The nurse whispered in my ear that I had a chronic illness, not life-threatening but requiring long-term treatment and quite expensive. I could no longer hear her; my mind was replaying the accident from three years ago.

Three years ago, the rain was pouring down, the road was like a river.

I remember the wipers couldn't keep up, and the headlights illuminated the thick smoke before they could even react. I almost drove right through it. Really, just a hair's breadth away.

But then I saw a car crashed into the guardrail, flames roaring from its hood, and my mind went blank.

I don't remember how I made that decision. I frantically flung open the car door, grabbed the man inside by the collar, and pulled him out with all my might. He was much heavier than he looked. My knees slammed twice on the wet asphalt to pull him away from the wreckage.

He was almost unconscious. There was blood on his temple, his breathing was rapid and weak. His hand touched my wrist in the darkness��a weak, desperate grip.

"Who are you?"

His voice was hoarse, almost inaudible. Before I could answer, the ambulance lights stained the rain red and white, paramedics shouted, and before I could reply, he released my hand. I gave them time to process it. I didn't tell them my name.

I just stood in the rain, my heart pounding, watching them lift him into the ambulance. Then I got back in my car and drove home, trembling all the way.

I never thought of him again.

Until fourteen months ago, I met Caleb Sterling at a mutual friend's dinner party. The line of his jaw made my heart skip a beat. It wasn't until he smiled at me across the table that I realized: I've seen you somewhere before.

It wasn't until our third date that it dawned on me. But by then, I couldn't resist his love.

---

Three days ago, I found this photo while searching for my gray scarf deep in our shared closet.

The photo showed a woman, smiling and turning, frozen in mid-air. She had dark hair, bright eyes, and wore a black leather jacket��exactly the same style, even the worn patch at the elbow was exactly the same as the one I wore that night.

My heart sank.

��Caleb.�� I took the photo and went outside. ��Who is this?��

He looked up from his laptop, his expression changing. Gentle, almost pious. ��She saved my life,�� he said. ��Three years ago. I never knew who she was, but I��I somehow found this photo. I��ve kept it ever since.��

The room seemed to tilt.

��Caleb.�� My voice sounded strange. ��That coat. I have the exact same coat. I was there that night. It was me����

��Stop.�� His voice turned abruptly cold, and I was interrupted before I could catch my breath.

��I��m not lying. I pulled you out of the car. You grabbed my wrist and asked who I was, then the ambulance����

��Aria.�� He stood up, the gentleness in his voice vanishing instantly. ��I don��t know what this is, but don��t do this.��

��What for? I��m telling the truth����

"You're jealous." He sneered, as if announcing a diagnosis. "Unfortunately, your story is too convincing."

These words struck me like a hammer blow. I shook my head, tears welling in my eyes. ��Caleb, please listen to me����

��I don��t want to hear it.��

��It was raining heavily that day, and you were driving a silver-gray sedan. I was wearing a black overcoat, and the sleeves were ripped at the elbows. You grabbed my wrist and asked me��who are you? Then you passed out.�� I finished speaking in one breath, my voice trembling, but I stared intently into his eyes.

��Enough.�� He grabbed the keys from the counter. The door didn��t slam shut, it just opened a crack, but the sound felt like a tear in my chest.

I stood in the apartment, holding a photograph. The woman in the photograph looked like my ghost. I didn��t know how to breathe.

---

Now I sit on the hospital steps, the blood on my knees dried, a diagnosis report I haven��t fully processed tucked into my coat pocket. The city around me seems nonexistent, constantly turning.

Chronic illness. The doctor said it��s manageable. But the word "chronic disease" was like a boulder, sunk into my bones, impossible to shake off.

In the elevator going downstairs, I kept crying. When the elevator doors opened, I stopped crying, because I couldn't do anything anymore. A hollow silence, as if echoing faintly.

I remembered Caleb's back as he left me in the parking lot. His straight back. He didn't look back.

My phone vibrated.

An unknown number. Then another vibration��a text message from Vanessa.

"I heard you've been hanging out with him. You really don't know when to stop, do you? You don't deserve him. In his eyes,you are a thief."

Thief.

The word appeared starkly on the screen, ugly and deliberate.

Then, the image loaded.

Caleb and Vanessa. I recognized the bar��the dim amber lights, the exposed brick walls. He held her, her lips pressed against his, both of them bare-shouldered. The timestamp in the corner indicated tonight.

Hours later, he made me fall to the ground in the parking lot and walked away without looking back.

I stared at the photo until my vision blurred. Not because of tears��I think I had already cried. Something else. My eyes felt like they were weighed down by a stone, and a sharp buzzing filled my ears.

Somewhere in this city, Caleb was with a woman who had not only stolen my story but also what I meant to him. And I, sitting here, with my chronic illness diagnosis in my pocket, blood on my knees, had nothing left.

I picked up my phone again, checked the timestamp again, and looked at her message again.

Thief.

A cold, clear feeling washed over me. Not anger��at least not yet. But a calmer feeling. The kind of tranquility that comes before a decision is made.

I knew the truth. I always had.

The question is, am I finally ready to get him to listen?

The walk home took forty minutes. Crying had made my face look strange��skin taut, eyes swollen, as if the whole world had been submerged underwater. I didn't bother with mascara. Nobody needed me to dress up anyway.

I heard a sound first, then saw something. The key wasn't right. The lock wouldn't open.

I stood in front of the apartment door��my apartment door��and turned the key three times in the lock before accepting reality. The bolt had been changed. The lock was jammed. The door wouldn't budge.

��Ms. Lane.��

A man in a gray suit stood at the end of the hallway, back ramrod straight, expression deliberately aloof. I recognized him��Marcus, one of Caleb's junior assistants. He held a cardboard box, as if someone had warned you not to drop it.

��Mr. Sterling asked me to return your personal belongings.�� He handed me the box. ��He also wanted me to inform you that the joint account was closed this morning.��

I didn't take the box immediately; I just looked at it. The box contained a corner of a picture frame, the spine of a sketchbook, and a tangled phone charger. Three years of life's memories, packed away by someone else.

"He sent you to deliver it?" I stared at the cardboard box, my voice trembling. "He doesn't dare to come himself?"

Marcus, with a modicum of politeness, looked embarrassed. ��I��m sorry, Ms. Lane.��

I took the box. It wasn��t heavy, but that was precisely what made it the worst part.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. I tucked the box under my arm and glanced at the screen��a notification from my bank app: Account Balance: Unavailable. Then, I received a text message from my main client contact at Meridian Group, a number I recognized: We regret to inform you that our contract with Lane Design Studio will not be renewed. Effective immediately.

I stood frozen in the hallway.

It rang again. Hartwell Creative. Same wording, different letterhead.

Another one. Prism Co.

In the time it took Marcus to disappear around the corner, I received three text messages. Two more appeared by the time I reached the elevator. Every single one of my clients��every single one��was somehow connected to Sterling's network. I'd vaguely known this before. But I'd never considered what it would mean if that network turned against me.

Now I understand.

I sat on the hallway floor, the suitcase on my lap, because my legs suddenly felt weak. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed, a high-pitched, shrill sound. My knee throbbed, from where I'd scraped myself with gravel that morning. I shifted, the medical report rustling in my pocket.

Chronic illness. I could manage.

No apartment. No money. No clients. No Caleb.

I pressed my forehead against the suitcase and cried until my ribs ached.

---

That evening, I returned to a room I'd almost forgotten I could even enter��an old, run-down studio apartment I'd sublet years ago, never fully vacated, continuing to renew the lease monthly out of some inexplicable instinct. The radiators clattered. The overhead light bulb was too yellow. But it had floors, it had walls, and that was enough for now.

I spread my design files on the small table��some on my external hard drive, some paper drafts I'd grabbed before Caleb's assistant took inventory. Three ongoing projects. Months' worth of work. I sat cross-legged on the floor, pulled a bag of cookies from my bag, and ate them, trying to figure out my next move.

The doorknob turned.

I looked up.

It turned again, this time with more force, and then the door opened��not by force, but unlocked, as if someone had used a key��Vanessa walked in.

She wasn't alone. Two men stood on either side of her, broad-shouldered, silent, expressionless��the kind of people hired to keep a straight face. She wore a beige coat, her high heels clicking on the bare floor, a smile on her face that betrayed her never expecting to be rejected.

��That��s amazing,�� she said, glancing around the room with exaggerated disgust. ��I can��t believe you��ve stooped this low.��

��Get out.�� I stood up. ��How did you get the key?��

She ignored my question. One of the men walked to the table. Before I could even cross the room, he swept my drafts to the floor with one arm��a casual, effortless motion, like brushing crumbs off a table. The second man picked up my portable drawing tablet and slammed it to the ground. The screen hit the concrete with a sharp crack.

��Stop���� I lunged forward, falling to my knees, grabbing the drafts to avoid being trampled. My fingers gripped the edge of a layout I��d spent six weeks drawing.

��You��re so stubborn,�� Vanessa said, almost with admiration. �� As Caleb said.��

��You can��t do this!�� My voice trembled. ��You broke into my apartment����

��His name can open many doors for you.�� She tilted her head.��You��d better leave this city, Aria.�� She tossed her hair back as if it were a trivial matter. ��I��m not threatening you��I��m informing you. After all, you know he can make anyone disappear in this city.��

��You��re mad.�� I clutched the draft to my chest and stood up to face her. ��Do you think he��d want this? That is����

��He doesn��t need to.�� Her voice lowered, flat and gentle. ��He trusts me. He believes me. You��ve completely left��I��m just wrapping things up.��

��You lied to him. You stole my story, and����

The slap came quickly. The sound was more jarring than the pain, a sharp crack echoing against the bare wall. My head snapped to one side. I tasted copper.

For a moment, everyone froze.

Then, Vanessa smoothed her coat, straightened her sleeves, and walked towards the door. ��Leave this town,�� she said again, without turning back. ��This is the only time I��m asking you politely.��

The door clicked shut behind them.

I stood amidst the scattered drafts, one hand covering my cheek, the other still clutching a crumpled ball of paper. The tablet was strewn about. Scattered papers drifted under the table, along the baseboard, and piled up in a corner.

I slowly sat down, until I was seated on the floor.

The room was quiet. The radiator tapped softly. A car alarm wailed outside, then stopped abruptly.

My hand instinctively reached for my father��s Swiss Army knife, which I��d kept in the side pocket of the bag I��d carried since his funeral. I didn��t know why I always carried it. I��d never used it. It was just always with me.

I opened it, and in the reflection of the blade, that mere inch of polished steel, I vaguely saw my own face. One eye was swollen from crying. The mascara was long gone. A bright red mark remained on my cheek.

��Thief,�� Vanessa called to me. ��Jealousy,�� Caleb said. ��Liar.��

They took my apartment, my income, my clients, and the life I had built up over three years. Tonight, they came into this house and destroyed everything they could reach.

But they couldn��t take the truth. The truth remained within me, solid and unchanging, just like that rainy night three years ago when I didn��t flee the burning car, but rushed towards it.

I sheathed the knife.

I wouldn��t wait for him to believe me anymore.

I would strike first.

I stepped out of that dilapidated studio apartment, my hands red and aching, clutching my Swiss Army knife tightly; even though it had been in my pocket for a long time, the handle still bore the marks of its intricate design.

I remembered the indicator light on my dashcam flashing, recording everything. But now the dashcam had been sold to a used car dealership, and I decided to try my luck there.

The used car repair shop was a low building, its sign flashing: LUCKY��S USED PARTS. The parking lot was empty, save for a few rows of dilapidated cars and a gleaming black two-door sports car��a stark contrast to the surroundings. My stomach churned before I even saw her.

Vanessa.

She stood inside the wire mesh gate, elegant yet slightly weary. The emerald green silk dress she wore��high-necked and fitted��was a gift from Caleb last spring. She looked up from her phone, a slow, delicate smile playing on her lips.

��Oh, isn��t this the most popular homeless man in town?�� she said in a sweet voice. ��You really think you��re the only one who remembers the dashcam?��

I clenched my fists. ��Get out of the way.��

She laughed, a harsh laugh. ��I won��t����

I didn��t answer, just shifted my body. She blocked my way, blocking the door. ��You will never get it.I will ruined it.��

I glimpsed movement behind her; they were already searching. I lunged forward, reaching for the dashcam holder. Vanessa grabbed my wrist, her nails digging deep into my skin.

��Get out of here!�� I screamed hoarsely.

She yanked me back, and we stumbled and wrestled.

Her nails dug into my wrist, and I gasped in pain, a metallic taste rising in my throat. I shoved her hard, and her back slammed against the door of a beat-up car with a dull thud. She cursed as she reached for my hair with her other hand.

"Give me the video!"

She turned around, her voice shrill. "You pathetic! He never loved you. He never will."

I grabbed her hair, forcing her to face me. "You can lie to him, but I know what happened. You weren't there. You were never there."

A sharp whistle pierced the air. One of her henchmen strode over, grabbed my arm, and yanked me back. Another henchman twisted my wrists behind my back with such force that they bruised. Vanessa smoothed her skirt, a blush rising on her face, a hint of triumph in her eyes. She stepped forward, her voice low and intimate.

"You just can't accept it, can you?" Her eyes gleamed. ��Look at yourself now, you're like a stray cat no one wants.��

I spat blood onto the ground, glaring at her fiercely, hoping my gaze would burn her. ��You're nowhere near as composed as you appear, otherwise you wouldn't be here.��

A strange look flashed across her face, but she quickly masked it.

��No one in this city needs you anymore�� she whispered. �� Caleb loves me.It's time for someone as useless as you to step down.��

Suddenly, a deep, expensive engine roar ripped through the night. Vanessa��s gaze snapped to the door, her initial courage vanishing instantly. A black Maybach came to a slow stop.

The driver��s side door opened. A man stepped out, tall, serious-looking, dressed in a well-tailored black suit. Everything around him seemed to freeze. His hair was jet black, perfectly styled, his features sharp, and his eyes cold and unfathomable. Damian Thorne. I��d seen him once at a party��a shadow at the edge of the room. He exuded a powerful aura that was both captivating and terrifying.

His icy gaze swept over everything before him. His eyes landed on Vanessa, and the silence froze.

��Miss Fairfax,�� he said in a cold voice, ��I��ve known your father for decades. I don��t think he��d like to hear about his daughter��s extracurricular activities.��

Vanessa��s composure crumbled instantly. She took a step forward, her voice weak. ��Mr. Thorne, please����

He interrupted her with a dismissive gesture. ��Leave here now..��

Her lips trembled. She glanced at the man beside her. ��Put����

Damian��s gaze sharpened. ��Don't make me repeat myself a second time.��

The two men immediately released me, retreating as if burned. Vanessa hesitated, trying to maintain her dignity, but to no avail. She glared at me with hatred, then turned and hurried to her car, which disappeared into the night, its taillights fading around the corner.

Silence. Damian stood before me, arms crossed, the Maybach��s headlights shining behind him. I hurriedly stood up, brushed the dust off my knees, and tried to calm myself.

He looked me up and down, his expression unreadable. ��You��re Aria Lane, Caleb��s ex-girlfriend.��

I nodded, swallowing hard.

He stared at me for a while longer, as if weighing something unseen. Then he reached into his breast pocket and pulled a card��black with silver lettering. He handed it to me, holding it between two fingers. The gesture was unusually formal, even old-fashioned.

��If you need help,�� he said, ��just call me.��

Damian's fingers lightly brushed against the bruises on my cheek as he whispered, ��It's not over yet. Get ready, little girl." �� But his tone wasn't comforting; it sounded more like a gamble.

He turned and walked to his car, the door closing softly, with a sense of finality. The Maybach drove into the darkness, leaving me alone in the parking lot, Damian's business card clutched tightly in my hand, adrenaline still surging through my veins.

I stood there, breathless, surrounded by shattered glass and the specter of everything I had lost. But for the first time in days, I felt a spark ignite deep within me��a dangerous and fragile hope.

I took the card, my fingers lightly brushing against it. The handwriting was cold and smooth: Damian Thorne, CEO of Thorne Capital Group.

My eyes widened in shock the moment I saw the name on the business card. That man was...?