"Who was that woman?"

Dante Hendricks knew that cold voice all too well - the kind that could freeze a man to the bone.

He looked up indifferently and, upon seeing Randolph Carwyn, walked past him without stopping.

Randolph placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Tazanna is looking for you," he said in a dry tone.

Dante brushed his hand away with disdain.

"I've told you many times, I have nothing to do with her. Randolph, don't ever come talk to me about that again."

In his once dull eyes flashed a spark of hatred.

It was a completely different look from the one he'd had a few minutes ago.

"Tazanna has a fever. She's been delirious all day and night, calling out for you," Randolph insisted.

Meanwhile, Abigail, after climbing over the school wall as usual, finally felt she could breathe.

But her mind was still filled with the image of Randolph Carwyn.

Under the moonlight, his cold, sculpted face looked like marble. She would never forget that indifferent gaze, one that seemed to look down upon the world from an unreachable height.

It was a different kind of coldness than Dante Hendricks's.

Dante's was the coldness of a man who had given up on life; Randolph's was that of someone who ruled over the world and despised its misery.

For the first time, Abigail understood what true fear felt like.

Everything that had happened that night seemed like a dream. It was hard to believe so much had occurred in just a few hours.

The night wind grew colder. Abigail crossed her arms for warmth and walked toward the dormitory building.

"Abigail." A voice and a tap on her shoulder made her jump.

Acting on instinct, she pulled out her knife, but when she saw her friend Rishima, she let out a sigh of relief.

"Crazy cat. You scared me to death."

"Hey, I was just worried. You didn't answer your phone," Rishima said, sounding offended.

Abigail glanced sideways at her without replying. She let her friend take her arm as they walked to the dorm.

Fortunately, they lived on the second floor; otherwise, Abigail might have slept outside.

"Abigail, did something happen?" Rishima asked curiously.

On normal days, even if Abigail came back late from work, they always chatted a bit before sleeping.

But that night, her dull, distant face said everything.

"It's nothing," Abigail said, trying to sound natural. "But if you see any suspicious men around the school these days, tell me right away."

Her voice was tense.

"What? Gangsters at school? Abigail, did you offend someone?" Rishima asked, frightened.

"Don't ask so much. Just do it if you see something strange," Abigail said, trying to hide her fear.

She knew Claude wouldn't let her go so easily. She had to be prepared.

"Alright," Rishima nodded.

The two climbed up the building's drainpipe to their dorm window.

A week later.

"Abigail, wake up. You're going to be late."

Half-asleep, Abigail grumbled,

"What's the rush... I don't have class this morning... let me sleep... I worked all night..."

Rishima yanked the blanket away.

"Get up. Dante Hendricks is giving a speech at school today. Everyone's there, and you're still sleeping."

"Dante Hendricks? Who's that?" Abigail asked, eyes half-closed.

"You're unbelievable," her friend exclaimed. "Dante Hendricks, the future head of the Hendricks Group, is the only heir of the Hendricks family. Every girl's dream."

But as she looked closer at Abigail, Rishima noticed her red, swollen eyes and traces of dried tears.

Had she been crying last night?

School auditorium.

Abigail looked at the man on stage - the same face that had watched her that night at the bar - and a chill ran down her spine.

Now, dressed in a suit with a serious expression, he seemed completely different.

There was no trace of the decadent young man drowning himself in alcohol, yet his eyes were still clouded with sadness.

"So that's Dante Hendricks?" Abigail whispered, tugging at Rishima's sleeve.

"Yes, why do you ask? Hey, where are you going?"

Abigail didn't answer. She stood up and began pushing through the crowd.

"I don't want to hear any more," she said, walking away.

"You're skipping Dante? What a waste," Rishima shouted, confused.

But she stayed, fascinated by the chance to see such a famous heir in person.

"Don't push me."

"Watch my clothes."

"Ouch, my foot."

"Sorry, sorry," Abigail murmured as she moved slowly through the students.

I shouldn't have come, she thought.

Not far away, a rough-looking man with a nasty grin turned to another.

"Boss, isn't that the girl from the bar?"

Claude lifted his head.

"What? ... Ah, it's her. Get her."

He had been searching for her for days without success, and now she was right in front of him.

When Abigail heard the shouts behind her, her face went pale.

She started running, pushing people aside.

Behind her, chaos erupted.

"Students, please stay calm," the host shouted from the stage.

But amid the noise, a familiar cry made Dante raise his head.

That voice...

Through the crowd, he saw a woman throwing whatever she could find at the men chasing her.

Was it her?

Without thinking, Dante left the stage and ran after her.

He hadn't seen her in a week.

He hadn't gone back to the bar since that night.

He'd thought their paths would never cross again.

But fate seemed to have other plans.

"Mr. Dante, where are you going?" someone shouted behind him.

At the end of the hallway.

Abigail ran until she reached a blind spot.

"Stop her."

"There she is."

Two thugs approached with machetes in their hands, laughing maliciously.

"Ah." Abigail tried to jump the railing to fall to the lower floor, but she slipped and lost her balance.

At that moment, there were sounds of blows and cries of struggle not far away, then the dull thud of bodies falling.

A hand, with bone almost exposed, appeared before her.

Blood dripped from the tips of Dante Hendricks's fingers, staining Abigail's terrified face.

"Why are you here?" he asked in a hoarse voice.

"I will get you out of there," he added, holding back the pain as he tried to grab her arm.

"Watch out behind you." Abigail suddenly shouted.

Dante turned instinctively, but the machete grazed his arm, leaving a deep, bleeding wound.

"Ugh," he uttered a muffled groan. Dizzy, he fell against the wall, the red of the blood spreading across his white shirt.

The color was so intense it hurt to look at.

"Please let me go. I will give you whatever you want. Money, anything, just don't hurt me." Abigail begged, clutching the railing, tears blurring her vision.

Her feet barely touched the floor; she could not hold on or jump.

"Will you run again, damn her. Run if you can," one mocked, setting the machete aside and stretching his hand to break her fingers.

"No, please," she whimpered, gripping the railing harder.

She could not die.

Her sister was still waiting for her. She needed to keep living to send money for the treatment.

"Move aside," the other gang member roared. "I will kill her today."

He raised the machete above his head.

At that instant, Abigail let go of the railing and fell.

Five floors.

"No," Dante shouted, reaching out his hand toward her.

The void echoed him back.

He ran down the stairs, searching through the crowd, but found no trace of her.

"Where is she?" he murmured, desperate.

His gaze fell on a garbage truck stopped in the middle of the street.

It was right under the spot where she had fallen.

"Are you in there?" he asked in a low voice, approaching.

Silence.

He frowned, leaned over, and peered inside.

Suddenly, Abigail sprang up inside the truck, holding the knife and pointing it at his chest.

"You." Dante froze.

"You're still alive," was all she said.

Seeing the blood streaming from his arm, her face tightened. Without a word, she climbed down from the truck and began to walk in the opposite direction.

Dante followed her, staggering, leaving a trail of blood behind him.

They left the campus and reached an abandoned factory.

There, Abigail opened an old box and took out a bottle of disinfectant. She began calmly cleaning his wounds.

From the doorway, Dante watched her in silence.

Something pushed him to step closer.

Although he kept telling himself she was not Orabelle, that voice, that motion when she lowered her gaze, confused him more and more.

"You scared me," Dante murmured without thinking.

Abigail glanced at him briefly and continued tending the wound.

"Don't worry. Even if they had wanted to cut my fingers off, I would not have let go. Nothing is worth more than life."

Her voice was calm, but the words hurt like knives.

"Do you want to live like this so much?" Dante asked suddenly, almost to himself.

"Even if I live like a dog, I will keep living," she answered without hesitation.

She finished bandaging his arm with an old cloth.

"Is that how you always treat wounds?" he frowned. "I will take you to the hospital."

"You are the one who should go to the hospital," she replied, looking at the blood staining his own bandage. "I have no money, no time. Rich people like you can afford to fall and get up. I cannot. So if you have nothing else to do, go. I don't want you following me."

She still did not understand what game that man was playing.

Dante listened with a furrowed brow.

"That day, I ordered him to be taken care of. I didn't know it would affect you like this. I'm sorry."

"I don't need your apologies," she answered coldly. "I cannot carry the guilt of a rich man."

"Is that why you didn't return to the bar?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.

He only wanted to keep hearing her voice.

"Don't worry," he continued. "Those gangsters won't bother you again."

But his body could no longer hold up. Dizzy, he fell to the side onto a pile of scrap. His face turned as pale as paper.

"Do you want me to treat the wound?" Abigail asked, approaching cautiously.

Dante did not answer.

She sighed. "Forget it, suit yourself."

But as she turned, she felt her wrist gripped tightly.

"Alright. I will help you."

Abigail cleaned and bandaged his wound gently.

Between silences, Dante asked her name.

"Abigail," she repeated, her voice barely audible.

In his mind, the name was mixed with another.

Abigail. Orabelle.

Both names spun in his head like an echo that tormented him.

"Are you okay?" Abigail asked, noticing him close his eyes.

He did not reply.

Sweat soaked his brow; he had lost too much blood.

"I will take you to the hospital. But I cannot pay the bill, I will only leave you there," she said, biting her lip.

Although she knew it would be a problem, she lifted him with effort.

Suddenly, a cold, authoritative voice rang from the door.

"What have you done to Dante Hendricks?"

"What have you done to Dante Hendricks?"

It was the voice of Randolph Carwyn.

His cold eyes, full of threat, fixed on Abigail.

She looked at him, then at the unconscious man beside her. Finally, she let go and ran toward the back door.

That man was dangerous. Her instincts screamed it.

"Dante. Dante, damn it." Randolph called several times, getting no response.

Cursing under his breath, he lifted him and carried him out.

Before leaving, he stopped for a moment.

His gaze fell on the open back door and the blood-stained cotton on the floor.

His brow furrowed.

"What the hell was this guy doing here?" he murmured.

Unless...

He didn't finish the sentence. Clenching his teeth, he left in haste.

At the hospital.

Dante slowly opened his eyes. His eyelids felt as heavy as lead.

Around him, only the rhythmic sound of machines and a deep, familiar voice.

"Who was that woman?"

That phrase... he had heard it again and again over the past year.

He didn't even need to look to know Randolph was there.

Dante brought a hand to his temple; the movement made him wince in pain.

The hospital.

Had he lost consciousness?

How had Randolph found him?

Questions tangled in his confused mind.

"I don't know," he finally murmured weakly.

"You expect me to believe that," Randolph replied with a sarcastic smile.

"I've seen you with her twice. Twice, she's run away the moment I appear. And you tell me you don't know her."

"I don't know," Dante repeated with a sigh.

In truth, he only knew her name - Abigail.

He knew she worked at the Golden Beach bar.

Nothing more.

Randolph looked at him harshly, seeing the secret hidden in his eyes.

He grabbed him by the collar of his bloodstained shirt and lifted him slightly.

"Dante Hendricks. Tazanna is like this because of you, and it's still not enough for you.

A year ago, you hurt her because of another woman, and now... again.

Who the hell is that girl?

Are you going to tell me you've already forgotten her?" His voice vibrated between fury and contempt.

"In your life, you can only marry Tazanna Carwyn," he added, biting off each word.

Dante calmly pushed his hand away.

"Don't bother her. I've only seen her twice."

"Twice." Randolph let out a bitter laugh.

"Twice is enough for a man like you to lose his head.

That woman must be truly special."

He shoved him violently, making him fall back against the pillow.

"Tazanna wants to see you. If you don't want her to die, come with me to the Carwyn mansion," he said at last, regaining his coldness.

Silence hung heavy.

Dante closed his eyes, exhausted.

"Randolph... do you really think it makes sense to keep forcing this?"

"You owe her your life," the other growled.

"I hate her," Dante murmured with a bitter smile.

Every time he saw Tazanna, Dante fell into a pit of despair.

His feelings toward her had become tangled.

He knew that Tazanna Carwyn had been the cause of Orabelle's death a year ago.

And yet, after she lost her mind, he still visited her, carrying a guilt he couldn't explain.

He drank every night, glass after glass.

But that night, amid the music and smoke, he heard a voice.

A voice so familiar, so alive, he thought he was dreaming.

She... had she come back.

He ran toward the door, staggering, chasing the silhouette disappearing into the crowd.

"Orabelle," he shouted, his voice raw with anguish.

His cry echoed through the empty streets. Some passersby stopped to stare.

"It can't be. She's gone," he muttered, clutching his head.

The wound on his arm reopened, staining the white bandage red.

The contrast of colors under the dim light looked unreal.

"Dante Hendricks." A woman's voice, clear as a silver bell, sounded behind him.

Abigail, who had been crouched tying her shoelaces, froze when she saw him swaying in front of her.

He looked at her, stunned.

"Orabelle," he exclaimed and hugged her desperately.

His hoarse, trembling voice broke against her ear.

Abigail could barely breathe.

"Let me go. Dante Hendricks, let me go, you madman."

She tried to push him away, but his strength was crushing.

He held her tighter.

"No... I won't let you go. I won't lose you again. Orabelle, you're mine. I won't let anyone hurt you.

This whole year I've searched for you, missed you every single day."

His words, soaked in alcohol and despair, both irritated and confused her.

"I'm not Orabelle." Abigail shouted, struggling.

But for the first time, she felt a pang of pity.

That man, who seemed so proud, was broken inside.

Maybe... he just needed a hug.

She stayed still, letting him cry on her shoulder.

"You are Orabelle," he whispered. "I would recognize your voice anywhere."

Her voice.

So... was all of this just because her voice sounded like another woman's?

A sudden anger surged through her.

She felt used, deceived.

She stomped hard on his foot.

"Dante Hendricks, wake up."

He let out a cry of pain and looked at her, confused.

"Abigail?"

But before he could react, a bucket of cold water splashed over his head.