Bradley hadn’t noticed Eva standing with her back to him. His attention was fixed entirely on the rare, simmering anger on Layla’s usually composed and aloof face.

He had just changed out of his monk’s robes. Now, the bamboo-green brocade he wore accentuated his tall, elegant frame. His shaved head—a remnant of his monastic life—was well-shaped but conspicuously bare.

Seeing Bradley, Eva threw herself at his feet. Her protector had arrived. She flung the handkerchief to the ground, knelt, and let tears well in her eyes. “Master,” she whimpered, “Lady Layla accused me of stealing her handkerchief. She struck me and is forcing me to kneel here until tomorrow…”

Only then did Layla get a clear look. The handkerchief was the one she had stayed up late embroidering for Bradley just days before.

The anger on her face drained away. Of course. Without his tacit permission, without his indulgence, how would a mere concubine-maid dare to act so arrogantly in front of the mistress of the manor?

It was simply that the favored one could afford to be brazen.

Bradley strode over quickly. Recognizing the woman with her back to him as Eva, a flicker of surprise passed through his eyes.

“Layla, why trouble a servant?” he said. “I gave her that handkerchief. She is, after all, my person. Don’t be difficult at a time like this.”

Layla’s expression turned to ice. “Bradley,” she replied, her voice cold. “You saved my life once. I married you, endured three years of a loveless marriage, and spent three more on my knees copying sacred texts and praying for your spiritual well-being. We are square. Today, by what right do you accuse me?”

Bradley was bewildered. Just yesterday, she had called him ‘husband’ at every turn. Why use his name so insistently now?

“I am your husband,” he retorted. “You ask me by what right?”

“That life-debt is in the past,” Layla stated flatly. “Let’s not bring it up again.”

“My destined calamity has been averted,” Bradley went on, as if not hearing her. “And I now understand your true feelings. Tomorrow, I will return to the manor to consummate our marriage. Don’t be difficult now.”

Layla shook her head. Her gaze fell on the handkerchief lying on the ground—soaked and stained black. A profound weariness washed over her.

She stepped on it, a bitter smile twisting her lips. “Consummate our marriage? If I had ever cared for such a thing, you wouldn’t have enjoyed such a carefree life these past three years.”

With that, she turned to leave. “Tomorrow. I’ll be waiting for you in the study.”

But Eva quickly grabbed the hem of Layla’s skirt. On her knees, she shuffled forward and began pressing her forehead to the ground in supplication. “Lady Layla, the master and you share mutual affection. These past three years, this humble servant has seen it with her own eyes…”

Layla stared at Bradley’s expression, which was gradually turning icy. Slowly, she closed her eyes. “Enough,” she said, her voice weary. “Let’s end this farce here. Bradley, whom you wish to elevate to share my title is your prerogative. But my stance remains: my husband can have only me.”

She turned her gaze to the tear-streaked Eva. “And you—you spoke to me with your nose in the air just moments ago. Why play the victim now? You’ve mastered the tricks of the inner chambers quite expertly for a lowly concubine-maid.”

Layla’s words were brutally direct. Eva’s face drained of color. She looked to Bradley in desperation. “Master, I didn’t…”

Bradley’s heart ached for her. He reached out to help Eva up. But she squeezed her eyes shut, then suddenly lost her footing, teetering on the edge of the stone steps.

Her hands flailed wildly. In her panic, she grabbed Layla’s arm. Both women lurched forward, losing their balance.

Behind them lay the deep, seemingly endless staircase. Eva shrieked, “Bradley, save me!”

Pulled by Eva’s grip, with the icy ground already treacherously slick, Layla couldn’t control her own body as it pitched backward.

Instinctively, she reached out a hand, a plea escaping her lips. “Husband!”

But in Bradley’s eyes, there was only a fleeting moment of conflict before he swiftly, decisively, caught Eva.

Just before being pulled to safety, Eva’s voice—faint yet crystal clear—reached Layla’s ears.

“Still untouched after all this time—you must be aching for it. Let me give you a little taste.”

Under the cover of their billowing robes, she planted a foot against Layla’s chest, using the force to propel herself securely into Bradley’s embrace.

Layla had no time to process the words. The cold, hard edges of the stone steps slammed violently into her back, her chest, her temple.

She couldn’t stop herself from tumbling down. The onlookers along the walkway dared not intervene.

On a heavy snowy day like this, with the steps frozen over, one had to tread carefully even when walking. How could they possibly withstand the force of a full-grown person rolling down?

Layla fought desperately, trying to grab onto any branch or protruding stone to slow her fall.

But her nails splintered, her fingertips scraped raw, leaving a trail of bloody smears. She couldn’t grasp anything that could save her.

“Bradley! Save me!”

She screamed for him with all her might. But Bradley seemed not to hear. He was solely focused on comforting the frightened Eva, holding her close as he turned and led her back toward his monastic quarters.

Nine hundred and ninety-nine steps. Even wrapped in fox fur, Layla still fell, her head cracking open on the stone, her bones screaming as if ground to splinters. Her clothes hung in tatters, fluttering in the bitter wind.

She knew every one of these steps intimately—which paving stone was loose, which one had a chipped corner.

But they were heartless, dead things. Three years of kneeling, three years of intimate familiarity, and they remained as hard and unyielding as iron.

Just like him. Heartless.

Layla lay in the snow, watching the endless sky scatter its white flakes. A desolation vaster than the sky opened up inside her.

A blur of shouting reached her ears. She moved her lips, but no sound came out.

The crowd of pilgrims surrounding her was suddenly shoved aside.

"Move! Get out of the way! Nothing to see here!"

Several men in coarse cloth rushed in, hauled Layla up, and started dragging her away.

Forced upright, her consciousness fading, she swayed and nearly collapsed again. Every bone felt shattered, immobile. With all her strength, she could only manage a whisper thin as a mosquito's hum. "Who are you? I don't know you!"

They bundled her roughly into a waiting carriage, their voices loud and brash. "Madam, you've taken this tantrum far enough. Look at the state you're in! How are we supposed to explain this to the master?"

Nearby bystanders heard this and shrugged it off as just another noble family's domestic dispute. As the carriage rattled away into the distance, they gradually dispersed.

Only then did Layla understand what Eva had meant with her parting words.

The carriage traveled several miles to a dilapidated temple. The men dragged her out.

They lunged at her, tearing at her clothes. Layla clawed desperately at the ground, trying to crawl away, but it was useless.

One of them leered, "Pretty thing, whatever your man couldn't give you, we brothers here will make sure you get your fill!"

Layla's lips were bloodless. She trembled. "How much did Eva pay you? I'll give you ten times! Just stay away!"

A man with a limp yanked her by the hair, dragging her back like a ragdoll. "Ten times? Don't make me laugh. After we've had our fun, we'll have that bitch by the throat. You think we'll ever want for money again?"

With that, he ripped open the skirt of her dress. A flash of pale thigh was exposed.

A knife-sharp cold shot through Layla. She clutched the tattered remnants of her cloak, pressing it desperately between her legs.

Just as the limping man was about to force himself upon her, he grunted suddenly and pitched forward, collapsing to the ground.

Behind him stood Julia, holding a shattered clay pot, her face streaked with blood, her eyes like those of a vengeful spirit.

She glared at the remaining men, her voice ringing out. "Come on then! Touch my lady again, I dare you! I'll take every last one of you with me!"

Brandishing the sharp fragment of pottery, she moved slowly to stand in front of Layla, shielding her.

Seeing it was just a young maid, the men's initial fear evaporated.

One of them sneered. "What? Worried we won't have enough fun? Come to join the party?"

Julia yanked the large ceremonial blade from the moss-covered hands of a forgotten temple's guardian statue. With a wild cry, she charged, slashing madly.

Unarmed and unwilling to risk their lives, the men shoved each other in their panic and fled.

Layla lay on the ground, watching as Julia dropped the heavy blade. Her whole body shaking, Julia stumbled over and gathered Layla into her arms, tears streaming down her face silently. She didn't dare make a sound—afraid of frightening her lady, even more afraid the men might hear and return.

Layla tried to lift an arm to hug her back, but she didn't have the strength to even raise a hand.

"Julia, don't cry," Layla whispered, her voice a thread. "We're done with this life. We're not living like this anymore."

Julia nodded fiercely, her tears falling faster. "They've already sent word to the border, by the fastest horse. To Anthony's Manor. We're leaving Bradley's Manor. We're not staying here!"

Finally allowing her defenses to drop, a wave of blackness swept over Layla. Her last coherent thought before she lost consciousness was:

*In seven days, our paths diverge. Forever.*

*Bradley, you and I… we're finished.*