When Vivienne opened her eyes again, the hospital room was empty. The sting of disinfectant burned her sinuses, and the wound on her chest throbbed with a dull, persistent ache.

She picked up her phone from the nightstand. No missed calls. Not a single message.

She opened her social media feed and saw a post Noelle had made the day before: a selfie clutching a bouquet of flowers, captioned：【Discharged! Thanks everyone for the well wishes】.

So they had left long ago, all of them, and simply abandoned her here to fend for herself.

Vivienne dragged her battered body through the discharge paperwork, called a car, and went back to her apartment alone.

The front door had been repaired, probably on Tristram's orders, but the inside was still wrecked. Drag marks from where he had hauled her across the floor to the living room days ago were still visible on the hardwood.

Vivienne stood in the doorway and stared for a long moment. Then, without a word, she began cleaning up. While she was at it, she packed a suitcase for her new life at the border.

At the very bottom of the closet she found the gift Leslie had given her for her eighteenth birthday: a crystal necklace. She had treasured it all these years, planning to wear it on their wedding day.

But in her last life and in this one, Leslie had never once intended to marry her.

Vivienne hesitated only briefly before dropping the necklace into the trash.

She kept digging and found the fountain pen her father had tossed her way when she got into college.

She had learned later it was just a sample gift from a visiting business partner, something Aldric had passed along without a second thought and probably forgotten the next day. Still, it was one of the few things he had ever given her, so she had kept it.

This time she didn't hesitate. She threw the pen straight into the garbage bag.

Beneath everything else lay a few yellowed photographs, some of the last pictures of her and her mother together. The negatives were long gone.

She tucked those carefully into her bag.

When she was done, Vivienne tied the garbage bag shut and hauled it downstairs.

On her way back, she spotted a familiar Maybach parked outside the building.

Her steps faltered. Tristram climbed out of the back seat.

He looked her up and down, and once he was satisfied she was in one piece, the corner of his mouth twitched upward. He waved a hand behind him.

Several bodyguards in black stepped out of a second car, each one carrying oversized luxury gift boxes.

At Tristram's command they filed inside, one after another, and stacked the boxes throughout Vivienne's apartment.

“What is this supposed to mean, Tristram?”

Vivienne watched the gift boxes pile up in the living room, on the couch, even across the dining table.

The apartment she had just finished cleaning was suddenly overflowing again.

“Consider it compensation. For what happened the other day. I know you were wronged.”

“Noelle is my bottom line. Once we're married, as long as it doesn't involve her, I'll have your back in everything. You have my word.”

Vivienne lifted her gaze to his face. Maybe because she had given up on him long ago, nothing he said could hurt her anymore.

Tristram always believed a soft word and a pile of expensive things could fix anything.

No matter how deep the wound, she was supposed to choose forgiveness.

He was wrong. This time, she would never forgive him again.

Vivienne watched in silence as the bodyguards finished. She had considered stopping them.

But then she thought about how in a month, after the wedding, she would be living at the border. This apartment and every bad memory it held would be sold off.

Let him do whatever he wanted. She was past caring.

“Are you done? Then leave. I just got out of the hospital. I need to rest.”

Something flickered behind Tristram's eyes when she brought it up again, but it passed in an instant.

“Actually, there's another reason I came.”

“Tonight is Noelle's birthday gala. You're her sister. You're expected to be there.”

Vivienne's fingers curled inward. In the decade and more since her mother's death, not a single person had remembered her birthday.

Noelle's, on the other hand, was a lavish event every year. And every year Vivienne was dragged along as a prop, an afterthought for the guests to snicker at.

She had endured it in her last life. She refused to endure it in this one.

“I'm not going.”

Tristram's voice went cold the second the words left her mouth.

“Half the elite in Ridgeport are invited to this gala. If you don't show up, what will people think of her?”

“You don't get a say in this.”

The bodyguards seized Vivienne by the arms and forced her into the back of the Maybach. The car headed straight for the most exclusive hotel in Ridgeport.

By the time they arrived, they were already running late. Tristram brought her along to present his gift to Noelle: a limited-edition handbag.

Vivienne recognized it instantly. Every single item he had dumped at her apartment that afternoon was the purchase-minimum bundle for that bag.

Her knuckles went white around her clenched fists. So from the very beginning, even his apology had never truly been meant for her.

While she stood there, frozen, Noelle called out to her：

“Vivienne, what did you get me for my birthday?”

She had been dragged here without warning. When would she have had time to prepare a gift?

Noelle seemed to read the predicament on her face. Her eyes darted, and a bright idea struck：

“Did you forget my birthday, sis? Oh well, I won't make it hard on you. How about you go up on stage and dance for me instead? Think of it as your gift.”

Vivienne looked at the man beside her. A faint smile lingered between his brows, his eyes fixed on Noelle without blinking. He had no intention of stepping in.

Vivienne turned to leave. Somewhere behind her, the chatter among the guests had already died down, and every pair of eyes in the room was watching.

Whispers rippled through the crowd.

Noelle's breathing went ragged on cue, and she collapsed against Tristram：

“Tristram, my heart……it hurts so bad”

Vivienne had barely taken one step before a hand clamped around her wrist and yanked her back.

She turned and met Tristram's eyes. There was nothing in them.

“Vivienne, your mother is buried at Westhill Memorial Cemetery. Isn't that right?”

Her pupils contracted. Her whole body went rigid.

She stared at Tristram as if seeing him for the very first time.

She remembered, in her past life, not long after their wedding, she had taken him to visit her mother's grave.

That day he had knelt before the headstone, held her hand, and spoken with absolute solemnity：

“Ma'am, you can rest easy. I'll take good care of Vivienne.”

She had looked at the firm line of his profile and counted herself lucky, grateful she had seen through Leslie in time and married a good man instead.

But in her last life Tristram hadn't saved her when it mattered. And in this life, he was threatening to scatter her mother's ashes, all because she refused to perform like a trained animal for Noelle's amusement and make Noelle look bad.

Vivienne's eyes burned red, and the grief swelled until it filled her entire chest.

But she did not let a single tear fall. She wrenched free of Tristram's grip, turned, and walked toward the stage.

The murmurs from the audience drove into her like needles.

Vivienne closed her eyes, rose onto the tips of her toes, and began to spin across the cold floor.

With every turn, one thought carved itself deeper into her mind.

She would make them pay.

Every last one of them.

The music ended. Vivienne had no memory of how she made it off the stage.

The wound on her chest had torn open during the violent spins, pain seeping through her until cold sweat beaded across her forehead.

But she swallowed it down, cutting quickly through the crowd, turning into the terrace at the far end of the corridor. The first thing she did was make a call, paying someone to move her mother's ashes out of Westhill Memorial Cemetery in secret.

This time, she would tell no one where her mother was buried. From now on, no one would ever use her mother against her again.

Vivienne gripped her phone so tightly her nails dug into her palm.

She couldn't understand it. In this life, she had never once told Tristram where her mother was buried. How had he found out?

She stayed on the terrace for a long time, turning it over and over in her mind, but no answer came.

When the gala began winding down, she decided to leave.

She didn't say goodbye to anyone. She just kept her head down and walked fast.

But at the end of the corridor, Noelle blocked her path.

She was leaning against the wall, clearly waiting for her.

When she saw Vivienne approaching, Noelle's lips curled upward, her smile dripping with undisguised malice.

“Your mother couldn't keep Dad, and you're just like her. The worthless spawn of a worthless woman. Your men, whether it's Tristram or Leslie, their hearts belong to me.”

“Tristram is nothing but my lapdog. I actually felt sorry for you, thought I'd toss you a man, let you marry into the Simmons family. But you didn't even want that. You just had to pick the frontier, that godforsaken place where they eat people alive.”

Noelle covered her mouth and laughed：

“When you're married off and they're making your life a living hell, don't come crawling back crying for Daddy to save you.”

Vivienne's hands clenched into fists at her sides. Looking at that vile face, she couldn't stop herself. Her hand came up and cracked across Noelle's cheek.

“You're right about one thing. Like mother, like daughter. Yours was the other woman, and so are you.”

The sharp crack of the slap echoed down the corridor. Noelle's head snapped to the side, a bright red handprint blooming across her pale cheek.

“You little bitch, you hit me?”

She shrieked and swung her hand back to return the blow.

But Vivienne caught her wrist, twisted, and shoved. Noelle stumbled back two steps in her heels, barely keeping her balance.

The rage inside her had nowhere to go. She glanced over her shoulder at the staircase behind her, and a calculating gleam flashed through her eyes. She took several steps backward and threw herself down.

“Aah——”

Her scream was shrill, piercing, her body crumpling like a dead leaf toward the bottom of the stairs.

“Noelle!”

Two figures bolted toward her at the same time. Tristram and Leslie reached out almost simultaneously, catching Noelle from either side.

Vivienne, who had instinctively reached out to grab Noelle, lost her footing from the momentum. Her balance gave way, and she tumbled down the stairs.

Pain.

Everything hurt.

It felt like every bone in her body had shattered. The old wound on her chest split open, blood soaking through.

She tried to push herself up, but the pain drained every ounce of strength from her limbs, and she couldn't manage it.

She lifted her head and looked up the stairs. Leslie was holding Noelle, murmuring soft reassurances. Tristram stood beside them, face cold, calling an ambulance.

By the time she finally braced herself against the wall and got to her feet, all three swept past her without a glance, as if she didn't exist.

Vivienne watched their retreating backs. A split second later, a hand struck her hard across the face.

A ringing filled her ears, and her father's voice came with it：

“You ungrateful wretch. You're about to be married off to the frontier. Can't you behave yourself for once?”

“Once you're there, remember this: keep your head down, don't bring trouble on this family, make them happy, and find ways to bring us more business.”

“I didn't raise you all these years just so you could make my life harder.”

Aldric let out a cold snort and walked away.

Vivienne stood where she was. The corridor was empty. She was the only one left.

She reached up and wiped the blood from the corner of her mouth, then limped out of the hotel.

Once she was married off to the frontier, she would make sure to mention the Whitmore family often.

But not a single kind word. She would lay bare every dirty, rotten thing they had done over the years.

Her father dreamed of expanding overseas. As long as she drew breath at the border, he would never see that dream come true.

After leaving the Whitmore estate, Vivienne hailed a taxi and gave the driver her apartment address, then slumped against the back seat.

Exhaustion hit her like a tide, dragging her under. Her eyelids were impossibly heavy.

Her consciousness blurred with each bump in the road, dimming bit by bit, until it gave out entirely and she plunged into darkness.

She didn't know how long she'd been out when a bone-deep cold yanked her awake.

Her eyes opened slowly. Her vision swam for a few seconds before it sharpened, and what she saw above her wasn't the ceiling of a taxi. It was the exposed rafters of an abandoned factory.

She tried to move on instinct, but her wrists were bound tight with coarse rope and hoisted overhead.

She jerked her head down to look, and her pupils contracted.

She was dangling at least twelve feet off the ground. Her heart slammed against her ribs. The acrophobia hit instantly, her legs shaking beyond her control, cold sweat breaking out across her forehead and down her spine, soaking through her thin dress.

“Someone! Help!”

The cry tore out of her before she could think. It echoed through the cavernous space and died unanswered.

She gulped air in ragged breaths, forcing herself to stay calm, her panicked gaze sweeping the factory floor.

That was when she saw Noelle, tied to a support column.

The unconscious woman's eyelids fluttered at the sound of Vivienne's voice, and she began to stir.

Vivienne realized they must have both been kidnapped.

But Noelle had been taken to the hospital by Tristram and Leslie. With both of them watching over her, how had she ended up here?

Before Vivienne could work it out, Noelle moved.

Thrashing in apparent panic, she struggled against her bindings. Within moments, the ropes came loose.

Spotting Vivienne suspended in the air, she looked around frantically for a way to get her down：

“Hold on, sis! I'll get you down!”

Vivienne stared at the rope holding her up. It looped through a pulley on the ceiling and disappeared somewhere out of sight. Every instinct told her this wasn't what it seemed.

“Stay back!”

Her voice was taut, urgent, but the words had barely left her mouth when Noelle stepped onto something on the factory floor, a mechanism half-hidden in the grime.

“Click.” A small, precise sound. The unmistakable trigger of a mechanism.

The next second, the rope gave way. Weightlessness seized her and Vivienne dropped straight down.

Her heart lurched into her throat. The memory of falling off that cliff in her last life crashed over her all at once, and she couldn't even scream before her body slammed into a foam mat with a dull, sickening thud.

She wasn't dead.

But the thin padding wasn't nearly enough to absorb a twelve-foot fall.

Agony exploded from her shin. She heard the bone snap from inside her own body, and her vision went black. She nearly passed out on the spot.

Then she heard laughter.

Noelle stood a few feet away, hands on her hips, doubled over with it.

“Oh my God, sis, the look on your face just now! Did you actually think we'd been kidnapped?”

“Relax. I was just messing with you. A little scare, that's all. You shouldn't have pushed me back at the house.”

Vivienne lay on the filthy mat, shaking from the pain, unable to move.

She lifted her head with effort. Under the dim yellow light, a figure stepped out of the shadows. Tristram.

“There was a mat to catch you. Quit the act.”

“Noelle's young. She likes to play around. It was just a prank, nothing serious. She only wanted to teach you a lesson for pushing her at the estate.”

“I've always been frail, so I can't exactly carry you. Pull yourself together and get up on your own.”

Frail.

The word hit her, and Vivienne actually laughed.

Right. He'd always been frail. So frail he sometimes needed a wheelchair to get around. So frail he couldn't stand for long. So frail that every unmarried woman in Ridgeport avoided him like the plague.

Funny, then, how he'd sprinted across the room to catch Noelle at the Whitmore estate. How he'd hauled Vivienne out of her own apartment and dragged her to the hospital to make Noelle feel better. No sign of frailty then.

He'd been performing for her since the last life. It was nothing but the same tired lie he'd never bothered to retire.

Blood kept pooling from the wound. Vivienne's vision blurred, and her consciousness ebbed like a retreating tide, pulling away inch by inch.

In the last second before everything went dark, she thought she heard a voice：

“Vivienne! Don't you dare die!”

It sounded like Tristram.

But that was impossible.

Tristram Simmons would never care whether she lived or died.

It had to be her mind playing tricks.