In Wall Street, Dike Fitzsimmons stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, slowly turning the prayer beads on his wrist. The beads were old, the cord nearly worn through. But he couldn’t bring himself to throw them away. They were a gift from Savina.

His voice came out low with a sneer.

“Back then, you were willing to sell off every share you owned just to help him start from scratch. And after that, you stayed by his side, content to be a nameless little secretary.”

A faint chill crept into his tone. “I told you from the beginning, Myron isn’t someone who brings peace. Follow him, and you’ll regret it one day.”

The man’s voice grew colder, edged with disapproval.

A gust of cold wind slipped down the collar of Savina’s coat, cutting through to her bones. She pulled her coat tighter and let out a soft, self-mocking laugh.

“Yeah, you’re right. I was blind back then. But now… now, I finally see clearly.”

She hesitated, then asked quietly, “You once told me that no matter what happens in the future, if I ever need your help, I can come to you. Does that still count?”

Silence stretched on the other end of the line.

With every passing second, her heart grew colder. But she didn’t blame Dike. She had brought this upon herself.

Taking a deep breath, she murmured, “I’m sorry. I was being presumptuous.”

She was about to hang up when Dike’s cold voice cut through.

“Savina, I let you go once before. But since you’ve come knocking again, I won’t let you walk away so easily this time.”

“Divorce Myron. I’ll come for you at the end of the month.” His tone dropped lower and colder. “Remember this—if you marry me, I could only be widowed in the future. Not divorced.”

Before she could respond, the line went dead.

The cold wind whipped across Savina’s face before she let out a bitter laugh.

Years ago, Dike had been the youngest financial prodigy in Wall Street—the man who’d chased after her for three whole years.

Her heart had almost wavered. But then Myron came into the picture.

Back then, she had stood at the top of her game, and when she saw his broken and struggling figure, she couldn’t help but reach out a hand. One act of kindness led to another, and slowly, affection grew between them. Eventually, she cut ties with Dike completely.

By the end of this month, she told herself, she would settle everything once and for all.

When she returned home, the first thing she did was call a few friends in Maryland, asking them to help her locate her son’s whereabouts. Then, she went upstairs to pack her things.

She gathered every item Myron had ever given her—every reminder of their years together—and packed them into boxes. One by one, she listed them online for sale.

It didn’t take long for buyers to reach out. Just as she was about to move the boxes out of the room, Myron came home.

His gaze immediately fell on the luggage in her hands. His brows furrowed in displeasure.

“Running away again? Savina, you’re thirty now, not eighteen. I don’t have the time or patience to keep coaxing you every day.”

He crossed his arms, his tone laced with arrogance.

“If you can stand this life, then stay. If you can’t, then leave. But the child stays with me. Don’t even think about taking him.”

He spoke from a place of certainty, as though he knew she wouldn’t dare defy him. After all, she was no longer the powerful woman who once ruled Wall Street. Staying by his side as a housewife—he believed—was her best and only choice.

Hearing those words, Savina felt both pain and absurdity twist in her chest.

This was the man she had loved for seven years.

If love could rot like this, what about family? Could affection curdle, too, so completely that a father could abandon his own child without a shred of guilt?

Her fingers clenched into fists. She lifted her gaze to him and asked, each word measured and trembling, “Myron, I’ll ask you one last time. Are you really not going to care about our son? Are you really going to leave him in that lab to fend for himself?”

His eyes narrowed slightly. His voice dropped, calm but cutting.

“Can you stop being so paranoid, Savina? Helene told me herself that sending him to the lab is for better treatment. Nothing will happen to him.”

He frowned, his tone now laced with irritation. “Are you worried about our son—or are you just jealous of Helene, so you’re picking another fight?”

The light in Savina’s eyes dimmed. Just like that, her heart went cold.

Even now, he still thought this was about jealousy.

He truly had no idea that Helene had lied to him.

Savina had done her own investigation—none of the children who entered that research facility ever came out alive.

Her lips parted as she tried to tell him the truth.

“Myron, Helene lied to—”

But before she could finish, a noise erupted from the living room.

Myron’s expression changed instantly. Panic flickered across his face as he rushed out.

When she followed, she saw a side of him she’d never seen before—gentle, frantic, and utterly devoted.

Helene had simply bitten her lip while eating fruit, yet Myron immediately called the family doctor to treat the tiny wound.

He didn’t even notice that Savina’s palm was bleeding, blood dripping quietly between her fingers.

Her chest tightened with stabbing pain.

And then his voice struck like ice.

“Helene just got back from abroad. She hasn’t found a place to stay yet, so she’ll be living here for now.”

Before Savina could respond, Helene pouted delicately.

“Myron, that’s not really appropriate, is it? Savina already doesn’t like me. If I stay here, won’t it make her unhappy?”

Before Savina could speak, Myron cut in coldly.

“This is my house. If she’s not happy with it, she can leave.”

That made Savina freeze, her breath catching in her throat.

This was her house; the deed bore her name. He had once told her this was their home—built for both of them.

Helene’s lips curved into a coy smile. Her eyes gleamed with provocation as she pointed at the diamond pendant around Savina’s neck.

“Savina, I really like that peace pendant you’re wearing. I want that.”

Before Savina could say a word, Myron ordered coldly, “Savina, take it off. Give it to Helene.”

When they first started the business together, Savina had stayed up night after night to help Myron; the sleeplessness left her with a chronic illness and a fragile body.

The pendant around her neck was something he had begged for at a church, where he kneeled three times and asked for forgiveness just to pray for her safety. He had said it would keep her safe.

But now, the person Myron wanted to protect was Helene, and Savina didn’t want the pendant anymore.

Generously, she unclasped the safety charm from her own neck and handed it to Helene.

Myron’s face tightened. He knew Savina disliked Helene, and that pendant had been on her for seven years; she’d never once taken it off. He had expected her to refuse. He had not expected her to agree so readily.

That lack of control unsettled him. He frowned and asked sharply, “You always said that pendant was the most precious thing you had. Why are you giving it away so easily this time?”

Savina only lifted her head and met his gaze calmly. She returned his question with one of her own. “Wasn’t it you who told me to give it to her? Am I making you unhappy by doing it?”

Her teasing tone stole the words from Myron’s mouth. He had no reply.

After she handed the pendant over, Savina turned and left.

All day long, she kept herself busy purposefully without pause.

Myron convinced himself that her generosity was a show; he believed she would come find him within half a day. But evening arrived, and she had not stepped near him once. Instead, she had servants summon him to dinner.

Savina had prepared three dishes and a soup—a stranger’s gentle economy of household skill. She was already seated at the table when Helene arrived.

“Eat,” Savina said coldly.

On the table were the kinds of dishes Dike liked.

Savina was leaving at month’s end; now was the perfect time to practice.

Myron, ignorant of that motive, only supposed she’d cooked to please him. The thought put his unsettled heart at ease.

Helene sat down, too. Myron kept filling her plate, peeling lobster for her personally.

Meanwhile, Savina’s arm tensed—once, Myron had often done it for her, but now, he no longer did.

After a few plates, the spiciness of the food made Myron furrow his brow. “You know my stomach’s sensitive. I don’t like spicy food. Why did you make so many spicy dishes tonight?”

Savina glanced at him. Dike liked spicy food; these meals were meant for Myron.

Myron was eating them only because Savina refused to waste them. The words nearly left her mouth, but Helene beat her to it.

“Myron, don’t blame her. After all, both of you aren’t childhood friends. How would she know all your likes and dislikes? Don’t worry; I’ll make some other dishes for you.” With that, Helene tugged him toward the kitchen.

She chopped, and Myron hovered, worried she might cut her finger, so he handled the knife. She steered from behind while he stir-fried, afraid hot oil might splash on her.

Savina watched, slightly dazed. Once, she’d imagined being by Myron’s side like that—cooking together—but he had always said he had no time.

She realized now it wasn’t that he had no time; it was that the person had changed.

Savina rose to leave, unwilling to stay, but when she turned, the dishes were already brought out. Myron’s voice snapped, strict and loud.

“Stop. The guest has just finished cooking. What do you mean by getting up and making a face? Sit down!”

Savina clenched her fists, ready to refuse. Helene leaned close and whispered a threat into her ear, hush and harsh.

“If you don’t behave, I’ll have people hurt your son.”

Savina’s eyes went frighteningly red in an instant. For her child, she sat back down.

Across from Myron and Helene, Savina watched the two of them—his affectionate attention, the way he fed her again and again—and felt a sharp ache in her chest.

Myron kept spooning food into Helene’s plate; Helene deliberately said, “Savina, you’re not eating. Do you not like my cooking? Myron told me you aren’t picky. Could it be that… you simply don’t like me?”

Myron’s gaze hardened. “Savina, Helene made all these dishes herself. Don’t be ungrateful.”

Looking over the table of food, Savina gave a bitter little laugh. She was allergic to most of these dishes. Apparently, even Myron had forgotten.

When she still didn’t move, he slammed his fork and spoon down on the table.

She lifted her eyes to his. “I can eat,” she said, quietly. “But in exchange, let me see my son.”

At first, he wanted to refuse; Helene had told him the child was in treatment and could not see outsiders.

But when he looked into Savina’s eyes, he could not bring himself to say no. Finally, he answered, “Fine. I agree.”

Savina picked at the food with her fork and forced it down. Not long after, a rash covered her body in angry red bumps.

If Myron cared for her even a little, he would have noticed she was unwell. But his attention never wavered from Helene.

Suddenly, the difference between being loved and not being loved was so stark.

That night, Savina’s allergic reaction worsened. She went to find antihistamines. When she reached the stairs, Helene was standing there, arms full of allergy medicine.

She sneered as Savina approached. “You. I really don’t like you. Myron is mine, yet you had his child.”

“You or that child? You both deserve to die.” With that, Helene poured the pills into the sink and flushed them down.

Savina nearly reached out to teach her a lesson, but thinking of her son in her arms, she forced herself to turn and leave.

But Helene was not done yet; she blocked Savina and threw a stack of photographs at her—photos of Alonzo being abused.

In the pictures, the boy’s limbs were bound. Supposed “treatments” showed doctors repeatedly stabbing his body with needles and scalpels!

Blood seeped, and Savina’s vision blurred red.

At that moment, something inside her snapped. She grabbed Helene’s throat with both hands and hissed, “Bitch! If you lay a finger on my son, I’m gonna fucking kill you!”

But before she could strike hard, Myron lunged forward and shoved her away, then slapped her with brutal force. “Savina, you’re hurting Helene again!”

The blow stunned Savina; her head rang. It was the first time in all those years that he had hit her.

He paid no attention to the torn skin on her arms; he was wholly focused on Helene. He scooped the woman into his arms and murmured, “Helene, I’m sorry you had to experience this. I’ll take you away with me.”

Passing by Savina, he shoved her aside. She toppled to the floor; her shoulder crashed into a table, and she could not lift her arm.

But Myron did not spare a single word of concern; he simply turned and left.

When she moved her injured arm, she felt a stab of pain that cut to the bone.

The servants, unable to stand it, stepped forward. “Ma’am, you’re badly hurt. Would you like to go to the hospital?”

She managed a bitter smile. “No, thank you. I don’t need to.”

She forced herself upright and crawled back to her room. The first thing she did was call Dike.

“Dike,” she said, voice tight, “I know you have people in the country. Help me shorten the cooling-off period. I want to leave in seven days.”

Dike immediately made a few calls, and within minutes, everything was arranged.

Seven days later, Savina was finally free.

Her marriage with Myron had officially come to an end.

That night, pain consumed her—sharp, raw, and unrelenting. She didn’t go to the hospital, nor did she take any medicine.

She wanted to remember this pain and carve it into her bones. It was the price of loving the wrong man.

She drifted in and out of uneasy sleep, only to be jolted awake the next morning by Myron’s angry voice.

He had come to confront her.

“Savina! You’re the one who reported Helene to the hospital, aren’t you? She’s been suspended because of it. Are you proud of yourself now?”

Her head throbbed, her body hot with fever. Dazed, she forced herself to speak. “It wasn’t me.”

He let out a cold, mocking laugh. “Can’t even admit what you did? Seriously, I’m getting sick of you.”

Before she could defend herself further, Helene walked in—delicate and pitiful as always.

“Myron, let it go,” she said softly. “She probably just thinks I stole you from her. It’s my fault, really.”

Her act of meekness only deepened his pity for her—and his hatred for Savina.

“If you’ve done something wrong, you’ll face the consequences, Savina,” he said coldly. “No exceptions.”

She just stared at him in disbelief.

She had never once admitted to the accusations, but he had already made up his mind.

They spent seven years together, and yet, not once had he truly believed her.

Helene nestled into his arms, casting Savina a triumphant smile.

Then, she said sweetly, “Myron, actually, there’s one way I might be able to return to the hospital. Our lab’s been working on an anti-addiction compound using cannabis, but we haven’t found a suitable test subject. If Savina’s willing, she’d be perfect.”

In an instant, Savina’s face went pale.

Before she could speak, Myron answered on her behalf.

“Sure. Send her there.”

Savina snapped, her voice breaking. “Myron, are you insane?! That’s cannabis! It’s dangerous! You’d really risk my life for that woman?”

Helene raised a brow and smiled faintly. “Savina, that’s a harsh way to put it. Cannabis may be a toxin, but it also has medical value. You’d be doing something for the greater good. What a noble deed.”

Savina grabbed a pillow and hurled it at their faces. “If it’s such a noble deed, then you should go!”

Helene burst into tears, trembling like a victim of unspeakable cruelty.

Myron’s gaze hardened; he called for the guards.

“Take her to the lab. She’s not to return until the experiment is complete.”

Then, with chilling finality, he added, “This is what you owe Helene.”

As he turned and walked away, Savina felt something inside her shatter.

Myron… How cruel could one man be?

Once locked inside the laboratory, she fought back. She refused to be their test subject.

But every attempt to escape ended the same way—dragged back, shackled, her wrists and ankles bound in chains like an animal.

Each time she disobeyed, they shocked her body.

The people in white coats weren’t scientists. They were monsters!

On the first day, they injected cannabis directly into her veins, waiting to watch her body break—to see her beg.

On the second, they flooded her system with new “antibiotics,” testing her tolerance with no concern for her life.

By the third day, her mind was slipping away. But she saw Myron enter.

She cried out, desperate for help.

But he only said, expressionless, “If she can’t survive something this small, then it’s her fate.”

Those words extinguished the last bit of life in her heart.

And then, she stopped begging.

By the fifth day—the day she was supposed to be released—Savina looked unscathed on the outside.

But inside, she knew her body was nearly destroyed.

As she was leaving, she overheard two doctors talking.

“Mr. Lestrange’s child can’t hold on much longer. Should we send him to the hospital?”

“Absolutely not,” the other said. “If we do, everything we’ve done here will be exposed. It’s just one life. If he dies, he dies.”

Savina’s blood ran cold.

Her fists clenched so tightly her nails dug into her palms.

Alonzo…

She searched frantically until finally, mercifully, she found him.

He was barely breathing, his small arms bruised from countless injections.

Fighting back tears, she scooped him up and ran.

She drove as fast as she could toward the hospital, her hands trembling on the wheel. But the road ahead was blocked.

“Please,” she begged the staff, “let us through! My son’s dying!”

One of them shook his head apologetically. “I’m sorry, ma’am. This entire 13.14-kilometer stretch has been closed. Mr. Lestrange rented it out for Miss Helene, his beloved, for her birthday celebration.”

Suddenly, her heart stopped.

Her son’s breathing was growing weaker by the second.

“Mommy,” he whispered, voice fragile as air, “am I dying? Can you hold me again?”

Savina broke down completely. “Baby, please, just hold on a little longer, okay? Mommy’s going to get you out of here. Please, please don’t leave me…”

She clutched him tightly, but his body was growing colder.

He looked up at the sky, where fireworks burst in radiant color.

“Mommy… the fireworks are so pretty. But I won’t get to see them again.”

His lips trembled. “Mommy, I’m so cold. Hold me tighter…”

She screamed and sobbed, her voice hoarse. “Baby, I called the ambulance, please—don’t sleep. Don’t leave Mommy, hm? You’re all I have… Please… don’t go!”

But this time, there was no answer.

Her child… was gone.

At that same moment, as fireworks lit up the sky—the grand display of Myron’s love for Helene—their son took his last breath.

Savina lifted her gaze toward the brilliant night sky, her tears burning with hatred.

Her son was dead.

And she would never forgive Myron or Helene!