Scarlett's voice cut through the air. She clearly meant what she said. Charlie clenched his jaw before he threw his arm out.

"Fine. We'll do it! Real men always keep their word!" he said.

He strode onto the court first, launching into the awkward hops.

He was the leader of the group, and his surrender left the others cornered. One by one, despite their reluctance, they followed.

A single man hopping looked foolish enough.

And a dozen pampered heirs bounding across the court together was pure comedy.

The absurd sight tugged at the corners of Scarlett's mouth until a small, satisfied smile finally surfaced.

The tight knot in her chest finally unraveled, leaving behind a weightless calm.

"Phew... I'm done," Charlie gasped, bending over with his hands braced on his knees before dragging himself back to Scarlett's side. A grin, half disbelief and half admiration, stretched across his flushed face. "I'll be damned, Scarlett. You can actually race, and you are incredible at it."

For once, his gaze lingered on her with something new—real respect. The old assumptions about her being a sheltered housewife dissolved like dust in the wind.

He'd spent half his life chasing speed, so he could recognize the precision and grit behind her run.

The others might've seen only the surface, but he knew how skilled she was.

"There's still a lot you don't know about me," Scarlett said with an easy smile, slipping her phone from her pocket and giving it a quick glance before striding toward the ridge, her steps steady, the evening breeze tugging lightly at her hair.

Charlie's voice chased after her. "Where are you going?"

"To watch the sunrise," she replied without turning.

Each step up the slope felt like a quiet goodbye to her past.

The world around her shifted—charcoal clouds melting into pale blue, then igniting into a blaze of crimson as the first light crowned the horizon.

Soon, she would leave this place.

She had braced herself for regret, yet what settled in her chest was a tranquil stillness instead.

A deep, rhythmic thrum broke the silence—rotor blades slicing through the dawn air. Tilting her head toward the sky, Scarlett let a faint smile curve her lips.

Before leaving Asher's place, she'd placed a call to her father, asking him to arrange for people to pick her up.

She just hadn't expected them to come so fast.

After all these years, she suddenly felt the unmistakable tug to return home.

"Long time no see," said Alfred Turner, his voice gentle as Scarlett boarded the helicopter. Time had carved creases into his face, but his eyes still glowed with loyal affection—and a hint of sympathy.

For decades, he'd been the Riley family's steadfast butler, the man who had watched Scarlett grow up.

Scarlett's throat constricted as old memories flickered through her mind. She gave a small nod, voice barely above a whisper. "Alfred, take me home."

The helicopter rose with a thunderous sweep, cutting through the pale dawn. Wind whipped against the windows as the land shrank below them.

Down on the ground, Charlie stood rooted to the spot, gaze fixed on the fading helicopter, a strange feeling stirring inside him.

Scarlett just left like this.

Where was she heading? And she hadn't even bothered to bring the motorcycle back.

It wasn't just any ride; it was Asher's favorite motorcycle.

Charlie tamped down the rising unease in his chest, tossed his own keys to a friend, and swung onto Lightning in one fluid motion. The engine roared as he gunned the throttle and tore down the road toward Asher's place.

"Asher! I brought it back safe and sound—your motorcycle's here!" he shouted the moment he pulled up.

Inside the house, Asher heard the noise outside. With a slight tilt of his chin, he signaled to his sister, Isla Sullivan—standing before him—to stop talking.

Then, he rose, crossed the room, and pulled the door open.

And there it was—Lightning.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. "Who said you could touch it, Charlie?" His voice was low, edged with restrained fury.

He hadn't ridden it in years, yet it still carried too much meaning to him.

So, even though Charlie was family, Asher had no intention of letting this matter slide.

Charlie flinched, hands shooting up in surrender. "Not me! It wasn't me who took it—it was Scarlett!" he said, stumbling over his words before the storm could hit him. "She was the one who took Lightning to the track. And she crushed me out there! Her racing skills—they're unreal. I'm telling you, I've never witnessed anything like that. Yeah, she rubbed it in and made sure I faced punishment for losing, but damn, she was incredible."

The admiration in his words was unmistakable.

Asher stayed silent, but a flash of surprise flickered in his eyes.

Not once in all their years together had he pictured that the gentle, compliant Scarlett as the kind of woman who could tear up a racetrack.

"I'm telling the truth," Charlie added, straightening as if to prove his point. "If you think I'm lying, ask Scarlett yourself about this when she comes back."

Asher nodded. Before he could say anything, Isla jumped in, her voice sharp with disbelief.

"Racing? Charlie, have you completely lost your mind? Scarlett is skilled at racing? Isn't she just a gold digger who latched onto Asher for the money? Aside from taking care of my brother's meals and clothes, what else can she possibly do?"

Isla's words dripped with contempt. She knew all too well how Scarlett had entered the Sullivan family—by saving Asher's life three years ago and then asking him to marry her as repayment. In Isla's mind, Scarlett was nothing more than an opportunist who'd clawed her way into wealth, a woman with no real abilities beyond playing the dutiful wife.

Charlie's jaw tightened as irritation flared across his face. "You really think everyone's like you, Isla? All looks and no depth?" he shot back, voice edged with sarcasm.

Isla's cheeks flushed scarlet. "Excuse me? This is the Sullivan family's residence, not your home. How dare you talk to me like that?" she snapped, hands balling at her sides.

Her grudge against Charlie didn't come from nowhere—her mother had loathed the Masons for as long as she could remember, and that bitterness had seeped into her bones. So when Charlie fired off a comment like that, her temper lit up, and she shot back without hesitation.

But Charlie refused to yield.

He met her glare head-on. "How dare you insult Scarlett! She is your brother's wife—you will show her some respect!"

"She's nothing but a gold-digger!" Isla exclaimed, her voice laced with venom. "She doesn't deserve my respect at all!"

"You—" Charlie started, anger flashing in his eyes.

"Enough!" Asher's voice sliced through the tension, low and glacial.

His gaze locked on Isla, the chill in his eyes enough to freeze her in place.

"What exactly did you come here for?" he asked, tone calm but edged with unmistakable impatience.

Isla's confidence flickered out. Her jaw tightened, and after a hesitant breath, she held out the folder she had brought with both hands.

"Dad asked me to bring the reports to you," she murmured, voice low and restrained.

Asher barely spared her a glance as he took the folder, his expression unreadable.

"You've finished your task," he said coldly. "Now leave."

Charlie's lips curved into a triumphant grin at that, satisfaction lighting his eyes.

It seemed that Asher was on his side after all.

"See? Asher said you can go now," he said to Isla.

Isla's fingers twitched at her sides. The retort on her tongue died quickly. She wasn't intimidated by Charlie, but she was afraid of Asher. After all, he was the head of the Sullivan family.

So, no matter how much bitterness coiled in her chest, she could only lower her head in reluctant submission.

"Of course, Asher. I'll be going now." Her voice was steady as she spoke.

Charlie flashed her an overly bright grin and gave a theatrical wave. "See you!" he called out, his tone dripping with mock cheer.

The moment he turned back, though, he met Asher's cold eyes.

His smile faltered. He stiffened, then scrambled to recover with a nervous chuckle. "Right... I should, uh, get going, too. Wouldn't want to bother you further."

Asher inclined his head in silent approval, eyes softening just a fraction.

At least his cousin knew when to take his leave.

At his place, Asher couldn't get Charlie's words out of his head.

Before he knew it, his feet were taking him upstairs. He was driven by a pull he couldn't resist, going straight toward his bedroom with Scarlett.

The space looked the same as before—her clothes still neatly arranged, the bed perfectly made.

Only the desk felt different.

Something lay there, stark against the polished wood—a document.

Asher's expression shifted slightly. He crossed the room in a few long strides and picked it up.

It was a divorce agreement.

His eyes swept over the lines. Scarlett's name was already scrawled at the bottom, bold and certain.

His chest tightened. He hadn't expected her to have signed the divorce papers already.

For a while, he stood motionless, then pulled out his phone and tapped her number.

The dial tone droned—once, twice—long, hollow echoes that stretched into silence before the call disconnected on its own.

She wasn't answering the call.

Asher's gaze lingered on the dark screen, his expression unreadable, before he slid the phone back into his pocket.

Maybe it was better this way.

If Scarlett had chosen to walk away, her absence would spare them both unnecessary complications, especially now that Nora was returning to his life.

Telling himself that, Asher put the document away.

Time moved on, and a month had slipped by.

Asher was stretched thin, dividing his time between running the company and visiting Nora at the sanatorium.

Nora's health had stabilized, yet her reliance on him deepened with each visit.

He seldom thought of Scarlett, but sometimes, when he looked into Nora's eyes, an unbidden image would surface in his mind—Scarlett's face.

He didn't know why.

"Sir, we're here."

The driver's voice shattered Asher's reverie. The car had halted before the police station.

Asher had come here in person to obtain copies of some files for Nora's further medical treatment.

No matter how busy he was, he made time for this because of Nora.

The station chief met him at the entrance and personally escorted him inside. As they passed the interrogation wing, Asher's steps suddenly faltered.

A voice drifted toward him—soft, familiar, enough to twist something deep in his chest.

"Yeah, I've arrived."

He turned toward the sound. Even from a glimpse of her profile, Asher knew instantly—it was Scarlett.

A flicker of confusion cracked his usual composure.

What was Scarlett doing here?

He smoothed his expression before anyone could notice and asked casually, "Who's that?"

One of the officers walking alongside him answered, "That's Ms. Scarlett Riley. She's here assisting us on a case."

As he spoke, they were already in the observation room outside the interrogation room. A handcuffed man sat silently at the interrogation table.

"The suspect's meticulous about covering his tracks. We've been on this case for months without solid evidence," the officer continued. "Ms. Riley's a renowned hypnotist. She often works with us. Hypnosis helps subjects relax; they tend to speak freely, and even buried memories can surface. It's invaluable for drawing out critical details fast."

Hypnosis?

Asher's face remained composed, but a ripple of surprise stirred beneath the surface.

When had Scarlett mastered something like that?

Unaware of Asher watching her, Scarlett stepped into the interrogation room, notebook in hand.

She eased into the chair across from the suspect, her posture unhurried, her expression calm enough to melt tension. A faint, almost friendly smile touched her lips as she spoke.

"Good evening, Mr. Burgess. I'm only here to help with the investigation. There's no reason for you to be nervous."

Her voice carried a gentle lilt, warm as velvet, coaxing him to let his guard slip.

The suspect, Kayce Burgess, squirmed slightly, his mouth set in a firm line. He looked uncomfortable, but nowhere near as guarded as he'd been in front of the police officers.

"I didn't do it. I didn't kill anyone, I promise. You've got the wrong man."

Though his words came out steady, the white-knuckled fists hidden beneath the table betrayed the tremor of unease he couldn't mask.

Scarlett inclined her head in quiet acknowledgment, studying him with patient eyes. She noticed that a flash of something feral—sharp and mean—flickered in his gaze before vanishing. She leaned forward slightly, lowering her tone to a soothing murmur that slipped under his defenses.

"Don't worry—the police won't accuse an innocent man, and we'll make sure the guilty one can't slip away. Mr. Burgess, there's no need to be anxious in front of me. Just breathe and try to relax."

After speaking, she slipped a silver pocket watch from her coat, letting it dangle between her fingers before setting it into a slow, rhythmic swing.

Kayce shifted in his chair, unease coiling tight in his stomach. Still, his gaze betrayed him—drawn helplessly to the pendulum's steady arc.

"Easy now. Keep watching. Let your thoughts quiet down..." Scarlett murmured, her voice smooth and hypnotic. Within moments, the tension drained from Kayce's shoulders, his pupils dilating slightly as the resistance in his eyes softened.

At that moment, Scarlett said, "Tell me, what's your name?"

"Ka... Kayce Burgess," Kayce answered sluggishly, his tone dazed, no trace of defiance left.

Scarlett gave a subtle nod to the officer at her side, and he started to take notes. She then turned back to Kayce, her voice calm yet firm.

"Kayce, tell me honestly—where were you on the afternoon of the twentieth last month?"

"At home," Kayce replied.

Scarlett's tone softened but carried weight. "And what about Bruce Palmer? Where was he at that time?"

The name landed like a spark on dry tinder.

Kayce stiffened, a shudder rippling through his shoulders. Beads of sweat broke across his forehead as his fingers twitched uncontrollably against the tabletop.

"To hell with him! He deserves to die!"

The words burst out raw and jagged, Kayce's voice cracking under the strain.

Scarlett's brows drew together in tension.

Kayce's sudden volatility made it clear this wasn't a straightforward case. Otherwise, his reaction to that name wouldn't be so intense.

Keeping her tone calm, she spoke with quiet reassurance. "Take a breath. Calm down. Bruce is dead now, right?"

As she spoke, she lit a small scented candle. It had the same fragrance as the ones Kayce had at home.

The air was filled with its gentle warmth, the sweet orange scent said to have been his daughter's favorite.

The familiar aroma washed over Kayce, softening the tension in his shoulders and stilling the tremor in his hands.

He sank back into a more coherent state and, before Scarlett could press further, began to speak on his own.

"Mia... Dad has done it. You will get your revenge soon. That bastard's going to die—in the worst way."

His lips twisted into something like a smile. "I will watch him take his last breath. When he's gone, Dad will join you."

The officer, who had been jotting down notes, lit up with shock and excitement.

For weeks, everyone had assumed Bruce was already dead—the entire session was meant to uncover where his body had been hidden.

Now, the implication that he might still be alive sent a jolt through the officer.

Scarlett leaned in, her voice soft.

"What are you planning to do to him?" she asked.

Tears streaked down Kayce's cheeks as he muttered, his voice trembling, "He drove you to jump, so I tied him up at the highest place. It won't be long now, Mia... Just wait for me to kill him."

All fight had drained from him. His voice, trembling with raw desperation, stripped away any trace of menace. His tears fell, and he looked pitiful.

With her voice gentling, Scarlett leaned in a little closer. "Tell me, what could Bruce have done to make you resent him so much?"

The question shattered Kayce's calm. He raked his hands through his hair and rocked in his chair, a strangled cry tearing from his throat.

Seeing him unravel, Scarlett stopped pressing. She pinched out the flickering candle, then seized a bottle of water and splashed it over his face.

Kayce flinched, blinking hard as confusion clouded his eyes.

When the weight of his confession came crashing back, color drained from his face until he sat frozen.

"Kayce," Scarlett said, her voice calm but firm. "If Bruce really did something wrong, there are proper, lawful ways to make him pay. Even for Mia's sake, throwing away your own life is still the worst decision you could make."

She could already guess what had happened.

Whatever Bruce had done to Kayce's daughter had shattered Kayce's soul—driven him past grief, straight into madness and crime.

From the other side of the one-way window, Asher stood, absorbing every detail of what had unfolded.

Surprise ran down his spine. The woman in that room was nothing like the obedient, soft-spoken wife he'd known for three years.

This Scarlett was sharp, commanding, and dangerous in a way that both unsettled and fascinated him.

How did she know how to do something like this, hypnotizing a man and getting his confession?

Confusion clouded his thoughts, but unfinished business tugged him back to reality. He turned silently and walked away with the police chief.

By the time Asher stepped into the hallway again, Scarlett had already left the interrogation room.

"Ms. Riley, thank you—truly," the officer in the room earlier said with heartfelt sincerity.

With a faint dip of her head, Scarlett responded, "You're welcome."

She turned and strode out of the precinct, her pace steady and deliberate—until a figure stepped into her path.

It was none other than Asher.

A month had passed since their last encounter—long enough for Scarlett to forge armor around her heart.

Now, when she looked at Asher, not a flicker of emotion stirred behind her composed gaze.

"Mr. Sullivan," she said coolly, her voice even. "Is there something you need?"

If not for the familiar contours of her face, he might have mistaken her for someone else entirely.

"Come with me." Asher's eyes swept over her cropped hair, a frown cutting across his features. The words left his mouth more like an order than a request.

He took a few steps forward before pausing, realizing she hadn't moved to follow.

"Mr. Sullivan." Scarlett's voice sliced through the air, sharper than before. "Do I really need to spell it out? Whatever we were in the past—it's over. We have nothing to do with each other now."

Her refusal landed like a slap.

Asher's eyes darkened, a storm gathering behind them. Without warning, he grabbed her arm and pulled her toward his car.

Scarlett didn't fight back. The last thing she wanted was a scene on the police station steps, so she let him pull her inside.

The door slammed shut. "Where have you been?" Asher asked. "And your hair—"

"Asher." Scarlett's tone was cold enough to freeze the air between them, cutting his words clean off.

A month away from him had stripped her of every trace of meekness. She was no longer the gentle wife who used to bend to his will.

"These are my private affairs," she said calmly, eyes steady. "I don't owe you an explanation."

Asher's gaze swept over her, hard and assessing.

Gone was the soft, compliant woman he'd known—this Scarlett radiated defiance.

"So that's it," Asher murmured, voice low and edged with disbelief. "You've been putting on an act this whole time. This side of you... it's who you truly are, isn't it?"

Scarlett's brow tightened. "That is none of your business," she stated. Her tone carried no warmth, only finality. "From this moment on, whatever path I take, whoever I become—it's none of your concern. Did I make myself clear?"

Asher's gaze locked with hers, and something in him faltered.

The eyes that once looked at him with quiet obedience now burned with fierce defiance.

Against his will, that fire in her gaze drew him in, captivating.

Three years of shared nights had etched her into his bones—every breath, every shiver, instinctively familiar. And he had never been the kind of man to deny himself something he desired.

His eyes lingered on her parted lips, desire tightening his jaw. Before restraint could intervene, he closed the distance and kissed her.

Scarlett's body betrayed her resolve; muscle and memory still recognized the heat of his touch.

No matter how she twisted or pushed away, he overpowered her easily, the same strength that had once made her feel protected now trapping her.

The familiar scent of him flooded her senses, the warmth of his chest pressing against hers like a memory she wished she could burn away.

What had once brought her joy now hollowed her chest with cold despair. She felt as if something fragile within her had been violently torn.

Tears slipped past her closed lashes, silent and burning. Yet beneath her sorrow, a blade of resolve gleamed sharp and steady.

Her hand slid into her bag, fingers curling around the hidden box cutter. In a single, decisive motion, she drove the blade toward Asher without pause.