and deal with her."

I felt as though I'd been plunged into an icy abyss. Joshua hadn't recognized me either.

My eyes were so swollen that I could barely see, and my face was a chaotic mess of smeared blood, rendering me unrecognizable. Even my voice had turned hoarse and raw from the prolonged torture, and that didn't even begin to cover the ways they'd brutalized me just to vent their anger.

Who could imagine that this broken and battered homeless wreck in front of them was actually the Whitethorn princess?

Desmond hoisted me up roughly, and fear of death swallowed me whole.

"No! Joshua, you idiot! You're about to permanently lose your baby sister!" I screamed inwardly.

Using everything I had, I dug into the pocket of my tattered clothes and pulled out the silver ring I'd worn for 20 years. Then, with the last burst of strength, I hurled it toward Joshua.

The ring clattered across the polished marble floor, emitting a series of crisp, desperate clinks, before finally coming to a stop at his feet.

He bent down and picked it up, the tips of his pale fingers trembling slightly.

Then I saw the hazy silhouette shudder violently.