If you and I cannot escape the sea of sin

I’ve always loved dogs, so when I was a child, Grandfather placed a leash in my hand. He told me the boy technically my uncle, Anthony, would be my pet.

From that day on, I learned to swing the whip. Laughing, I lashed him until he bled, all the while respectfully calling him Uncle.

Later, the dog broke its chains and turned on its master.

In public, I remained the unassailable heiress of the Jessica empire. In private, late at night, he would grip my throat, force me to my knees, and demand to know when I’d give him a child.

I took it all in silence.

Until the day I learned I was pregnant—and overheard him soothing his long-lost first love. “Marry me,” he said. “I’ll deal with Jessica so she won’t be in your way.”

My fingers found the scar on my arm. No heartbreak, just the quiet tally of a countdown.

When the seventh mark appeared, I would be free of him for good.

---

My drifting consciousness snapped back as Anthony’s ragged breathing slowly eased. We clung to each other like any ordinary couple, limbs tangled.

A flicker of warmth stirred in my chest. I opened my mouth to speak, but a sharp ringtone cut me off.

Anthony snatched up his phone. Seeing the caller ID, he pulled out of me at once and answered, his voice softening. “Grace, what’s wrong?”

Grace—Anthony’s long-lost first love, the girl who’d saved his life years ago. The woman he’d spent tens of millions wooing with flowers, yachts, and starlit villas. The one he’d proposed to ten times.

Ice water poured over me, washing away every lingering trace of pleasure.

I stayed silent. I swallowed the words that had almost spilled out in the heat of the moment—

*I’m almost a month along.*

“Anthony,” Grace’s wounded voice came through the speaker, “you went to see Jessica again, didn’t you?”

His body still carried the heat of desire, but his eyes turned cold as they flicked toward me. Gently, he soothed her: “She’s just a bitch. If you don’t like it, I won’t touch her again.”

Whatever Grace said next, Anthony didn’t bother lowering his voice as he headed for the bathroom. “Be good. Just say you’ll marry me, and I’ll deal with Jessica immediately. I won’t let her be an eyesore for you.”

My heart plummeted. Ignoring the ache in my back and legs, I slid out of bed, wiped the sticky wetness from my skin, and curled up on the rug at the foot of the bed. I dragged the blanket over my naked body, trying to steal back a little warmth.

A memory surfaced: eight years ago, after Anthony had tried to run from the Jessica family and been dragged back by Grandfather. Night after night, he’d slept curled on the floor of my room like a dog, utterly still.

Back then, everyone thought my betrayal and torment had broken his spirit for good. No one knew that, under my deliberate cover, Anthony had been quietly trading stocks, investing, building a company—becoming Kingsport’s mysterious rising star.

Years later, when Grandfather suffered a stroke and lay dying, with the Anthony's Group thrown into turmoil, Anthony finally struck. He nearly tore the family empire apart.

In the end, it was me who saved the crumbling dynasty—kneeling on the floor, handing over every share of the Anthony's Group left to me in Grandfather’s will, then crawling into his bed.

That day was my twentieth birthday.

“Go shower. You can sleep in the bed tonight.”

Anthony’s voice pulled me from the edge of sleep. His handsome features still held a trace of the tenderness he’d just shown the woman he loved.

“Grace agreed to marry me. You’ll have to start calling her Mrs Jessica, Jessica.” A faint smile touched his lips—the first lively expression he’d shown me in a long time.

It reminded me of eight years ago, when we’d fled the Jessica house hand in hand, betraying the world for our love. He’d grinned and shouted, “From today on, Jessica belongs to Anthony!”

But now, even in our most intimate moments, he looked at me with nothing but hatred and impatience. That tenderness, that love—none of it was mine anymore.

My throat tightened. I swallowed hard before answering evenly, “Congratulations.”

Dazed, I walked into the bathroom and pulled up Gregory’s number.

**Me:** Begin the plan. Gather the materials for submission.

His reply came instantly.

**Gregory:** Understood, Boss.

I put my phone away and let scalding water pour over my skin. A cold, heavy ache settled in my chest, but beneath it bloomed a fierce, swelling hope.

Six years and eleven months. I was finally close.

This monstrous house, built on sin and cruelty—I would watch it crumble to dust with my own eyes.

My fingers traced the six scars on my right arm, each one raised and distinct. I closed my stinging eyes.

Just one more month. Once the seventh year was complete, once the seventh mark appeared, I could end this. I could leave for good.