The Delgado family was cursed. No man in the bloodline survived past thirty. The only way to break it was to marry into my clan.

But on my wedding day, Ian Delgado tore up our marriage contract in front of everyone—for the woman he truly loved.

When the Delgado elders tried to intervene, he fixed me with a stare full of raw hatred, his voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd.

"Clara Pruitt, you're nothing but a gold-digging fraud. Your people have been swindling the Delgado family for nearly a century—money, loyalty, everything. But it ends with me. Your free ride is over."

Nadia Henson clung to his arm, looking me up and down with a thin, contemptuous smile.

"What are you standing there for? Get lost."

She lifted her chin. "With a medical PhD like me by his side, forget thirty—Ian could live to a hundred and thirty."

I thought of the pulse I'd checked that morning. Ian's heartbeat, already so faint it was barely there.

A cold laugh echoed somewhere deep inside me.

Fine. His thirtieth birthday is in three days. That will settle everything.

Soon enough.

——

I turned to leave, but Violet Delgado rushed forward and grabbed my hand.

"Clara, don't go!"

She whipped around to face her son, her expression hardening in an instant.

"Ian, apologize to Clara right now. Stop this nonsense!"

Ian's fingers stayed locked around Nadia's hand. He didn't move. Violet lowered her voice, each word weighted with dread.

"You know exactly why the Delgado men have married into their clan for generations. Thirty years ago, your uncle broke that rule. On his thirtieth birthday, a semi-truck crushed him beyond recognition."

"And your third uncle—he called off his engagement with the same fearless look on your face right now. The moment he blew out his birthday candles, blood poured from every orifice and he dropped dead."

"Your birthday is three days away. You are signing your own death warrant. Now apologize to Clara—"

"Enough, Mom!"

"Uncle died in a traffic accident. Third Uncle had a heart attack. What the hell does any of that have to do with some marriage superstition?"

Ian cut her off, impatience etched across every feature. He jabbed a finger in my direction and let out a derisive scoff.

"Marriage pact? Curse? It's a con. Tailor-made to bleed our family dry."

"Just looking at her makes me sick. If you insist on making me marry her, I won't even make it to thirty." His eyes were wild, reckless. "I'll die right here. Right now."

A knife appeared in his hand. He pressed the blade against his own throat.

Nadia dropped to her knees in front of Violet with a strangled sob.

"Mrs. Delgado, please—just this once, believe in science. I've had monitoring equipment on Ian for months. His vitals are perfect. He's in peak health!"

"His thirtieth birthday is three days away. We will prove it to you ourselves—the marriage pact, the curse, all of it is a lie." Tears streamed down her cheeks. "I earned my PhD for this. For him. Everything I've done has been leading to this moment. Please, give me a chance. Give Ian a chance."

"Mom, if you don't agree—"

Ian pressed harder. A line of crimson slid down his neck, soaking into the groom's suit I had chosen for him myself.

"I agree!"

Violet's voice cracked as she lunged forward and wrenched the knife from his hand. Then she turned to me, guilt flickering behind her eyes.

"Clara, I'm sorry..."

"It's fine."

I cut her off, the faintest smile pulling at the corner of my mouth.

"Honestly, I hope Miss Henson can break this damn curse. It would set every woman in my clan free."

I turned and walked away.

Behind me, Ian's voice chased after me, dripping with disgust.

"Lying, scheming parasite! I can't even stand the sight of you. Get out!"

I quickened my pace to a half-run and made it out of the banquet hall. The moment I stepped through the doors—

Blood—thick and black—surged up her throat and spilled from her lips.

She should have stayed on the mountain, training for a few more years before descending. But three years ago, Ian Delgado had taken her hand the very first time they met, his eyes brimming with sincerity as he poured out his heart to her.

She'd been a girl tasting love for the first time. Every word he said, she believed.

Back then, she'd read his pulse and seen the frailty eating away at his body. The worry consumed her. She knelt before Mentor Alaric for seven days and seven nights, begging for permission to leave the mountain.

It wasn't until she was at Ian's side that she truly understood how vicious the curse was. Her cultivation was still shallow. The only way she could sustain his health was to drain her own life essence—her vital blood. Every night, the agony tore through her organs, and she endured it until dawn.

She had told herself it was worth it. Every last drop, for the man she would spend her life with.

She never imagined that the love on his lips had been nothing more than a cheap trick to satisfy his curiosity and claim her body.

Clara wiped the blood from the corner of her mouth. She swallowed the dense, suffocating ache in her chest and left the hotel.

She thought it was finally over.

But the moment she stepped into her building, the sight stopped her cold. Red paint slashed across the hallway walls. FRAUD. CHARLATAN. WHORE.

And the small apartment she had so carefully arranged—the one filled with years of sacred texts and talismans painstakingly inscribed with her own blood—was engulfed in flames.

She ran toward the fire like a woman possessed, heedless of everything.

One step forward, and the flames lunged. They caught her without mercy.

The skin on half her body blistered and split, peeling back to expose raw, bleeding flesh beneath. Tears fell onto the exposed tissue, and the salt ignited a pain so sharp it nearly blinded her.

Ian appeared behind her at some point, his arm draped around Nadia's waist.

His gaze drifted to Clara's mangled arm. His eyes creased with a mocking smile.

"Well, well. I thought you were all-powerful. Turns out you feel pain like the rest of us."

"Ian Delgado, what gave you the right to burn my things?!" Her voice cracked. "These past three years—without those texts, you'd be dead!"

"Enough!"

He closed the distance in a single stride and locked his hand around her throat.

"Stop waving your filthy little trinkets around. They make me sick." His grip tightened. "I'm not just burning them. I'm going to make sure the entire world sees you for the fraud you are."

Before she could gather herself, dozens—no, hundreds—of reporters flooded the narrow hallway. Camera lenses and microphones thrust into her face.

"Miss Pruitt, you've swindled the Delgado family out of a fortune over the past three years. Do you feel any remorse at all?"

"You realize this constitutes criminal fraud, don't you?"

"She actually tried to trick Mr. Delgado into marrying her. Disgusting! Why are we even interviewing her? Hit her!"

A woman in the crowd seized Clara's ruined arm.

White-hot agony ripped through her entire body. Her back hit the wall, and her legs gave out. She crumpled to the floor.

Fists and feet rained down on her from every direction.

Through the chaos, she saw Ian tighten his arm around Nadia's slender waist, laughing as they walked away.

By that evening, Clara was trending nationwide.

[BREAKING: Delgado family's former fiancée exposed as con artist! Used superstitious rituals to defraud the Delgados of nearly a million dollars over three years! Shameful! Despicable!]

[Delgado family deceived for nearly a century — saved at last by Miss Henson, who debunked the so-called "curse" with real science! A reminder to trust evidence, not folklore!]

Clara stumbled away in the charred remains of her wedding dress. She wanted to buy something to change into—anything—but her bank accounts had been frozen.

The voice on the other end of the line was flat and mechanical.

"Ms. Pruitt, your accounts have been flagged for suspected fraud. We have no choice but to freeze them. We appreciate your understanding..."

I fished out the last crumpled bills from my pocket, hoping to find somewhere to sleep for the night.

But the moment I stepped toward a small motel, the woman behind the counter spat in my face.

"You're that little con artist from the news, aren't you? Get out!"

I hadn't eaten all day.

The wounds on my body had already begun to fester, oozing with infection. I pressed my palm to my forehead. It was burning. My legs refused to carry me another step, and I crumpled beside a dumpster in a narrow alley.

People passed by. The ones who recognized me hurled rotten eggs and slop water, aiming straight for my open wounds without a shred of hesitation.

I missed the quiet of the mountain. I missed my mentor.

But I knew I couldn't leave.

Tomorrow was Ian Delgado's birthday.

When he'd had his hand around my throat earlier, I'd already felt it — his pulse, erratic and fractured beyond repair.

I needed to see that moment.

The thought dragged me to my feet. I braced one hand against the wall, clenched my teeth, and staggered forward.

I made it one step before the world went black.

I woke to the familiar scent of medicinal herbs.

Fighting through the soreness that wracked every inch of my body, I gritted my teeth and sat up. Alaric Abbott was beside me, carefully applying a poultice to my wounds.

"Mentor Alaric, I can't go back yet..."

His eyes were full of ache as he tended to the festering, inflamed gashes across my skin.

"I know. You want to wait until his birthday..."

He never finished the sentence.

A commotion erupted outside. The door exploded inward, kicked clean off its hinges, and over a dozen men stormed into the room.

They pinned me down. The one in front drew a knife from inside his jacket and drove it straight into Alaric's heart.

I screamed, a raw, animal sound, and lunged toward him.

But the moment I got to my feet, Ian walked through the doorway and backhanded me to the floor.

He stared down at me with pure revulsion.

"So that's why you've been hanging around. The little fraud has a hideout."

He planted his foot on Alaric's wound, the one still weeping blood, and ground down.

"Talk. He's the one who put you up to all of this, isn't he?"

"Get off him!"

I crawled to Ian's feet, grabbed his ankle with trembling hands, and forced the words out.

"If it weren't for him, you'd already be dead! Let him go!"

Ian looked down at me, shaking and broken at his feet.

A twisted smile curled the corner of his mouth.

"Sure."

He pulled out his phone and tossed it at my knees.

"Record a video admitting you're a fraud. Then I'll let the old man go."

"Clara, don't — don't record it..."

Alaric's eyes were bloodshot, fixed on me, his head shaking over and over.

But before he could finish, Ian ripped the knife from Alaric's chest and plunged it down again, this time near the artery in his neck.

Blood erupted in a geyser, painting the air red.

I threw myself toward Alaric, every limb shaking, but Ian caught me and held me back.

"So that's a no, Clara? Then I guess the old man bleeds out today."

"I'll do it. I'll record it."

Ian watched the video and smiled, satisfied. He finally agreed to send Alaric to the hospital.

The ambulance had barely pulled up to the emergency entrance when a young nurse rushed over and shoved a thick stack of forms into my arms.

"Miss, the patient is critical. You need to go pay right now!"

My mind went to my frozen bank accounts, and my body locked in place.

"Hurry! If you don't pay now, he's going to bleed to death!"

The nurse kept pressing. I forced my stiff legs to move and slowly turned to face Ian, who stood behind me.

"Ian. All my accounts are frozen. Could you..."