A sharp, sudden ache twisted in Maxwell's chest. He leaned back against the chair, a little drunk now.

And just like that, he thought of Zoey, the woman who never knew how to give up.

She had always been gentle, yet unwavering. Even when they fought—every time—she never raised her voice. She just... bore it. Quietly.

He could still see her—from the way she begged in the beginning, to when her composure finally broke and she shattered completely... and then, somehow, pulled herself together, gritting her teeth to keep standing.

He toyed with her. Over and over.

There was a time he even disappeared for a full month, ignoring every call, every message. And yet, when he finally walked through the door... she still handed him a cup of coffee.

He never understood. What the hell was she holding on to?

He treated her like garbage. Pushed her away. Drove her to the edge. Lied about having a child with Nancy just to make her leave.

And yet... Maxwell knew. All of it... was because he loved her.

His hands trembled uncontrollably. He couldn't stop it—the way his mind drifted back to her. The way his heart still reacted to her name. To her face. To everything.

Dr. Willow had told him Zoey stayed in the same place after the transfusion. She had nowhere else to go.

Knowing that should've brought relief. It didn't. His chest felt like someone had shoved a fist right through it.

Just then, Nancy came out from the kitchen with a glass of milk.

"Maxwell," she said sweetly, tilting her head with a playful smile, "here, have some milk. Helps with sleep."

Her face was bright, radiant, full of the same spoiled charm... the same charm Zoey once had.

That's right. She looked like Zoey. Her eyes. Her lips. Her temper. Even the way she carried herself.

That was why he agreed to this wedding. Sure, Nancy was obedient and well-behaved. But more than anything, she looked like Zoey.

His arm slipped around her waist, pulling her into his lap. His heart sank lower and lower.

'There's not just one Zoey in this world,' he told himself. 'Just one insignificant Zoey. I can quit her. I swear I can.'

Nancy's cheeks flushed. Her heart raced as she leaned into his chest, thrilled beyond words. Ever since their deal began, this was the first time he had initiated any intimacy.

Maybe... maybe tonight they could take things further.

She bit her lip, her voice soft and syrupy. "Maxwell..." Her arms wrapped tightly around his waist.

Her hands fumbled with the cuff of his shirt, fingers working nervously. She tipped her face up, offering her lips, waiting—

But Maxwell barely glanced at her. His eyes darkened, shadows coiling behind them like a storm about to break.

He couldn't do it. Not with anyone who wasn't Zoey.

His voice turned frigid. "Nancy... did you forget our deal?"

Her lips trembled. Frustration flickered in her eyes. "But Maxwell... we're married."

He stood, buttoning his shirt with a smile that was nothing but sharp edges.

"You know damn well it's fake. You play the part, I give you resources. If it weren't for your father's gambling debts, you wouldn't be sitting here at all."

His words were precise. Ruthless. Mechanical. Like a verdict being read out in court.

And with that... he walked away. No hesitation. No backward glance.

Nancy stood frozen. Her fingers dug into her palms, leaving crescent-shaped marks. Her eyes reddened, filling with something venomous.

Because now she knew—no matter how perfect the imitation... she would never take Zoey's place in his heart.

…

Maxwell lay on the couch.

His mind kept spinning, stuck on that last cruel conversation with Zoey. He couldn't sleep.

At some point, he got up and lit a cigarette.

The smoke filled the room, thick and suffocating. But it did nothing to quiet the storm inside him.

In the end... he gave in. He pulled out his phone and dialed her number.

The dial tone rang. Once. Twice. Three times.

No answer.

The line cut. All that remained was the hollow echo of silence.

His chest tightened. His breath felt shallow.

Finally, he called Dr. Willow.

"Find Zoey. If she's fine... don't bother calling me back."

Dr. Willow hesitated. He'd done this a dozen times before—tracking Zoey down whenever Maxwell pretended not to care. But this time... he couldn't hold back.

"But Mr. Porter... you said after the divorce, I wasn't to report anything about Ms. Bradford anymore."

Maxwell closed his eyes. Smoke curled past his lips.

"Find her. Once you do... get everything arranged. A clean break. Send her abroad. And after that... make sure she never comes back. From this moment on... she's dead to me."

Dr. Willow stared at the phone screen as the line went dead, letting out a long, quiet sigh.

'Mr. Porter is impossibly stubborn,' he thought to himself. 'Yet, even now, worried out of his mind, and he still can't bring himself to admit it.'

Dr. Willow had followed Maxwell for more than twenty years. He had watched as Maxwell's attitude toward Zoey shifted again and again—yet the one thing that never changed was his feelings for her.

He still remembered when Maxwell was just a boy. The day Maxwell learned the truth—that Zoey's mother was the woman who drove his mother to her death—he didn't speak for an entire week.

Dr. Willow could still picture Maxwell sitting by the window, head leaning against the glass, staring quietly at the balcony across the street. He could see Zoey there, twirling around in her little white dress, as though any second now she would skip down, grab his hand, and say—

"Maxwell, let's go play."

Maxwell sat there for hours. Just... watching.

By the time Dr. Willow realized how long it had been, Maxwell was already crying. Silent, empty tears that had been falling for God knows how long.

That was the first time Dr. Willow had ever seen that look on his face—grief so deep it was almost hollow.

"Dr. Willow... I can't stop loving her," Maxwell had whispered back then.

Dr. Willow had watched him carry that tangled knot of hatred and love all the way into marrying Zoey.

The beginning... wasn't all bad. For a brief moment, there was happiness.

But Maxwell poured every ounce of his resentment—not at Zoey herself—but into her family, into everything tied to her past.

He orchestrated everything. Manipulated every piece. And yet, everything he built... was just a fortress to protect her.

But eventually, Zoey discovered the truth about the money. About where it all really came from. She showed up, clutching that financial report in her hands, sobbing as the papers shook in her grip. Her tears hit his arm like tiny, scalding drops of acid.

Maxwell nearly broke. Nearly.

But in the end... he forced himself to turn his back on her. He forced himself to spit out the words he knew would destroy them both.

"I hate you. I hate you so much, I want you dead."

Zoey begged him through her tears. She didn't believe it.

Nobody could believe that a man who loved her this deeply could possibly mean those words.

But she kept trying. Kept looking for him. Kept coming back, over and over, until hope turned to despair.

Until one day... she locked herself in her room and swallowed bottle after bottle of sleeping pills.

That was the first time Maxwell ever came to Dr. Willow looking like that. Desperate. Terrified. He held Zoey in his arms like she was the last fragile thing in the world.

"I don't love her anymore," he said, voice shaking. "Just... please, save her. Please... Tell me how to make her live."

Dr. Willow had sighed then. "Sometimes... hate lasts longer than love."

And so, the two of them spent the next ten years locked in this endless war of love and hate. Ten years of cutting each other open, over and over.

Dr. Willow let out another breath, heavier this time. His feet carried him back to the wedding hall... and the moment he stepped inside, something cold, heavy, and suffocating wrapped around him.

A chill crawled down his spine.

The wedding decorations were still up. Streamers. Balloons. Flowers. All bright. All colorful.

And in the middle of it all... was Zoey.

Her face was bone white.

At first, he thought she'd simply fainted. He rushed forward instinctively—

—and then her body collapsed. Just crumpled, like something hollow finally giving out.

She was dead.

Not just dead. The way she died was... unspeakably cruel.

Blood stained every part of her face—flowed from her nose, her mouth, even from beneath her eyelids. And worst of all... her lips. Even in death, blood kept oozing from her mouth.

Dr. Willow stumbled back two full steps. His hands trembled. His heart hammered in his chest.

One thought. Just one, overpowering thought filled his mind, 'Zoey... is dead?'

The stench of death hit him hard. His stomach lurched. He had to fight not to throw up.

When he finally managed to move, he bent down—trying, somehow, to lift her. But her body... her body was covered in bruises, in bite marks, in defensive wounds that spoke of how long and hard she fought to survive.

Her face... drained of all life. Her skin... ghostly, waxy, stretched too tight.

His first instinct wasn't to call the hospital.

It was to call the funeral home.

Because the only thing echoing in his head—growing louder, sharper, heavier by the second—was this, 'Maxwell... is going to lose his mind.'