When Roxanne woke, she was lying in a hospital bed.

From the hallway, she heard Courtney’s voice, tight with anger.

“Why did you go back for her? Don’t tell me you’ve actually fallen for her?”

Vincent’s reply was swift. “Calm down, Courtney. That’s not what this is. I just didn’t want a body on our hands.”

Courtney sniffled. “Fine. I’ll believe you—this time. But you owe me.”

She held up her bruised arm. “If you hadn’t insisted on turning back, I wouldn’t be hurt.”

“Okay, I’ll make it up for you. Whatever you want. Just name it.”

Her eyes lit up with a cunning gleam. “Give me that ‘My Blue’ account.”

Vincent didn’t even blink. “Sure.”

Roxanne felt a dull ache in her chest—an ache she hated herself for feeling.

That account. My Blue. She’d created it for Vincent, spent years filling it with 382 pieces of art. Seven years of her life, all for him.

And just like that, he gave it away.

Didn’t even bother to ask.

Hearing the door creak open, Roxanne quickly shut her eyes and pretended to stir awake.

“Roxy! You’re up!” Vincent rushed to her side, pulling her into his arms. “God, I was so scared. Thank God you’re okay.”

She pushed him away gently, a cold smile curling on her lips. “You’re the one who left me there, Vincent. You sent me straight into danger.”

Vincent looked shaken—guilty, but Courtney jumped in fast.

“Don’t blame him, Roxanne. It was my idea to invite you to Possum Hollow. If you want to be mad, be mad at me.”

Roxanne laughed, cold and sharp. “Oh, you think I’m not mad at you? Don’t worry—you’ll get your turn after I’m done with Vincent. I’m definitely not letting that slide. I’m pressing charges for those traffickers you send.”

Courtney clutched her chest, tears spilling down her cheeks.

“Why do you keep saying that? I just got back from overseas— how could I possibly know anything about traffickers?”

Vincent added quickly, “It can’t be Courtney. She’s not that kind of person.”

“Well, I already called the cops,” Roxanne said calmly. “She can explain herself to them.”

Vincent scowled. “You called the police? You turn this into a bigger deal than it needs to be. This is ridiculous!”

Courtney’s eyes flickered with cold calculation, but she masked it quickly.

“If that makes you feel safe, then fine. Well, I haven’t seen you eating. You must be starving. I’ll have food sent up here.”

Not long after, the door opened. A masked delivery guy stepped in, holding a bag of food.

“Hi, your order’s here.”

Vincent reached for the bag—only to be shoved aside.

Before anyone could react, the man pulled a knife from the bag and lunged straight at Courtney.

“Courtney, look out!”

Vincent threw himself in front of her, kicking at the attacker.

But the man didn’t even glance at them. He spun around and plunged toward Roxanne.

She caught the blade with both hands, blood dripping as she screamed, “Vincent! Help me!”

He moved to go—but Courtney collapsed into his arms, sobbing. “Vincent, please don’t leave me. I’m scared…”

He hesitated.

And in that split second, the knife drove deep into Roxanne’s side. 

She stared at him, wide-eyed and utterly shattered. Even now—bleeding, on the edge of death—she still wasn’t enough. Not compared to Courtney’s fear.

So this is what love looked like, huh? The difference between loving and not loving someone really was that simple. That cruel.

The man raised the knife again, but just then, security rushed in. Two guards tackled him to the ground, wrestling the blade from his hand.

A nurse hurried in, pressing gauze to Roxanne’s side, trying to stop the bleeding as she barked orders into her headset.

Vincent stood frozen. Still. The image of Roxanne’s eyes—dark with heartbreak, not pain—burned into his mind.

That look.

That look unnerved him.

He stayed with Courtney long enough to calm her down, rubbing her back as she sobbed into his shirt. Then, when she was settled, he returned to Roxanne’s hospital room.

She lay there, pale and weak, staring off at nothing, like she didn’t even notice he’d walked in.

Guilt clawed at his chest. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I swear, that’s the last time I’ll ever let you get hurt. I’ll never leave you again.”

Roxanne turned her head slightly. Her voice was soft, even. “Okay.”

Vincent hesitated. That was it? No questions? No tears?

She didn’t yell. Didn’t throw anything. She wasn’t clinging or begging.

That wasn’t like her.

Something felt off. Something he couldn’t name.

“Roxy… do you still love me?” he asked, his voice low, uncertain.

She looked him right in the eye. Calm. Composed. “I told you—I’d never marry someone I didn’t love.”

That one sentence sent a jolt through him. But then he remembered—seven days from now was their wedding.

Maybe she was just shaken. Maybe it was the blood loss.

Relief flickered in his chest. He smiled, trying to convince himself things would be okay. “Just rest up, alright? Seven days from now, you’ll walk down that aisle as the most beautiful bride anyone's ever seen.”

Roxanne nodded.

Yeah, she’d rest.

But not for him.

She was healing up so she could leave him behind—once and for all.

Maybe it was guilt. Or maybe he was trying to patch things up the only way he knew how—but Vincent had suddenly turned into the picture-perfect boyfriend. He barely left Roxanne’s side. Even moved his entire office into her hospital room.

Courtney had stopped by a few times, trying to drag him out. No luck.

Roxanne watched him as he busied himself with work just feet away. Her face stayed blank.

She knew Vincent cared. That wasn’t the issue.

But love that comes late… it’s cheap. And she had no use for it.

After a few days of recovery, Roxanne was finally cleared to go home.

“Hey Roxy,” Vincent said casually, helping her gather her things, “I was thinking we could swing by a little get-together tonight. Just dinner with some of my friends.”

Roxanne paused, thrown off.

In the past seven years, Vincent had never—not once—brought her to a single gathering with his circle. Even when she asked, he always had some excuse ready.

Eventually, she stopped trying.

So why the sudden invite? A guilty conscience? Or something else?

Whatever it was, she didn’t care anymore.

“I’d rather just go home and rest,” she said flatly.

Vincent kept his voice light. “C’mon, it’s just dinner. A chance to unwind. Weren’t you always saying you wanted to meet them?”

She hesitated. At this point, saying no would just make a scene. So she nodded.

As Vincent pushed open the door to leave, voices filtered in from the other room—his friends talking over each other, clearly unaware they had an audience.

“Courtney, seriously, what does that pretty-boy you’re into have that Vincent doesn’t? You two would make way more sense.”

“Exactly. Everyone thinks you and Vincent are a perfect match.”

“You’re gonna regret it for the rest of your life if you let a guy like Vincent slip away.”

Vincent cleared his throat loudly, a few awkward coughs to shut them up. He glanced behind him.

Roxanne had her head down, typing something on her phone, completely unfazed. Or at least pretending to be.

Relieved, he reached for her hand and led her into the room.

The second she stepped inside, the chatter stopped. Everyone went quiet, their eyes flicking between her and Courtney.

Courtney’s gaze landed on their joined hands. A flash of something dark—jealousy, maybe even hate—passed through her eyes.

Midway through dinner, Courtney suddenly grabbed two drinks and walked over with a bright smile.

“Roxanne,” she said, handing one over, “I owe you an apology. Let me toast to you.”

Roxanne took one look at the offered drink and sidestepped it with practiced ease. “Still recovering. Can’t drink.”

Courtney didn’t miss a beat. She picked up a different glass. “Juice, then. Let’s toast with that. Mind pouring me a glass too?”

Roxanne watched her closely. Her face seemed sincere enough. Reluctantly, she poured the orange juice and handed it over.

Courtney downed hers in one go.

Roxanne took a polite sip, just to be courteous, then set it down.

Courtney’s grin widened. She leaned in, dropping her voice to a whisper.

“I’m going to show you who really matters to Vincent.”

Before Roxanne could even process that cryptic warning, Courtney’s glass clattered to the floor.

She doubled over, clutching her stomach, her face turning paper-white.

“It hurts!” She shouted. “Oh God—what did you put in that juice?!”

Vincent was on his feet in a flash, glaring at Roxanne like she’d pulled a gun

“She apologized to you,” he snapped. “Why would you do this?”

Roxanne blinked, stunned. Then something in her face shifted—cool, bitter amusement.

“You really think I did this?”

His expression darkened. “Who else could it be? You’re the only one who touched that pitcher.”

Courtney whimpered weakly, tears glistening in her eyes. “It’s my fault… I saw Roxanne sip some and thought it was safe, so I…”

That was all it took. Vincent snapped.

He grabbed Roxanne by the neck, shoved the pitcher to her lips and forced the rest of the juice down her throat.

“You like poisoning people?” he growled. “Now, get a taste of it. Drink it all!”

Roxanne coughed violently, tears springing to her eyes, but she still locked eyes with him, refusing to break.

“I… didn’t… do it…”she rasped out.

Vincent looked at her like she was the scum on his shoes. “Still playing the victim?

He threw the empty pitcher aside. Roxanne collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath.

Without another word, Vincent scooped Courtney into his arms and walked out, not sparing her a single glance.

Vincent’s buddies followed him out, all of them casting judgmental looks in Roxanne’s direction.

And just like that, she was alone in the private room. She tried to get to her feet, but her legs felt like they were made of air, like she was walking on clouds.

A strange sensation was spreading through her body—numb and tingling all at once.

She barely managed two steps before the door swung open again.

A man in a baseball cap stepped in, head down.

“Well, well… Never thought I’d get my hands on you again, Lena.”

Lena?

The name hit her like a sledgehammer.

Her knees buckled. A splitting headache tore through her skull as buried memories came flooding back.

Twenty-five years ago, Courtney’s mother had worked as a maid in the Holbrook household. One night, she’d secretly swapped her own daughter with the real Holbrook child.

Courtney had lived her whole life as the heiress.

And Roxanne… Roxanne was Lena—the unwanted girl from a small town, abandoned and unloved.

Years later, on her deathbed, Roxanne’s adoptive mother finally told her the truth.

The Holbrooks brought her back, gave her a new name—Roxanne—and tried to give her the life she’d been robbed of.

And the man standing in front of her?

That was John Buzolic—Courtney’s biological father. He was the same criminal who had kidnapped Vincent as a child, hoping to extort the Strauss.

Roxanne had helped Vincent escape and John had beaten her within an inch of her life for it.

She’d had such a high fever afterward that she forgot everything—her name, her past, everything.

If her dad hadn’t arrived in time, she wouldn’t have survived.

And now it all made sense.

The woman Vincent had worshipped like some untouchable angel—his “savior”—was her.

Would he regret hurting her when the truth finally came out?

John Buzolic stepped closer, eyes gleaming with malice.

“Your real daddy got me thrown in jail last time. Now it’s time to settle old scores.”

Roxanne backed up instinctively. “You’re out of your mind. This is a public place—someone’ll be here any second.”

“Oh, I won't be worry about that,” he said, voice full of confidence. “Your sweet boyfriend already told the staff we’re not to be disturbed.”

Her heart sank.

So this was a setup?

All for Courtney’s revenge?

Before she could think it through, John lunged and shoved her to the floor, clawing at her clothes with frantic hands.

It was happening again.

The nightmare from seven years ago—back to life.

She fought him with everything she had, but it was no use. Her body wouldn’t listen and panic was rising like a tidal wave.

She hated Vincent for throwing her to the wolves. Hated John for his filth. But most of all, she hated herself for being powerless.

Just as John yanked at her shirt, the door slammed open with a thunderous kick.

“Get your hands off her, you sick bastard!”

Roxanne looked up, dazed.

Her best friend, Arlene Brouwer, burst in with two bodyguards behind her.

In that moment, Roxanne had never been more grateful she’d texted for help before walking into that party.

The rush of adrenaline and relief was too much. Her vision blurred. And then—black.

***

Roxanne woke up in the hospital. Again.

Vincent hadn’t shown his face since.

And she didn’t care. She had work to do.

First thing—she changed her profile picture, deleted the post she’d pinned for seven years announcing their relationship.

Second—she erased all contact with Vincent. Deleted every message, every photo, every video. Gone.

Third—she changed the locks, threw out every item they’d bought together, every gift she ever gave him.

Fourth—she packed up all his remaining things and scheduled a courier to deliver them to the wedding venue on the exact day they were supposed to say “I do.” Cash on delivery.

When it was done, she pressed a hand to her chest.

No ache. No bitterness.

Just silence.

Goodbye, wasted years.

Goodbye, Vincent.

She was ready for the next chapter of her life—and this time, she’d write it on her own terms.