“You don’t need to prepare a gift,” Adrian continued. “Just being there is enough. Dress elegantly, but don’t outshine Vivian. She loves being the center of attention, and it’s her birthday.”

His voice softened again, but Elena rubbed her arms against the cold crawling through her veins.

She had always known Adrian’s relationship with Vivian wasn’t ordinary, but she never imagined her marriage would collapse in such a humiliating way.

She excused herself with a quiet “I’m tired” and went upstairs.

The next day, at Vivian’s birthday gala.

Adrian presented her with a diamond necklace worth tens of millions. Elena’s expression didn’t change as she watched, though her chest tightened.

The diamonds sparkled so brilliantly that the crowd gasped.

“Mr. Shaw is as generous as ever,” someone sighed. “Every year he never misses Vivian’s birthday.”

“Yes, last year he gave her a custom crown. She looked just like a princess.”

Vivian blushed shyly.

“Don’t tease me. Adrian and I are just friends.”

“Adrian, I told you not to give me such expensive gifts. Elena already misunderstands our relationship—I don’t want to cause trouble in your marriage.”

Adrian glanced back. Elena stood with folded arms, her face blank. His jaw tightened.

“She won’t misunderstand,” he said curtly. “Elena knows better.”

The crowd read between the lines. Here, in Vivian’s presence, Elena was nothing.

Whispers floated:

“She should count herself lucky marrying into the Shaw family. And she still causes drama?”

“Exactly. If Vivian really wanted Mr. Shaw, Elena wouldn’t even be in the picture.”

Elena lifted a glass from a passing tray, ignoring the words like buzzing flies. Standing there quietly, she looked like a painting.

But Adrian’s displeasure grew—especially when he noticed other men’s eyes drifting toward her.

Vivian swayed over, champagne in hand.

“Elena, your birthday’s coming soon too, isn’t it? What will Adrian get you? Tell us so we can all be envious.”

“Why not host a gala of your own? We’d love to celebrate with you.”

The guests chimed in mockingly.

“With gifts worth tens of millions for Vivian, his wife must get something even grander.”

“A gala? Who would attend?”

Their ridicule lingered in the air.

Elena said nothing, but Adrian stepped forward, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“Of course, my wife deserves the best,” he declared. “But surprises should remain surprises. You’ll all see on her birthday.”

“As for a gala, no need. Elena prefers things quiet—we’ll celebrate at home.”

Then, lowering his voice so only she could hear, Adrian warned, “Don’t ruin the mood. Tonight is Vivian’s night. And remember—I told you not to steal her spotlight.”

Elena’s gaze flicked to Vivian in her champagne-colored gown. Elegant makeup, delicate styling—yet it all felt false.

She downed her wine in one gulp and looked Adrian in the eye.

“Stealing her spotlight?” she said coolly.

“Didn’t your thirty-million-dollar necklace already give her all the spotlight?”

Elena Carter’s words left Adrian Shaw faintly displeased.

Before he could speak, however, Vivian Cole called him away.

“Mr. Shaw’s love life is truly enviable.”

“Yes, Elena is so lucky, marrying a man like Mr. Shaw.”

Vivian chimed in with a sweet smile, “Knowing Elena married so well, I’m genuinely happy for her.”

She walked over and linked arms with Elena, her grip leaving no room for refusal.

As the two drew close, Vivian’s lips curved, her voice a whisper meant for Elena alone:

“I don’t know what Adrian prepared for you tonight, but do you think it might just be another accessory to match my necklace?”

“Elena, you’re really like a pitiful dog. Truly pathetic.”

When she raised her eyes again, her gaze was soft, her expression intimate as she clung to Elena.

Elena wanted to pull back, but when she lifted her eyes, Adrian’s warning look stopped her. She swallowed her protest—this was not the time for conflict.

“Come on, let’s cut the cake together,” Vivian said with a practiced smile.

As they neared the Champagne Tower, Elena realized too late what was about to happen.

The glittering structure crashed down in an instant. She tried to move away, but the hem of her gown was deliberately pinned beneath a foot. The champagne flutes shattered across her, fragments slicing her skin, blood blooming scarlet against pale flesh.

Adrian’s eyes sharpened, and he instinctively stepped forward.

“Elena—”

But before he reached her, Vivian’s weak, tearful cry rang out:

“Adrian, my wrist—it hurts!”

He froze.

His stride shifted without hesitation, redirecting toward Vivian, who sat theatrically on the floor, clutching her wrist.

Adrian knelt, his face etched with concern. Without a second thought, he scooped her into his arms in a bridal carry and strode toward the exit.

As he passed Elena, his expression darkened with impatience.

“Vivian has always been delicate. I’ll take her to the hospital first. Yours are only superficial wounds—go later, on your own.”

And without waiting for her reply, he was gone.

Elena watched Vivian nestled smugly in Adrian’s arms, the faint red mark on her wrist displayed for Elena alone, a mocking smile tugging at her lips.

Dragging her battered body, Elena staggered toward the exit.

The guests had all come for Vivian’s birthday gala. Seeing Elena humiliated was entertainment enough; none thought to help her. She leaned against the wall, inch by inch, each step pulling fire through her wounds.

She remembered clearly—the moment the tower fell, Vivian had crushed her gown beneath her heel. And when Elena turned, Vivian had smiled triumphantly.

Elena knew what that smile meant.

Vivian had won.

A sharp pain twisted her stomach, metallic bitterness rushing up her throat. Before she could brace herself, she was vomiting blood into her hand, crimson staining her pale fingers.

“Miss, are you alright?” A waiter’s voice, hesitant and concerned.

Elena forced a strained smile. “I’m sorry… I dirtied the floor. Where’s the restroom?”

After he pointed the way, she dragged her trembling body toward the bathroom, rinsing the blood from her hands before resolving to head to Memorial Hospital.

But as she stepped into the lobby, her gaze caught a familiar figure.

When Damian Shaw saw her, the cold detachment in his eyes vanished, replaced with something she couldn’t decipher. His stride quickened toward her.

“What happened to you?”

Damian’s voice was low, dangerous, his sharp eyes cutting toward the waiter.

The young man flinched. “I—I’m not sure. They said the champagne tower in the private room collapsed… it may have struck her.”

“Who was inside?” Damian’s tone dropped to a growl.

“Miss Cole,” the waiter answered, trembling.

Damian’s eyes darkened, and it seemed he had already guessed the truth.

“Uncle,” Elena interrupted quickly, unwilling for him to press further.

“Let’s just go to the hospital.”

Without waiting for her protest, Damian noted the pain in her faltering steps and swept her effortlessly into his arms.

“Uncle, put me down! If someone sees—”

Her panic was real; if anyone witnessed this, scandal would be impossible to explain away. She buried her head in his chest as passing eyes turned toward them. She dared not move.

Damian’s gaze grew darker, his throat tightening as he swallowed hard. The unfamiliar surge of emotion rose—but he forced it down.

Not yet.

Inside Memorial Hospital, a nurse carefully cleaned Elena’s wounds. Tiny shards of glass had embedded deep, each one painstakingly removed.

Damian leaned against the doorway, arms folded, his silence heavy.

From the hotel to the hospital, he had not spoken a word. His silence pressed down on Elena like iron.

And the memory of the last time she’d been in his home—leaving behind her underwear there by accident—still burned in her cheeks.

“All done. Keep the wounds dry for a while. Apply the medicine daily. Nothing too serious,” the nurse said, before leaving.

Damian stepped inside and, instead of escorting her out, sat down beside her bed.

“Tell me. What happened?”

“Were you bullied?”

His fingers tapped across his phone screen, his dark gaze unreadable. The weight of him was both frightening and protective.

It wasn’t the first time he had saved her.

But she could not tell him the truth. He was Adrian’s uncle. She still knew her boundaries.

Outside, two young nurses whispered as they passed the corridor.

“Did you see? Mr. Shaw carried Miss Cole in like she was made of porcelain. And all for just a little redness on her wrist!”

“During the treatment, she cried about the pain, and he held her in his arms the whole time. It was like something out of a drama series!”

…

Elena’s eyes remained calm, though her heart twisted faintly. But the ache of her body numbed the pain in her chest.

Damian studied her bowed head, his expression darkening further. He stood abruptly. “I’ll go check.”

Alarmed, Elena grabbed his arm. The sudden movement sent pain searing through her ribs, her breath catching in a hiss.

“Don’t.”

Her voice shook—whether from the sting of her wounds or the torment inside, he could not tell.

His jaw tightened. “Fine. I won’t. Sit still.”

He sank back into his chair with a sigh.

“My matters with Adrian are complicated. I can handle them myself. Thank you for helping me today, Uncle, but this fight is mine.”

Her words were quiet, resolute.

Damian’s gaze lingered on her, shadowed, but he said no more.

“…Alright.”

Uncertain of his temper, Elena lowered her eyes. Had her repeated refusals angered him?

But when she glanced up, he was already gathering her medicine.

“Come. I’ll take you home.”

She rose carefully. With the bandages binding her wounds, the pain dulled enough for her to walk slowly on her own. Damian followed, silent, steady.

As they passed through the first-floor lobby, Elena’s breath hitched. There he was again—Adrian—cradling Vivian like a fragile treasure, carrying her out with infinite care.

Her eyes burned, but before the tears could fall, a large hand covered her vision, shielding her.

“Don’t torment yourself.”

His scent—faint tea leaves—wrapped around her. So close, so steady, it unsettled her more than she wished.

“…Thank you, Uncle.”

Exhaling, Elena steadied herself, then lifted her head with practiced composure and walked on as though nothing had happened.

At the gates of the mansion, she turned to thank him, but Damian spoke first.

“If you need me, for the Shaw family or anything else, call me.”

He handed her a business card, his tone as cold as ever, but with a trace of something softer—an unspoken care.

She froze, card in hand.

“…Alright. Drive safe, Uncle.”

He waved her toward the door. She nodded and stepped inside.

In his car, Damian pulled out his phone. A message from his aide, Mark West, glowed on the screen:

Mark: Mr. Shaw, everything’s been investigated. Do you want me to release it now?

Damian’s fingers brushed over the rosary beads in his hand, shadows cloaking his gaze. Danger seemed to pulse from him.

After a pause, he replied:

Damian: Not yet. Reject the contract Cole Corporation offered. No cooperation.

She wanted to fight her own battles—so he would let her.

As for Adrian, Damian’s lips curved in a cold smile.

Fool.

It seemed his own plans would need to move forward sooner than expected.