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.

My right hand was wrapped in layers of gauze. The doctor said that even if it healed, I would never be able to do fine, delicate work again.

For example, drawing.

Ian said he would take care of me for the rest of my life. He moved me out of the studio and into the master bedroom, hired the best private nurses to look after me.

He came to see me every day, bringing all kinds of supplements and gifts.

He treated me well, so well that it was meticulous, almost tender.

As if the person who had personally pushed me into the abyss had never been him.

He thought this was enough to make up for everything. But he didn't know that his gentleness hurt more than any blade.

Half a month later, Jemma's new design collection was a massive success.

Riding on the designs I had poured everything into, she swept the most prestigious "Rising Designer" award in the country.

For a time, she was unstoppable. The media called her a once-in-a-century prodigy.

The celebration banquet was extravagant, attended by nearly every notable figure in the city.

Ian stood by my bed, personally selecting an evening gown for me.

"Tonight is Jemma's celebration," he said. "You're coming with me."

It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order.

"I'm not going."

I looked down at my numb right hand, my voice hoarse.

"Margot, stop being difficult," he warned, his patience clearly wearing thin. "You have to go."

"Why?" I asked, lifting my head to meet his gaze. "To watch her stand on my work and accept everyone's praise? Or to watch you spend lavishly, celebrating her triumph?"

Ian's expression darkened.

"I'm taking you so you can see clearly," he said coldly, "who the final winner really is."

He grabbed my chin, squeezing hard enough that my bones nearly cracked.

"To kill whatever foolish hope you still have," he added.

I was forced into the banquet hall. The room was filled with glittering gowns and clinking glasses.

Jemma stood at the center of the stage in a custom haute couture dress.

She held the trophy in her hands, her smile radiant, blinding.

Under the spotlight, she looked like a queen.

"Thank you all, thank you to the judges," she said. "This award means everything to me. And most of all, I want to thank my muse, my love, Mr. Ian Wade."

She glanced in Ian's direction.

Thunderous applause erupted across the hall.

Ian stood right beside me. He forced my head up, making me look at Jemma onstage.

He even forced me to clap along with the crowd.

I raised my left hand and clapped, once, then again, mechanical and hollow.

I watched the woman glowing under the lights.

I watched the signature piece she was wearing. The centerpiece gown I had spent three sleepless nights designing.

Every detail, every fold, was carved into my memory.

Now it bore someone else's name, transformed into a badge of someone else's glory.

I reached for my right hand, wrapped in gauze, completely numb.

The fire inside me slowly went out.

Anger. Resentment. Hatred. In the end, there was nothing left but emptiness.

That was fine. This was fine.

From this moment on, I felt nothing—no love, no hope—for drawing, for design.

It was you, Ian.

You were the one who personally killed the Margot who once had light in her eyes.

Halfway through the celebration, I excused myself to the restroom, desperate to escape the suffocating atmosphere.

I stood at the sink, staring at my reflection, face pale, eyes hollow.

The woman in the mirror felt like a stranger. I turned on the faucet and splashed cold water onto my face again and again, trying to force myself awake.

That was when the restroom door was kicked open from the outside.

The loud bang made me flinch.

I turned and saw the last person I expected.

It was Leland. He still wore that same careless, devil-may-care expression, a crooked smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

But his eyes were razor-sharp, dangerous in a way that made my chest tighten.

Behind him stood a group of men in black suits, their faces cold and hostile.

The entire backstage area fell into dead silence.

Leland's gaze swept across the room before locking onto me.

He strode toward me.

His eyes moved slowly, from my face, down my arm, until they stopped on my right hand, wrapped thickly in bandages.

The smirk vanished in an instant. What replaced it was pure, uncontrollable fury.

I watched as the rims of his eyes—eyes that were always smiling—slowly reddened.

His body trembled, just slightly.

"Who did this?" he asked in a low voice, yet it carried the weight of a coming storm.

People around us instinctively backed away.

Before I could say a word, Ian's bodyguards rushed in, forming a wall.

"Mr. Riley," one of them said warily, "this is Mr. Wade's venue. What do you think you're doing?"

Leland didn't even glance at them.

He lifted his leg and kicked the nearest bodyguard straight in the stomach.

The man, well over six feet tall, was sent flying like a sandbag, slamming into the wall with a dull thud.

"I asked you, who did this!" Leland said again, his voice trembling with pain as he looked at me.

He reached out, hesitating, his hand hovering inches from my injured wrist, as if he were afraid that even the slightest touch might hurt me.

The way he looked at me was careful, reverent. As if I were something rare and irreplaceable, a treasure he had just fought his way to reclaim.

My nose burned. I almost cried.

"Well done, Ian," Leland suddenly laughed, though the sound was colder than ice. "The trash you threw away? To me, she's priceless."

Ian's face darkened the moment he saw Leland.

"Leland, have you lost your mind?" he snapped.

The fire in Leland's eyes only burned hotter.

"Ian, screw you!" Leland shouted as he lunged forward, grabbing Ian by the collar. "Are you even human?!"

His fist came down hard against Ian's face, his eyes bloodshot with rage.

The room erupted. Jemma screamed as both sides lunged at each other, the crash of shattered glass and startled cries filling the air.

The entire banquet hall spiraled completely out of control.