The year Vivienne Whitmore turned twenty-eight, her father selected two arranged-marriage matches for her and her half-sister Noelle.

The first was Leslie Mason, Ridgeport's most eligible bachelor, handsome and impossibly wealthy. He and Vivienne had grown up side by side, and everyone considered them the perfect golden couple.

The second was Tristram Simmons, the sickly youngest heir of the Simmons family. Born premature and ravaged by illness as a child, he was sometimes so weak he needed a wheelchair to get around.

Everyone assumed Vivienne would never choose him. After all, every unmarried woman in Ridgeport steered clear of the man.

And besides, Vivienne and Leslie had always been close.

But in her previous life, Vivienne hadn't turned Tristram away.

When both men arrived at the Whitmore estate with their betrothal gifts on the same day, she discovered that her sister and Leslie had been sleeping together for some time. She turned on her heel and married Tristram without looking back, cutting herself loose from a home her stepmother and half-sister had already claimed.

After the wedding, she learned to prepare medicinal meals for him, brewed herbal soups with her own hands.

At every gala and dinner party where someone dared mock him, she was the one who stepped forward and shut them down so thoroughly they couldn't utter another word.

The Simmons family elders and Tristram's friends all said he'd married well above his luck.

Whenever she heard those words, the tips of Vivienne's ears flushed pink.

But Tristram himself never showed much of a reaction. He would simply watch her with those dark, unreadable eyes, something hidden behind them that she could never quite decipher.

Until the day she and Noelle rode in the same car up to the ancestral cemetery. On the Serpentine Mountain Highway, the vehicle crashed, left teetering on the edge of a cliff with Vivienne's life slipping away.

Vivienne was terrified of heights. Tears streaked her face as she reached a trembling hand through the shattered window toward Tristram, who had climbed out of the car behind them, begging him to save her.

He didn't even glance her way. He circled to the other side, seized Noelle, and pulled her through the window into his arms.

As the car lost its balance and plunged off the cliff, drifting alongside the feeling of weightlessness was Tristram's murmured whisper.

“I'm sorry. Noelle has a heart condition. She can't wait for the rescue team. I have to get her down the mountain now.”

“I married you instead of the woman I actually love. I already owe her that debt. So you can die in her place and call us even.”

So the person Tristram had loved all along was Noelle.

So Tristram had never been frail at all. He could lift a grown woman in his arms without breaking a sweat.

So all of it had been an act, performed for her benefit alone, just so Noelle could marry Leslie as planned, and so he could steal one more glance at her sister whenever Vivienne brought him home for family visits.

Every last detail raced through Vivienne's mind like a film reel on fast-forward, and in an instant, every cause and every consequence clicked into place.

The car hit the bottom of the ravine. The explosion was so massive it nearly burst her eardrums.

Alongside the searing heat came the pain of her organs shattering, one by one.

After the fact, with no surveillance footage and no one to fight for her, her death was ruled an accident. Her killers were never punished.

When she opened her eyes again, she was back on the day Tristram and Leslie arrived at the door with their betrothal gifts.

The scene before her was exactly as she remembered. Both men's attention was fixed on Noelle. Pain lanced through Vivienne's chest like a needle driven straight into her heart, and the rage that came flooding back with the memories nearly tore through her ribs.

It was her stepmother's voice that pulled her out of it, coaxing from the side：

“Vivienne, Noelle and Leslie have been together for a while now. She's already two months along. You don't want to be the villain who tears apart a happy couple, do you?”

“Tristram might be a little on the fragile side, but with the Simmons family's fortune, you'd be marrying into a life of comfort. I just hope you can learn to appreciate what you're given.”

Vivienne slowly lifted her gaze and met Tristram's cold stare.

In her previous life, she had been drowning in the grief of Leslie's betrayal. She went along with her stepmother's words almost out of spite, agreeing to marry Tristram on the spot, too blinded by heartbreak to notice his expression.

Now she could see it clearly. He had never wanted to marry her. Not from the very beginning.

She steadied herself, let the storm inside her settle, and spoke：

“No. I won't marry him.”

This time around, Leslie who had betrayed her and Tristram whose heart had always belonged to someone else, she was done with both of them.

She was going to live. Live well. Live better than all of them. And make every last one of them pay for what they did to the woman she used to be.

The moment Vivienne's words landed, the vast living room went still.

Tristram's attention finally pulled away from Noelle：

“Vivienne, what exactly do you mean by that?”

“I came here today to ask for Noelle's hand. I only settled for you as a favor to her. What makes you think you get to be picky?”

Vivienne turned to face him slowly, studying the man who was at once so familiar and so foreign, her eyes stinging with heat：

“Who you want to marry is your business. Whether I say yes is mine.”

“Since it's Noelle you really want, why don't I pick Leslie instead? That way you get your chance.”

The words hit like a slap. Cordelia's smile froze mid-curve, and the smugness on Noelle's face shattered into open panic.

“How could you do this to me, Vivienne?”

“Leslie is the father of the baby I'm carrying! Are you trying to kill me……”

Cordelia's composure cracked：

“Vivienne! How many times do I have to tell you? Noelle and Leslie are already husband and wife in every way that matters. Even if you don't like Mr. Simmons, you can't tear apart your own sister's happiness!”

Crying, pleading, accusations, all tangled together at once. The living room dissolved into chaos.

It was Aldric who finally reached his limit. His face went dark as granite, and his palm cracked against the table：

“Enough!”

He rose from the head of the table and turned to Tristram first, forcing a conciliatory smile：

“Tristram, I'm afraid I've spoiled this girl rotten. She doesn't know when to hold her tongue. Please don't take it to heart.”

“The arrangement stands. The Whitmore family will cover every expense for the wedding, consider it our apology for today's scene.”

“You two go on ahead. I'll deal with this ungrateful daughter of mine.”

Tristram and Leslie left one after the other. Only the four Whitmores remained in the living room.

Aldric was drawing breath to lay into her when Vivienne spoke first：

“Father, hear me out before you start.”

“I'm not refusing Tristram because I want to steal Leslie from Noelle.”

“I just remembered something you mentioned once. Grandpa has an old war buddy whose grandson runs a business empire at the border. People call him “the King of Hell”, and his influence is enormous.”

“You've always wanted me to use the marriage contract Mother left behind, marry into that family, and rebuild ties with her side so you could leverage their resources to take the Whitmore Group to the next level.”

“I've thought it over. You were right. I'll marry him.”

In her previous life, she hadn't wanted her father exploiting her dead mother's connections. The first time he'd raised the idea, she had threatened to take her own life rather than agree.

But this time around, she knew better.

Her own strength was too small. She would use her mother's family to tear the Whitmore empire apart, and give her mother the justice she was owed.

Aldric blinked. Then a sharp gleam lit his eyes, and every trace of anger drained from his body.

“Good, good, good. My brilliant daughter. You've finally come to your senses. I'll send word to the Simmons family this afternoon and cancel the engagement.”

“We'll still hold two weddings as planned. I'll personally make sure your match with that young man is handled flawlessly.”

“This works out perfectly. That shipment I've been sitting on? Once you marry him, customs clearance and export will be a breeze.”

Vivienne looked at the man who, in her last life, had treated her as nothing more than a bargaining chip. The last flicker of filial feeling inside her went cold and died.

Her voice was perfectly even：

“I have one more condition.”

“I want every piece of my mother's trust fund as my dowry. And a hundred million dollars in cash on top of it.”

Aldric's jaw tightened. He was silent for several seconds before he finally nodded.

Vivienne walked out under the murderous glares of Cordelia and Noelle and found Tristram and Leslie still lingering by the front entrance.

Neither looked pleased. Leslie spoke first：

“What Noelle and I have is real. I'd sooner die than marry you.”

“If I show up to that wedding and find you standing at the altar, don't blame me for walking out in front of every guest and humiliating the Whitmore name across all of Ridgeport.”

Tristram, meanwhile, leaned against the door of his Maybach, a smile on his lips threaded with something unmistakably cruel：

“Don't be naive, Vivienne. I won't let you ruin Noelle's happiness.”

“The moment you rejected me in there, I had my people spread a little something through high society. Just enough to make sure you have no choice but to marry me.”

Vivienne's heart slammed into her throat, dread pooling fast and thick：

“What did you do?”

Her alarm clearly pleased him. His smile widened, and he took his time answering：

“I've already used AI to generate over a hundred photos of you and me in bed together. By now, every name worth knowing in Ridgeport has a copy.”

“I'd say that makes me the only man alive who'd still marry a woman with a reputation like yours.”

Vivienne's pupils contracted to pinpoints.

She fumbled for her phone with shaking hands. The second the screen lit up, the flood hit. Messages, dozens of them, cascading one after another until the notifications blurred together.

Her closest friends had reached out, worried, asking questions. There were so many messages she didn't even know where to begin explaining.

None of this had happened in her previous life.

Back then, she hadn't refused Tristram's proposal. His plan had gone off without a hitch, so smoothly he'd never needed this backup measure at all.

If she'd shown even the slightest resistance during that proposal, would she have seen his true face sooner? Would she have avoided dying the way she did?

She drew a long breath to steady herself. Her eyes were rimmed with red, but her hands were calm as she typed out a message to her lawyer.

She forwarded every AI-fabricated photo her friends had sent her, asking him to bring in a forensic technician to confirm the images used deepfake face-swapping.

Then she instructed him to file a defamation lawsuit against Tristram once the evidence was locked down.

When all of that was done, Vivienne turned back to Leslie and held out her open palm：

“Give me back the carving I gave you. I made that by hand for the man I'd marry someday. You don't deserve it.”

Leslie's expression soured, but he still reached into his pocket without argument, pulled out his car keys, and unhooked the small wooden carving that had hung there all this time. He tossed it back to her.

“You really are petty. You think I care about some worthless trinket?”

He turned and left without another word, face dark. Beside him, Tristram instinctively reached out his hand, assuming Vivienne was about to give the carving to him.

His hand closed on nothing. Vivienne dropped the carving into the nearest trash can.

“It's been tainted. Not good enough for my future husband.”

She stepped around Tristram and walked away without a backward glance, without seeing the look on his face.

It was two in the morning when a deafening crash jolted her out of sleep.

The front door of her apartment had been kicked in from the outside.

Before Vivienne could react, the covers were ripped away. An ice-cold hand locked around her wrist and dragged her off the bed.

She screamed, thrashing against the grip.

She wore nothing but a thin nightgown. Half-dressed, she was hauled into the living room, and only then, by the moonlight spilling through the window, did she see who it was.

“Tristram, have you lost your mind?”

Her voice shook. Tristram didn't answer. His face was blank and cold as he dragged her toward the door, forced her outside, and shoved her into a black SUV.

The vehicle tore through the empty streets and finally stopped in front of a private clinic.

Vivienne was dragged through the corridors and strapped to a hospital bed.

“Tristram, what the hell are you doing!”

He stood in the doorway, watching her with a flat, dead stare：

“Noelle's heart condition flared up. She needs heart's blood from a close relative to save her life.”

“She had an episode because you upset her today. You owe her this. It's just a little blood from the heart. You don't have a problem with that, do you?”

Vivienne's eyes went wide：

“What are you talking about? 'Heart's blood' curing heart disease? There is zero medical basis for that!”

But Tristram turned and walked out as if he hadn't heard a single word, heading to the next room to check on Noelle.

As they wheeled her toward the operating room, Vivienne passed the open door of that neighboring room and heard her father asking Tristram：

“Tristram, will this really help with Noelle's condition?”

The man's voice came slow and unhurried, like a devil whispering at her ear：

“Don't worry, Mr. Whitmore. Noelle's illness is really more psychological than physical.”

“She got upset because of what Vivienne did today, and the stress triggered the episode.”

“Once I take Vivienne's heart's blood and settle the score for Noelle, she'll feel better. And when her mood improves, her heart will follow.”

A single tear slid from the corner of her eye. She watched the operating room doors slam shut in front of her, and all the fight drained out of her body.

So Tristram knew. He knew heart's blood couldn't treat a heart condition. All he wanted was to punish her, to make her pay for upsetting Noelle.

But the next second, she saw the doctor approaching with surgical instruments and no syringe of anesthesia in sight, and the terror flooded back into her eyes.

The doctor must have read her face. Pity flickered in his gaze as he spoke：

“I'm sorry, Ms. Whitmore. Mr. Simmons gave us explicit orders not to use any anesthetic on you. There's nothing we can do.”

“But I've been doing this for over thirty years. I'll be as gentle as I can.”

The blade parted her skin and every nerve screamed the sensation straight to her brain. Vivienne's shriek tore through the room.

She felt the needle push directly into her heart, and her mind nearly broke apart.

As the blood left her body, each breath grew shallower than the last, her awareness dissolving at the edges.

Finally she slipped under, and with the darkness came the only mercy she'd get: release from a pain carved into the marrow of her soul.