David's POV

Sandra's face was burned into my head.

No matter how many times I blinked or turned away, I could still see her standing there, shattered and humiliated.

"David? Are you even listening to me?"

Cyndrel's voice broke through my thoughts.

She was sitting at her vanity, removing her jewelry after the party.

She looked so composed, so perfect.

"That secretary of yours...Sandra. It's finally over, right? I can't believe she had the nerve to show up here like that. I actually trusted her."

I looked at my wife through the reflection in the mirror.

I felt a pang of nausea.

"Of course, honey. It's over," I said, the lie tasting like ash in my mouth.

"She was so delusional," she continued, shaking her head.

"Thinking she could trick us into believing she was pregnant. You wouldn't ever do that to me, right? You wouldn't throw everything we have away for a girl like that?"

She turned to face me, her eyes searching mine for a reassurance I didn't deserve.

"Of course not," I replied.

But as I watched her smile and return to her nighttime routine, I realized the depth of my own cowardice.

I had told everyone she was a predator, that she had obsessed over me, but the truth was much uglier.

I had let her in.

I had encouraged her.

Most of what happened was my fault. If I hadn't been so weak, if I hadn't sought comfort in her arms during my darkest moments, we wouldn't be standing on the edge of this ruins.

We went to bed. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard her scream.

'You're the father!'

I felt the splash of the champagne I had thrown in her face-a gesture meant to prove my loyalty to Cyndrel, but one that now felt like a brand of shame on my soul.

I couldn't stay in that bed.

Long after Cyndrel's breathing had evened out, I slipped out of the room. I grabbed my keys and drove.

I didn't have an address, but I had resources.

A few phone calls to my private security team, I had a location.

I found myself driving deep into the heart of a district.

The streets were narrow, cramped, and littered with the debris of poverty.

My luxury car felt like an alien spacecraft in these alleyways, drawing stares from the shadows.

This was where she lived? This was the world she went back to every night after leaving my study?

I found the building-a decaying apartment complex that looked like it was held together by nothing but rust and hope.

I climbed the stairs and knocked on a door that felt like it might fall off its hinges.

An older woman, looking weary and sharp-tongued, opened the door.

"What now? If you're looking for rent, I already told the police I don't have-" She stopped, her eyes widening as she took in my tailored suit.

"I'm looking for a woman named Sandra," I said, my voice tight.

"Sandra?" The woman let out a harsh, bitter laugh.

"You're too late, Mister. I kicked that girl out. She hasn't paid her bills in months. I threw her and her trashy clothes right out onto the pavement."

My heart dropped.

"What?! Where is she now?!"

"How should I know? She's probably sleeping under a bridge or back at whatever gutter she crawled out of. Good riddance, I say. She was nothing but trouble. Once I find out where she's hiding, I'm suing her for back rent."

The cruelty in the woman's voice made my blood boil.

It was the same cruelty I had shown Sandra.

I reached into my coat and pulled out a thick stack of bills-a large amount, far more than any rent she could possibly owe.

"Here," I said, shoving the money into the woman's hand.

"This covers everything Sandra owes you. And then some. Consider her debt settled."

Her jaw dropped as she fanned the bills.

"This... this is too much. Thank you! Thank you!"

I didn't stay for her gratitude.

I walked back to my car, my mind racing.

I needed to talk to her.

Privately.

Without Cyndrel watching, without the pressure of my reputation.

When I saw her crying at the party, something had shifted inside me.

At first I thought she was lying about the pregnancy...

But there was a look in her eyes-a raw, terrifying honesty-that told me I was really the father.

And if she was pregnant, and she was out there with nowhere to go...I have to find her.

I fucked up big time. My conscience is eating me alive.

I approached a group of men sitting on plastic crates nearby, drinking from a shared bottle.

"Hey. Have any of you seen a woman around here? Beautiful, long hair? She would have been carrying a suitcase."

The men looked at each other, then back at me with a smirk.

"Oh, yeah. We saw her. Quite a show she put on."

"Where did she go?" I demanded.

"Well," one of them said, leaning back.

"A car pulled up. A nice one, too. Not as fancy as yours, but close."

My pulse quickened.

"A car? Who was in it?"

"A man," the guy replied, scratching his chin.

"Tall guy. Handsome, too. Looked a bit like you, actually. He seemed to know her."

The air left my lungs. A man who looked like me.

There was only one person who fit that description.

"Harold..." I whispered into the dark.

A cold, sinking dread settled in my stomach. If my brother had Sandra, this is war.

I couldn't stay in that squatter area any longer.

I got back into my car and drove, my hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. I needed to find her. I needed to fix this before the rot of what I'd done consumed everything.

As soon as I was back within city limits, I dialed my lead private investigator.

"James, I need an immediate location on a subject," I said, my voice tight.

"I'm sending you the photos and the last known coordinates now. I don't care what it costs. Just find him if he's with her!"

"On it, Sir David," he replied.

The next few hours were a living hell.

I sat in my office back at the mansion. I didn't know what time it was, or even what day it was. I had lost all track of time just thinking about her...

I couldn't stop thinking about her-the way her eyes had looked when the champagne hit her face, the way she had clutched those papers.

I had treated her like a nuisance, a stain on my reputation, but now that she was gone, her presence felt louder than ever.

I realized I was haunted. I had allowed the pressure of my name and Cyndrel's expectations to turn me into a man I didn't recognize.

I was pacing the floor when my phone buzzed.

I snatched it up, expecting James.

But the caller ID was blank.

"Hello?" I answered, my heart hammering.

"How are you, my good brother?"

The voice was smooth, cold, and instantly recognizable.

My grip tightened on the phone until the plastic groaned.

"Harold," I hissed.

"Where's Sandra?!"

He chuckled.

It was a dark, uneven sound.

"How does it feel, David? Knowing you've spent your life stealing from me!"

"I didn't steal anything from you, Harold," I growled, punching my desk with my free hand.

The dull thud echoed in the empty office.

"You lost because you're reckless. You're unstable!"

"Am I?" he purred.

"Well, if that's the case, then good luck with your life, David. And good luck with that heavy conscience you're carrying. Some things, once broken, can never be fixed. Enjoy the silence."

"Harold!"

The line went dead. I stared at the screen, my blood turning to ice.

Before I could process the threat, the phone rang again. This time, it was James.

"Any news?"

I barked, not even waiting for a greeting.

"Did you find her?! Is she with Harold?!"

There was a long, agonizing pause on the other end of the line.

I could hear James' heavy breathing.

"Sir... David..."

"Speak, damn it!"

"The woman you were looking for... Sandra. She's dead, Sir."

The world seemed to tilt.

I felt the air leave my lungs as if I'd been kicked in the chest. I grabbed the edge of my desk to keep from collapsing.

"W-What? What are you talking about? That's impossible!"

"She wasn't seen with any other man the one you're talking about, Sir. Her body was found about an hour ago-floating in the river near the outskirts of the district. The local authorities have already declared it a suicide. There was no sign of foul play, just... a desperate jump."

His voice cracked slightly.

"And Sir... the medical examiner confirmed she was indeed pregnant. Four weeks. The child is gone, too."

The phone slipped from my fingers, hitting the plush carpet with a soft, muffled sound.

"No," I whispered to the empty room.

"No, no, no..."

The silence in the office became deafening.

I felt like the walls were closing in on me.

She was dead.

I had killed her. I hadn't pushed her into that water myself, but I might as well have.

I had stripped her of her dignity, her hope, and her safety, and then I had watched as the world swallowed her whole.

I fell into my chair, burying my face in my hands.

My breath came in jagged, broken sobs. All the power, all the billions, all the prestige in the world couldn't bring back the life I had just snuffed out.

"I-It's my fault..." I mourned into the darkness of my palms.

"It's all my fucking fault!"

Harold ended the call and slipped his phone back into his pocket. Then he walked toward me.

I watched him carefully.

"Was that David?" I asked.

He gave a small, almost amused smile.

"Who else?"

Before I could react, he stepped closer.

His hand reached up and gently touched my cheek, his fingers brushing against my skin as if it belonged to him.

I froze.

He studied my face, his eyes sharp and calculating. Then he smiled again-this time wider, more satisfied. Like he had already won.

"As the events are going on right now," he said slowly, "I've already told my men to plan out your fake death."

My heart skipped.

"And I'll make sure your medical records are something David can find... if he tries to investigate."

For a moment, I couldn't speak. My mind was racing.

Medical records? How did he even get those?

I stared at him, searching his face for answers, but all I saw was confidence.

Controlling.

"And I will help you, Sandra," he added softly. "You're beautiful. You don't deserve any of this."

His thumb brushed lightly against my cheek.

A shiver ran down my spine.

There was something about the way he looked at me-it wasn't kindness. It wasn't concern. It felt like he was already ten steps ahead, like he had plans layered under plans-things I couldn't even begin to see.

I pulled my gaze away from him, my thoughts spinning.

"There's no backing out now," I muttered.

"No," he said immediately.

Before I could say anything else, he straightened up and reached for my arm, gently pulling me to stand.

"Come on," he said. "You need to rest. You're pregnant."

"And if you want to know what's happening with David right now," he continued, glancing at me, "I can give you updates. I already have someone following him."

I nodded.

We stayed in separate rooms.

There was no way I could sleep beside someone like him-not with the way he looked at me, not with everything he was planning.

The night felt long and heavy. Every small sound made me alert. Every shadow made me uneasy.

And then the updates started coming in.

Days passed.

Harold didn't need to tell me much-sometimes he would just casually mention it, like it was nothing.

"David's investigating the scene," he said one morning, sipping his coffee. "The place where you supposedly... died."

Later that day, he told me to come with him.

We got into his car. The windows were heavily tinted-dark enough that no one could see inside.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"You'll see."

The drive felt longer than it probably was. My hands rested on my lap, fingers tightly intertwined.

Then the car slowed down.

"Look," Harold said.

I turned toward the window.

And that's when I saw him.

David.

Even from a distance, I recognized him immediately.

I suddenly remembered what he did to me. Memories came rushing through my head. I shook my head and focused on the scene.

He was surrounded by officers near the river at the outskirts of the district. His posture was tense, his movements sharp and restless.

He was shouting.

"I want to know!" he yelled, his voice carrying even from where we were.

My breath caught.

"Tell me! Now!"

The officers looked nervous-some avoided his gaze, while others scrambled to respond. No one dared to argue with him.

I stared at him, unable to look away.

He looked furious.

But more than that-he looked desperate.

I watched as he ran a hand through his hair, pacing back and forth like he didn't know what to do with himself. His voice cracked slightly when he spoke again, but he didn't seem to notice.

"Please! It's all my fault!"

I felt something twist inside my chest.

We stayed inside the car, hidden behind the tinted windows.

The river flowed steadily nearby, its current strong-the sound faint but constant. I followed it with my eyes for a moment, imagining how convincing everything must look.

"I don't understand..." I whispered to myself.

Why now?

Why does he look like that... now that I'm gone?

A part of me felt something I didn't expect.

Pity.

And I hated it.

I tightened my grip on my hands.

"Why does he regret it now?" I murmured under my breath.

I turned to Harold, still trying to make sense of everything I had just seen.

"Why does he still need to find my body? Didn't your man already tell him? You paid to give him false information, right? That my body was already found...examined..."

Harold let out a quiet breath and adjusted himself in his seat.

He was wearing glasses now.

And for a brief, almost ridiculous moment, I found myself distracted. I couldn't deny it-he looked good. Too good. The kind of calm, polished appearance that made it easy to forget what he was capable of.

He glanced at me from the corner of his eye before returning his attention to the road.

"Because he hasn't seen your body," he said simply.

I frowned.

"He doesn't believe you're dead," Harold continued. "He doesn't believe any of the bullshit I fed to the investigator. Even though the investigator had confirmed your death, David couldn't shake the feeling that something didn't add up..."

Then he laughed.

But it wasn't the kind of laugh that came from humor.

It was cold and mocking.

Like he was enjoying this.

"That serves him right," he added. "For what he did."

Before I could respond, he stepped on the gas, and the car moved forward, pulling us away from the scene... away from David.

Silence filled the car.

But my mind wouldn't stop.

After a few minutes, I spoke again.

"What did he actually do to you?"

The question slipped out before I could stop it.

Harold's grip on the steering wheel tightened instantly. His knuckles turned white, and for a second, I thought he might not answer at all.

He stared straight ahead.

Then he took a slow, controlled breath.

When he finally spoke, his voice was calm-but there was something underneath it.

"That's something we're not going to talk about, Sandra."

"This situation..." he continued, "this plan...it's about us. About what we want to happen to David."

He glanced at me briefly, his eyes sharp.

"You don't need to involve yourself in what I went through. Understand?"

I froze.

There was something about the way he said it-not loud, not angry, but final.

I didn't know what exactly he meant or what he was hiding.

But I understood one thing clearly.

He didn't want me digging into it.

So I nodded slowly and looked away.

"I understand," I said quietly.

And just like that, the conversation ended.

When we got back, I stepped out of the car first.

The mansion stood in front of me-tall and quiet, like it always did. It still didn't feel like a place I belonged in.

I started walking toward the entrance.

But before I could take more than a few steps, Harold grabbed my hand.

I stopped.

Then suddenly, he pulled me back and spun me around.

I gasped softly, caught off guard.

We ended up face-to-face.

We're too close again.

"I will transform you into someone," he said, his voice low but steady.

I blinked.

"No more struggling."

His grip on my hand tightened slightly-not painful, but firm.

"Under my hand," he said, looking straight into my eyes, "you'll become the most confident woman you can be."

For a second, I couldn't breathe.

The way he was looking at me...

It wasn't simple.

It wasn't easy to read.

Harold was giving me mixed signals, and I hated that part of me was reacting to it.

I mean-he was handsome. There was no denying that.

He even reminded me of David in some ways.

But this felt different.

Unpredictable.

My heart started beating faster, and I hated that he might notice.

So I forced myself to stay calm, to keep my expression steady.

"I'm ready," I said.

He studied me for a moment.

Then he nodded once.

"Good."

And just like that, he let go.

Time passed. Sometimes, I couldn't even tell how fast it all went.

Everything changed.

I changed.

I gave birth.

That alone felt like a lifetime compressed into a single moment-pain, fear, and something else I couldn't fully explain.

And now...

I stood in front of a mirror.

Staring at myself.

I barely recognized the woman looking back.

The dress fit perfectly. My hair was styled, my makeup carefully done. Every detail was in place.

A bride.

I let out a slow breath.

I always thought... if I ever got to this moment...

It would be with David.

I closed my eyes briefly.

There was a time when I believed in that so much it felt real. I even convinced myself-deluded myself-that he would leave everything behind for me.

That he would choose me.

But that never happened.

And now...

Now I was here.

About to marry Harold.

"Ma'am?"

I opened my eyes and looked at the reflection of the staff behind me.

"The limousine is ready," she said politely.

"Sir Harold is waiting for you at the church."

I nodded slowly.

"I'll be there in a minute."

As she left the room, I turned back to the mirror.

For a long moment, I just stared at myself again.

Then I forced a confident smile. Years had passed, and this time, I was done crying, done questioning myself.

I am Sandra Wong-beautiful, unstoppable, and untouchable.

All of this... because of a goddamn love.

I smirked, the corner of my lips curling with a mixture of triumph and warning.

"See you soon, David."