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.

Leland was usually careless, always wearing that lazy, half-smiling air.

I had never known this side of him, the one that emerged when he was truly angry.

My heart took a hard hit in that moment.

So this was what it felt like to be placed at the very center of someone's concern.

Ian wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth, his gaze dark as it locked onto Leland.

"This is between Margot and me. It has nothing to do with you," he said coldly.

"Nothing to do with me?" Leland laughed. "Ian, you ran off in the middle of your wedding. She ended up with me. And you're telling me it's none of my business? She's mine now. You lay a finger on her, and I'll take one of your hands."

His aura flared, every bit as oppressive as Ian's.

In that instant, the true dominance of Crownport's golden heir was on full display.

Ian's expression darkened further.

He clearly hadn't expected Leland to care this much about a so-called substitute bride.

"Come with me," Leland said, ignoring Ian completely. He grabbed my left hand and turned to leave.

"Stop!" Ian's voice rang out from behind us, edged with desperation and madness. "Margot, take one more step and see what happens."

I froze. But I didn't turn around.

"You should think carefully. The moment you walk out that door, the hospital will lose power. This time, it won't just be a blackout," he added.

Then he leaned in close, his words meant for my ears alone, "I'll have them pull your mother's tubes and dump her onto the street."

My feet felt nailed to the floor.

Leland's hand stalled in midair. Ian smiled, triumphant, vile.

He stepped in front of me, tearing away the last trace of false tenderness.

"Margot, I'll give you one last chance. Either you come back with me—"

He leaned close again, his voice a whisper only I could hear, "Or I make the call right now."

He raised his phone, his finger hovering over the screen. "Stop the meds. Pull the tubes. Toss that trash out."

His smile was cruel. "At this temperature, she won't last two hours."

I stared at the face inches from mine, the face I had once loved to the bone.

Now, there was nothing left but ugliness.

Then I looked at Leland. His entire body was shaking with rage, his eyes so red they looked ready to bleed.

I couldn't drag him down with me.

If the Wade family pulled strings and pinned some charge on him, abducting a mentally unstable patient, it would turn ugly fast.

I couldn't let him be stained because of me.

I took a deep breath and, summoning every ounce of strength I had, pushed Leland's hand away.

"Mr. Riley," I said.

I met his eyes, forcing my voice to stay calm and distant.

"Thank you, but this is my problem. Don't get involved."

He froze.

He looked at me, hurt and confusion flooding his eyes.

"Margot, do you even hear yourself? He'll destroy you."

"Then that's my fate."

I turned away before he could say anything else.

If I looked at him for even one more second, the armor I had so carefully built would shatter.

Step by step, I walked back to Ian.

I could feel that burning, aching gaze on my back the entire time.

It followed me out of the banquet hall. All the way until I got into Ian's car.

The door slammed shut. And only then did the tears finally fall.

"I'm sorry, Leland. Forgive my cowardice."