I hung up the phone.

Ian always knew exactly what I feared most. My mother was my only weakness.

I couldn't gamble her ashes on Ian's humanity. He had none.

There was a knock on the door. A servant delivered a change of clothes and dinner.

I had no appetite. Mechanically, I shed the heavy wedding gown.

Looking at myself in the mirror, wearing unfamiliar pajamas, I felt a wave of disorientation.

How was I supposed to explain this to Leland?

Tell him I had to go back, to the hell I had just escaped?

I couldn't. I wouldn't drag him into it.

The Wades and the Rileys were evenly matched. If I caused a direct conflict, it would do Leland no good.

I already owed him too much.

At four in the morning, while everyone slept, I quietly slipped out of the Riley estate.

I hailed a ride and gave the driver the address of Ian's private villa.

The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror, eyes flicking with curiosity.

A young woman heading to a remote wealthy district in the dead of night wasn't exactly normal.

The car stopped in front of the villa. The massive iron gates slowly opened.

Lights burned in the living room. Ian sat on the sofa, the ashtray in front of him overflowing with cigarette butts.

He heard the footsteps and lifted his head.

His eyes were bloodshot, sharp and dark.

I stepped toward him, each step measured.

I expected anger, accusations, maybe even violence.

But there was none of that.

He simply stood, walked over, took off his suit jacket, and draped it over me.

"It's cold outside. How come you're dressed like that?" he said, his voice gentle, but a shiver ran down my spine.

He pulled me onto the sofa, then turned and went into the bathroom.

When he returned, he had a dry towel in his hands.

He sat beside me, carefully drying my hair.

"Your hair's wet. You'll catch a cold."

His fingertips brushed my scalp occasionally, carrying a faint, burning warmth.

I froze, sitting rigidly, too cautious to move.

I didn't know what game he was playing this time.

This calm before the storm was more terrifying than a direct hurricane.

"Margot," he suddenly spoke, his voice low and hoarse.

"I know why you're angry. I shouldn't have abandoned you at the wedding. I'm sorry."

He held my hand, pressing it to his lips.

"But Jemma… she has depression. I can't ignore her."

The same excuse as before.

In my last life, he had used Jemma's depression to hurt me again and again.

Looking into his falsely tender eyes, I felt nothing but revulsion.

"If you just behave, we can go back to how things were. Okay?" he asked as he pulled a document from under the coffee table and placed it in front of me.

"What's this?" I asked.

"A contract."

A victorious smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Jemma's recently taken an interest in design. She wants to break into the field. But she has no foundation. She'll need someone backing her up."

My heart sank bit by bit.

"You have talent, Margot. You'll be her artist. You'll paint all the pieces for her upcoming collection."

He caressed my cheek.

"Once this collection launches, I'll arrange the best team of specialists abroad for your mother's surgery, and you can accompany her in the hospital."

He stroked my face again. "As long as you obey, she'll live a long life."

I couldn't risk my mother's life in the ICU on Ian's humanity. Any chance of survival meant I had to comply.

He wanted me to be Jemma's gun for hire, to use my talent to pave her way to stardom.

And I was supposed to feel grateful for it. Looking at his feigned tenderness, I lowered my eyes, hiding all my hatred.

"Okay," I found myself saying it.

I was locked inside the studio on the third floor of the villa.

This place used to be my favorite. Now, it was my cage.

My phone was confiscated. Ian said it was so I could focus on creating, free from outside distractions.

I knew the truth. He wanted to cut off every possible line between me and Leland.

The studio had its own bathroom and a small resting area. Three meals a day were delivered by servants on schedule.

Aside from not being allowed to leave the room, everything looked the same as before.

But only I knew something had shattered beyond repair.

Jemma became a regular visitor.

She came every day, officially to supervise, in reality to humiliate me.

She would hold a cup of coffee, stroll back and forth in front of my finished designs, then "accidentally", her hand would slip, and the coffee would ruin the entire drawing.

"Oh no, I'm so sorry, Margot," she would say, covering her mouth, her eyes glittering with smug delight. "But you draw so fast anyway. You can just do another one, right?"

Expressionless, I would take out a fresh sheet of paper and start again.

When she saw I wasn't angry, she switched tactics.

She would sit across from me, filing her newly done nails, speaking in a syrupy-sweet voice about her blissful moments with Ian.

"Ian took me stargazing last night. He said my eyes are brighter than the stars," she'd gush.

"Oh, and he bought me a new necklace. The same one you stared at in that magazine forever."

The words went in one ear and out the other.

Ian would come by occasionally. He never acknowledged Jemma's behavior. He would simply walk up to me, pick up my drawings, and frown.

"Why are you working so slowly? Jemma is waiting for these."

There was only Jemma in his eyes. Never me. I looked up at the man I had loved for two lifetimes.

Whatever pathetic hope I had left was finally ground down, day after day, until nothing remained.

I stopped resisting. I stopped arguing.

I became a machine that drew.

If Jemma spilled coffee, I would replace the paper. If she said something vicious, I pretended not to hear it.

I worked fast, one sheet after another, until the studio was buried in designs.

Ian was pleased. He thought I had finally learned my lesson, finally been tamed.

He even rewarded me with a new drawing pen.

I took it, watching the expensive barrel catch the light, and felt nothing but irony.

He didn't know that with every stroke I drew, the hatred inside me deepened.

What was inspiration?

Inspiration was the blood I bled. The soul that had already died.

The day before the deadline, only the final set of detailed drawings for the main design remained unfinished.

I had been up all night. My eyes burned, dry and aching.

Jemma arrived unusually early that morning.

She wasn't carrying coffee like she usually did. Instead, she wore a white dress, which was almost identical to mine.

She circled me restlessly, an excitement flickering in her eyes that I couldn't quite decipher.

"Almost done, Margot?" she asked.

"Mmh."

I didn't look up.

"Once you're finished, does that mean I'll never see you again?"

There was a strange note of disappointment in her voice. I ignored it.

All I wanted was to finish the drawing and end all of this as quickly as possible.

"Margot, if your hand were broken, if you could never draw again, do you think Ian would still keep you?" she said suddenly. My heart jolted. My grip on the pen faltered.

I looked up and met her eyes. She smiled, innocent and cruel all at once.

"Do you think I'd get hurt if I ran into that sculpture?" she continued lightly, pointing at the waist-high metal sculpture in the corner.

Before I could react, she let out a scream and rushed straight toward it.

Everything happened too fast. All I saw was a blur of white lunging toward me.

Almost at the same instant, the studio door was slammed open.

Ian burst in.

"Jemma!" he roared and, without a second thought, shoved me aside with brutal force.

I was thrown hard to the floor.

Scattered across the floor were shards from a porcelain vase Jemma had broken days earlier.

I hadn't cleaned them up, only swept them into a corner.

Now my right wrist came down squarely onto the jagged fragments.

Rip.

A dull, sickening sound as flesh split open.

Then came pain beyond description. Blood poured out instantly, staining the floor a violent red.

My vision darkened. I nearly passed out.

Through the haze, I saw Ian carefully pull the shaken Jemma into his arms, soothing her in a low, gentle voice, "It's okay. I'm here. Don't be afraid."

Jemma trembled against his chest, then, when he wasn't looking, she cast me a victorious smile.

Only then did Ian finally notice me. He saw the deep gash in my wrist, bone faintly visible. And he saw the blood covering the floor. He frowned.

He made a phone call. A family doctor arrived quickly and gave me emergency treatment.

As the doctor examined my wound, his expression grew increasingly grave.

"Mr. Wade, Miss Norris' right wrist tendon is severed," the doctor said.

"What does that mean?" Ian asked coldly.

"It means…" the doctor wiped sweat from his forehead. "This hand is done. She'll never be able to hold a paintbrush again."

The studio fell into deathly silence.

I lay on the cold floor, staring at the ceiling, a loud ringing filling my ears.

Then Ian's voice sounded above me—flat, indifferent, "If it's ruined, it's ruined. I'll support her for the rest of her life anyway."

There wasn't a trace of emotion in his tone.

I couldn't help it. I laughed.

And as I laughed, tears streamed down my face.

"Ian, you're truly heartless." I said inwardly.