Driven by impulse, Jase hurried after Rena.

"Have you lost your mind, Jase?" Cassie snapped, grabbing him before he could take another step. "You're the CEO of Bailey Group. You really think you should be chasing after her?"

His movements stalled. He stood there for a beat, eyes fixed on the dense, lightless night outside the open door. "But…"

Cassie folded her arms across her chest, her face dripping with disdain. "But what? With no money to her name, where exactly does she think she can go besides here?"

A deep frown carved into Jase's face as a flicker of uncertainty tightened his jaw.

Where else could Rena possibly go?

Everything in her life had always circled back to this house—back to him.

No friends waited for her, no circle to fall into.

By the end of it, she would come back on her own.

...

Along the coastal highway, a sedan tore through the darkness at full speed.

Cool night air poured through the half-open window, tangling Rena's long hair into wild strands that lashed across her cheeks.

Resting on the passenger seat was a photograph, once ripped apart and now carefully pieced back together.

A jagged tear split straight across Clara's soft, tender smile.

One hand stayed firm on the steering wheel while her fingertips traced the rip across the photo with aching care.

Scenes from five years earlier rose in her mind with brutal clarity, each one sharper than the last.

At the time, she had been serving with a joint task force, moving through blood and chaos to treat the injured.

Then someone inside her own family sold them out to outside enemies, and Clara's sudden disappearance had forced her to abandon her post before her mission was over.

While chasing down the faintest clues about where her mother might have gone, she was ambushed without warning.

Bleeding heavily and barely clinging to life, she saw Jase appear through the chaos and pull her out of danger.

Once she regained consciousness, he spent the rest of his money buying the medicine she needed to survive.

In that hazy moment, he leaned close and assured, "Don't be afraid. They're gone now. I'll keep you safe."

Because of those words, she had truly believed she had finally found a harbor where her battered heart could rest.

Because she owed him her life, and because she had mistaken gratitude for love, she buried her real identity and became the perfect, devoted wife, all while secretly continuing the search for Clara.

When Jase said he wanted to build a business and start a pharmaceutical company, she quietly sent him an unpublished biopharmaceutical patent she and Clara had created together under complete anonymity.

By handing over full usage rights, she had let him build everything on that foundation, while he foolishly believed it was all just a stroke of luck.

What he never realized was that the document in his hands carried the weight of years—half a lifetime of relentless research and sacrifice shared between her and Clara.

And in the end, what did it amount to?

The very man who rose on Clara's life's work had stood there without a word, watching his family rip Clara's photograph to shreds, hurling vile insults.

A hollow, bitter laugh slipped from her lips.

How absurd it all was!

For five long years, she had poured her devotion into that household, only to realize she had been tending nothing more than a house full of ungrateful parasites.

With the debt of her life finally repaid, there was nothing left tying her to them. Now, she would walk away.

But before she did, she would make sure none of them escaped unscathed.

Up ahead, the road stretched lonelier and lonelier, until a weathered sign by the roadside whipped past her window. "Private property. Trespassers will be dealt with accordingly."

After turning off the engine, Rena braced herself against the side of the car and exhaled deeply, letting some of the tension drain away.

Then a faint, pitiful sound made her head snap up.

"Meow—"

Right in the middle of the road, a tiny white kitten, filthy with mud, shivered there like a helpless ball of fur.

Just ahead, in the opposite lane, a Lincoln came tearing toward it, no more than thirty feet away.

Without thinking, she shoved off the ground and lunged forward, sweeping the kitten into her arms.

On the rough asphalt, Rena dropped to her knees, curling protectively around the trembling little creature.

When she lifted her head, damp strands of hair clung to her cheeks, and a sheen of cold sweat had already formed across her brow.

The Lincoln's gleaming black bumper halted less than an inch from her knee.

Had the driver been even half a second later, her body would have been thrown clear across the road.

Rena tightened her gaze and fought to smooth out her ragged breathing, forcing her pounding heart back under control.

When she pushed a hand against the ground and tried to rise, a fierce stab tore through her ankle, and a low grunt slipped from her lips as she dropped back down.

A severe sprain had taken hold of her ankle.

Just then, the car door swung open.

From the driver's side, a tall man stepped out.

His face stayed buried in the night at first, but as he stepped into the dim streetlight, it slowly revealed his features.

That face looked almost unfair, as though God had sculpted it with painstaking care and then cruelly thrown it into the depths of despair.

A straight, striking nose cut down the center of his face, his deep-set eyes shadowed beneath sharp bone structure, while his skin held the bloodless pallor of someone who had gone too long without sunlight.

Set beneath it all, his pale, thin lips pressed into a hard line that carried nothing but cold indifference and the exhausted contempt of a man long sick of the world.

The man came to a halt in front of her, towering over her as his shadow fell across her face.

Without a word, he abruptly extended his hand.

Rena's gaze dropped to the hand suspended before her, but she made no move to take it.

Trusting help from a stranger had never come naturally to her.

Seeing her remain still, the man drew his brows together in faint irritation.

Instead of waiting any longer, he crouched down, slid one arm behind her back and the other beneath her knees, then scooped her up with the kitten still tucked in her arms.

The sharp jolt that ran through Rena made her entire body go rigid. Almost immediately, she twisted in his hold and demanded, "Who are you?"

Curled against her, the kitten seemed to catch her alarm too, wriggling restlessly as it let out thin, frantic cries. "Meow, meow—"

Waylon Brooks lowered his eyes to her, his voice flat and icy as he said, "If you want to stay alive, don't move."

Before Rena had a chance to process what was happening, Waylon flung her onto the strip of grass beside the road.

A couple of steps away, he stood there with chilling composure, methodically wiping the fingers that had just touched her.

"Were you after money, or were you hoping to crawl into my bed?" Dropping his gaze, Waylon spoke with sharp disgust in his low voice. "Next time you feel like dying, pick a place farther away. Don't stain my tires with your mess."

After tossing out those words, he turned on his heel and started toward the car.

From where she sat, Rena gave a disbelieving laugh. "Are you seriously insane?" she snapped back. "If your head's messed up, go find a psychiatrist. Paranoia, bipolar, whatever you've got—get it treated early and quit lashing out at random people!"

Up ahead, his tall figure stalled for the briefest beat.

Around him, the bodyguards' hands flew to their holsters on pure reflex, yet Waylon merely tipped his head, gave a dismissive, contemptuous scoff, and pulled open the car door.

Within moments, the black Lincoln vanished into the darkness like it had never been there.

"Psycho." Muttering under her breath, Rena dusted the grass from her clothes and started to rise, only for something in the bushes to snag her attention—a metal sign, half concealed beneath the tangled leaves.

Its surface was black as midnight, wrapped in dark gold thorns that coiled around a bleeding cross.

That emblem belonged to the ancient Blood Cross mafia family, clearly marking the area as private.

Anyone who trespassed here died.

Only then did Rena understand exactly who that man had been, and a cold shiver slid down her spine.

That sickly pale, colorless skin. Those deeply shadowed eyes. And that frigid, exhausted look that seemed to have gone numb to the entire world.

The man had been Waylon, Qremvale's dreaded godfather—the one who held half of the Western underworld's economy in his grip.

Stories painted him as volatile, merciless, and vicious enough to make grown men shake.

Yet she knew the truth was stranger than rumor, because she had seen his medical records with her own eyes. He suffered from severe hemophobia and had an excessive fear of germs.

Never once had she imagined this place belonged to him.

Staring at the dimming taillights, Rena lowered her gaze to her completely uninjured hands as she absently rubbed her throbbing ankle.

She had trespassed on his land, called him insane to his face, and still made it out breathing.

Compared to everything else, maybe her luck tonight hadn't been all that bad.

Bracing herself against the car door, she took a slow breath and forced her racing pulse to settle.

Just then, the phone tucked inside her coat pocket started ringing.

Reaching in, Rena pulled it out and glanced at the screen.

The caller ID read, "Honey."

Once, that name alone had been enough to fill her chest with warmth.

Now, it did nothing but turn her stomach.

The call cut off on its own.

Almost immediately, a message alert chimed through the silence.

"Rena, where the hell are you? It's late, and it isn't safe out there. I'll come get you," Jase texted.

Staring at the message that pretended to be full of concern, Rena let a mocking smile tug at the corner of her mouth.

Come get her?

If she mattered to him, why hadn't he gone after her when she left?

And why did he only think to send that message after an hour had passed?

Ignoring the message, she flung the phone onto the passenger seat and turned the engine over.

Not long after she pulled away, the phone vibrated once more.

A new text from Jase lit up the screen. "Mom and Dad are waiting for you to come home. We're all getting worried. Enough with the stubbornness. Come back already."

A cold, humorless laugh slipped from Rena's lips.

His parents had never liked her to begin with.

That vicious Maggie, who had shredded her family photo and spat filthy insults at her mother, didn't deserve respect from her.

Worried about her?

What they really worried about was having someone to prepare their meals.

Right on cue, her phone lit up with a new message from Cassie.

"Rena, where the hell are you? Get back here right now! We're starving over here! Are you seriously making the whole family sit around waiting for you? Have you lost every shred of conscience?"

To the Bailey family, she was nothing more than an unpaid, top-tier housekeeper, someone they could bark at, blame, and humiliate whenever the mood struck.

Once she married into the family, she had even let the household chef go so she could personally manage Maggie's delicate stomach and look after Jase's daily meals. From that day on, every dish that reached their table had come from her own hands.

Over time, she had pampered their tastes too well, and somehow even that had become one more blame pinned on her.

A moment later, her phone started ringing again.

Jase was calling.

Easing the car over to the side of the road, Rena finally answered.

"Rena, you picked up at last," Jase remarked, his voice tight with forced patience. "I'm sorry about earlier. I shouldn't have lost my temper with you. But you know Mom's getting older, and her health hasn't been good. She can't go too long without eating. When exactly are you coming back? We're still waiting for you."

"Waiting for me?" Rena gave a hollow, mocking laugh, its brittle edge unmistakable. "Or were you really just waiting for me to come back and cook for you?"

A strained silence crackled over the line.

Then Cassie's shrill voice cut in, sharp enough to sting through the speaker, "Jase, why are you wasting your breath on her? Just tell her to get back here right now! If she refuses, she can stop thinking about coming back—this house is closed to her forever!"

On the other end, Jase muffled the phone, seemingly turning to reprimand Cassie. A moment later, he came back on the line. "Rena, that's not what Cassie meant," he said, his tone softening. "Hunger's getting to her—she's not thinking straight. You know how much everyone loves your cooking. Food from outside isn't clean, and Mom's stomach has always been delicate, so—"

Before he could finish, Rena interjected with a cold, biting laugh, "Then how did your family manage before I ever showed up? What did you people eat to stay alive? Or did you always go around shamelessly begging other people to feed you like this?"

"How could you even say something like that?" Irritation sharpened Jase's voice. "We're a family. Of course it makes sense for you to look after the house. Do we really need to fight over this right now?"

Family?

Since when had they ever treated her like one of their own?

A deep, bone-weary exhaustion washed over Rena, leaving her too drained to keep arguing.

Everything she had poured into them over the past five years had meant absolutely nothing.

No—at the very least, genuine kindness should have been worth a shred of gratitude.

Instead, every sacrifice she had made for Jase and his family had circled back like a blade and cut into her.

By now, those five years had more than paid back the debt she owed for him saving her life.

"Jase," she called out.

Mistaking her quiet tone for surrender, Jase eased up at once. "Rena, you've always been the sensible one. Just come home, apologize to Mom, and we'll pretend none of this ever happened."

Her voice came out calm, almost chillingly so. "Let's get a divorce."