Horace sensed the ill intent and refused outright: “I don't play these games!”

But as soon as he took two steps back, the young man who had spoken stood up and slapped him across the face before he could react.

The crowd erupted in loud laughter: “Serves him right for daring to hit Godfery!”

Godfery smiled innocently: “Horace, don't take it personally. It's just a game.”

Amanda, standing beside him, watched coldly, reaching out to spin the bottle again. Her red lips uttered two words: “Continue!”

In that moment, Horace suddenly understood the reason he had been invited.

It turned out that kneeling in the rain wasn't enough!

He had slapped Godfery, and Amanda wanted him to repay it publicly, doubled.

So the spinning wine bottle kept pointing at him.

Ten times in total. When the final slap landed clearly, the bodyguards released their grip on him.

Horace felt a ringing in his ears. He slowly reached up and felt the swelling on his face.

“Amanda, you promised me you’d make me a birthday cake tonight,” Godfery suddenly spoke up.

Amanda smiled faintly and stood up: “Wait here, I’ll go to the kitchen.”

Before leaving, she stared deeply at Horace but said nothing.

As she departed, Godfery no longer wore his earlier gentle expression.

“How are you feeling now, Horace? Do you enjoy getting beaten up?”

But Horace completely ignored his provocation, merely curling his lips into a dismissive smile before standing up and leaving.

He knew this Master, who had just tasted the joy of victory, would certainly follow him—

Sure enough, as he stepped onto the top deck of the yacht, the sound of footsteps echoed behind him.

“Godfery, do you think... you really won?”

Horace suddenly spoke, stopping at the railing and smiling: “Do you know? Amanda said that once your body recovers and she’s repaid your kindness, she’ll kick you out of our house...”

“Shut up!” Godfery had never endured such provocation: “You’re just a lowly caregiver; how dare you be my opponent.”

He stepped forward, but Horace suddenly turned around and grabbed the collar of his custom-made suit.

“That night, was my mother also like that? She merely touched your handmade suit, and you...”

The rest of his words were drowned out by Horace's sobs.

But it was his pain that completely ignited Godfrey's sadistic pleasure: “Yes, you're right. She accidentally touched my clothes and refused to kneel and apologize. Thinking that she was your mother, I had no choice but to teach her a lesson.”

“You don't know how tragic it was to see her with her hands broken and her mouth stuffed, unable to scream.”

“It was the deck under your feet. Her blood flowed into the sea. By the way, I originally intended to break her right leg as well, but she struggled to survive and fell into the sea, which ended up killing her completely...”

His arrogant words made Horace's eyes flash with hatred: “You murderer!”

But Godfery merely laughed carelessly: “So what? Amanda trusts me. She even protected me in court!”

Horace’s grip on his collar tightened unconsciously: “But don’t forget, I’m her husband! Amanda can’t divorce me. As long as I’m alive, I’ll always be her husband!”

His words, spoken one by one, were like a spark igniting Godfery’s anger.

In that moment, he recklessly grabbed Horace by the throat.

The pressure on his neck grew tighter, his face turning red from the suffocation. Horace's words came out broken: “Let go! Are you trying to kill me? I'm telling you, as long as I'm alive, you'll never...”

In that same instant, he was slammed against the railing by Godfrey, the force sending a numbing shock through his back. The wedding ring on his ring finger slipped off.

As he struggled, Horace's upper body leaned over the railing, losing his balance, and he plummeted straight down from the third floor.

The second-floor banquet was bustling with activity, and the laughter drowned out the sound of his fall into the sea.

As the icy seawater seeped into his lungs, he oddly felt a warmth.

This seawater was where his mother had once existed.

So he wouldn’t cry, nor would he fear.

As he slowly closed his eyes, the second button of his black suit flashed a faint red glow.

There was a hidden camera inside.

The truths submerged in the sea would eventually be exposed to the light of day—

I froze.

And then the pain knocked me down completely. I collapsed, clutching my abdomen, the agony tearing through me.

The kind of betrayal I had only ever seen in movies had finally happened—to me.

Gritting my teeth, I dragged myself toward the front door and managed to yank it open. "Help…" I shouted.

Then, everything went black.

…

When I woke, a tall figure was sitting by my hospital bed.

It was Shane Lawson, the young doctor who lived in the apartment across from mine. He looked like he hadn't slept—dark circles hung under his eyes.

"Alison… why were you alone? Where was your husband? Do you even realize if I hadn't been walking my dog last night…"

He didn't finish. He looked at me, saw my state, and fell silent.

I couldn't blame him.

I stared at my swollen belly, still shaken. It looked like I was seven or eight months pregnant.

I kept clinging to the faint hope that what I had heard through the phone last night—those tangled, chaotic sounds—had just been a bad dream.

But when I unlocked my phone and saw the call log—15 seconds—I couldn't lie to myself anymore. My throat tightened, and tears spilled silently down my cheeks.

"Dr. Lawson, thank you for bringing me here. I'll transfer the ride cost to your PayPal."

I asked him to go home. I told him I was feeling better and that Vincent would be here soon.

Shane hesitated but finally left.

…

When I was alone again, I opened WhatsApp.

I couldn't do it while Shane was standing there—I was too afraid I would fall apart, too afraid of losing what little dignity I had left.

Vincent hadn't come back last night.

…

However, an hour after that phone call, he began messaging me.

There were over a hundred unread messages.

"Ali, did you call me? I didn't see it—I was working. My coworker must've answered. Are you okay?"

"Are you scared? I'm wrapping up soon, and I'll be home."

"I miss you, too."

After countless messages and declarations of love, two money transfers came through—143 dollars and 831 dollars.

The time was 6:00 am.

I broke down in tears, quietly at first. Then, I lost control completely and sobbed until my whole body trembled.

Vincent knew. He knew exactly what I had heard last night.

No one would feel guilty out of nowhere, and they sure didn't start declaring love all of a sudden.

Vincent was never the type to be openly affectionate. He could go a whole year without saying he loved me.

"Did you have a nightmare, darling? It's okay. I left a bouquet at the front door. Don't forget to grab it."

"I'll come back as soon as possible, I promise."

I stared at those messages for a long time. Then, I saw the follow-up texts he added later, the ones I never responded to.

Nausea climbed up my throat.

People didn't say "I love you" for no reason. They said it to silence the guilt—just a way to make themselves feel better.

I sat frozen, one hand pressed against my swollen belly, when the door creaked open.

A doctor stepped in. "Ms. Grant, you've developed severe ovarian hyperstimulation syndrome. There's fluid in both your chest and abdominal cavity. Your albumin levels have dropped, and your heart is under strain. We had to perform emergency surgery last night. Do you remember any of it?"

His voice echoed sharply in the sterile, quiet hospital room.

I finally understood how critical things had been last night.

They couldn't reach Vincent. His phone was off the entire time.

There was no one to sign the consent forms.

They could barely draw blood from me, and I had nearly died on that operating table.

I remembered now—how they had taken me awake in the middle of unconsciousness. I had signed the papers myself, scrawling a signature with a barely working hand.

This was our third IVF cycle. The first two ended in miscarriage.

Each time, I clung to hope. I endured it all for Vincent's dream of having a child.

I had lost count of the hormone injections. My stomach was covered in bruises and needle marks everywhere.

I swallowed pills by the handful.

Lying alone under cold machines, I was stripped of dignity, waiting for something that never came. The money drained away, and with each failure, his mother's words grew harsher—sharper, colder, and aimed straight at me.

After each loss, Vincent's eyes held nothing but quiet disappointment.

I had nothing to show for it—not a baby, not peace, not even the love I thought we had.

Maybe I had been too confident.

Even after surgery, my stomach was still bloated and round.

The doctor looked at me, sighing. "It's past 9:00 am. Your condition is serious. Where is your husband? Hasn't he come to see you? He's being incredibly irresponsible. Do you want me to call him for you?"

I shook my head and declined politely. I didn't want to trouble him.

Before leaving, he reminded me, "You'll need to stay hospitalized for now. Someone should really be with you during recovery."

I nodded and watched him walk out. Then I sat there, alone in that cold room, all day.

Vincent didn't call—not even once.

Eventually, I hired a caregiver on my own. I hadn't eaten all day and could barely manage a few spoonfuls of chicken soup when she arrived.

It wasn't until evening that Vincent finally showed up—rushed, breathless, and far too late.

Vincent said, "Ali! Why didn't you tell me you were in the hospital?"

Vincent burst through the door and rushed straight to me, pulling me into his arms like he was afraid I might vanish. His whole body trembled slightly, his face pale with panic, and even his eyes were red.

"Why didn't you tell me it was this serious? You didn't answer any of my messages! If I'd known, I wouldn't have stayed late at work.

"How can you be so careless? Even if you don't care, I do!"

I didn't say a word. My mind was still echoing with the voice I heard from him on the call last night.

He carefully packed up my things in the room, then went out to the nurses' station to speak with the doctor and get a full update on my condition.

…

When he came back and heard how close I came to not surviving the surgery, his face turned deathly pale. Then, right in front of me, he punished himself.

"Ali… If something had happened to you, I wouldn't want to live either."

I stared at my phone screen, my mind adrift.

Vincent thought I was still in shock, too scared to speak. He sat beside my hospital bed and laced his fingers tightly through mine.

Using the other hand, he pulled out his phone and made a call. "Cancel everything. I'm not coming into the office for the next few days—I'm staying with my wife. If anything comes up, let Albion handle it. Don't call me."

I glanced down at his fingers—pale and long, still wearing the same worn wedding ring I had slipped on ten years ago.

For a moment, it felt like nothing had changed.

He couldn't sit still. Within ten minutes, he had everything arranged and drove six miles to bring me back my favorite chicken soup.

I leaned back against the headboard while he sat at the edge of the bed, patiently feeding me one spoonful at a time.

Vincent blew gently on each spoonful, tested the temperature with his lips, and then carefully brought it to mine. "Ali, we don't have to rush the baby," he said. "What you went through… it scared me. If I lost you, I don't know how I'd keep going."

His voice cracked, his eyes red again. He meant I had suffered too much for him.

I finally said, "Vincent, I called you last night."

His hand paused midair. Just for a second, a flicker of panic crossed his face—barely there, but I saw it.

"I was working late and pulled an all-nighter. I must've missed the call—maybe the new intern picked up. We've been developing a new short-form drama series. You know, the kind with those bossy, controlling billionaire types everyone's obsessed with lately."

His explanation was flawless, but he hadn't realized—when something sounded that perfect, it was probably a lie.

I lowered my gaze to my stomach.

Bruises the size of fists were scattered across my skin. The marks left by countless needles. Tiny scars from all the procedures.

My throat tightened, and my eyes stung.

…

"Sorry to interrupt."

The door swung open without warning, and a wave of sweet, overpowering white floral perfume rushed into the hospital room.

A young woman, carrying a canvas tote slung over one shoulder, stepped in as if she owned the place.

The moment our eyes met, a chill ran down my spine. It was her—the girl from the call last night.

She held a fruit basket in her hands, her gaze shining with thinly veiled triumph and challenge.

Vincent's expression darkened instantly. He stood up and barked in a low voice, "Didn't I say I'm not coming to the office? Was that not clear enough for you?"

She clearly hadn't expected to be scolded. Her eyes brimmed with tears almost instantly—so full, so ready, it was almost impressive how quickly she could turn it on.

"Vincent, who is she? She looks so… heartbroken," I asked flatly, my voice laced with mock concern.

His expression turned even grimmer.

The girl flinched under my indifferent gaze and Vincent's cold silence.

She stumbled over her words, voice trembling. "I'm sorry, Mr. Dolton. I just… wanted to see how Mrs… I mean, Ms. Grant was doing. I didn't mean any disrespect."

"You should call me Mrs. Dolton," I reminded coldly, my eyes not leaving her face.

She didn't say a word. Her teeth sank into her bottom lip as she sniffled quietly, and then she set down the fruit basket and fled the room, slamming the door behind her.

Vincent didn't follow her.

Instead, he turned to me, already scrambling to explain. "Ali, don't overthink it. She's just a new intern—Madison Olson. Fresh out of college. She probably doesn't understand boundaries yet. She meant well."

I thought, "Meant well?"

I looked at the fruit basket she brought—it was packed full of nothing but pears. The smugness on her face might as well have been written in bold letters.

It was such a clumsy, pathetic performance, I almost felt embarrassed for her.

My body was still weak, and I fell asleep before 8:00 pm. Vincent lay beside me, holding me in his arms, his breathing slow and steady.

The room was silent and dark.

At some point, I heard a quiet rustling.

Vincent thought I was asleep. He carefully slipped out of bed, dressed quietly, and walked out of the room with his phone in hand.

As soon as the door closed behind him, I opened my eyes.

Two minutes later, I sat up, clutching my swollen belly. The pain stabbed at my sides as I dragged myself into a hospital wheelchair.

Inch by inch, I pushed toward the elevator on my own. When the elevator doors slid open and I reached the lobby, panic gripped me. I quickly rolled behind the wall to hide.

Vincent was standing right there in the lobby.

From my hiding place, I saw him with Madison. His arms wrapped around her, one hand cradling her head with aching tenderness.

Right in the middle of the busy hospital entrance, they kissed without hesitation, completely unbothered by the people walking past.

Ten whole minutes went by before they finally pulled apart, flushed and breathless, and walked off toward the parking garage hand in hand.

A sharp pain tore through my stomach, and my chest tightened until I could barely breathe. It felt like a thousand knives were twisting inside me.

Every step I took was hunched and agonizing. I could barely move, but I refused to stop.

I had to see it with my own eyes. I had to see the truth of the man I had loved for ten years.

In the parking garage, only one car remained with its lights on.