Ethan had just returned home when a scream tore through the backyard—a sound he recognized. The guard dog. A jolt of fear sent him running toward the noise.

What he found was beyond anything he could have imagined.

Mariah was trapped inside the dog’s cage, pinned beneath the massive mastiff, her clothes soaked in blood. And standing beside them, watching with cold detachment, was Cynthia.

"Ethan, save me!" Mariah sobbed, reaching a trembling hand toward him.

He snapped into action, wrenching the cage open and pulling her free. Cradling her against his chest, he tried to steady his voice. "It’s okay. You’re safe now."

Still trembling violently, Mariah turned her tear-filled eyes toward Cynthia. "You’re the one who walked out on Ethan when he had nothing. Isn’t it only natural he hates you now? Why take it out on me? Luring me here… feeding me to that beast…"

Ethan’s rage erupted. He glared at Cynthia, eyes blazing. "A gold-digger like you never deserved anyone’s love. If everyone despises you, you have only yourself to blame. What has Mariah ever done to you? Why do you keep hurting her?"

Cynthia shook her head weakly, gesturing toward the bloody gashes on her own arms and legs. "I didn’t hurt her. She saw you coming and crawled in there herself. *I’m* the one the dog attacked. Look at my wounds if you don’t believe—"

"Enough!" Ethan’s voice cut like a blade. "You think a few fake scratches can fool me? You’d better pray Mariah pulls through, or else—"

He never finished. Mariah went limp in his arms, pale from blood loss. Panic wiped the anger from his face. Scooping her up, he sprinted toward the house without a backward glance.

Cynthia watched him go, the last flicker of despair dying in her eyes.

So this was how he saw her. So vile, so worthless, that he’d rather destroy himself if it meant destroying her too.

A bitter smile touched her lips. Dragging her weakened body inside, she forced herself to clean and dress her wounds despite the agony.

What did it matter if she got an infection? She didn’t have much time left anyway.

Just as she finished, the door crashed open. Ethan stormed in, fury etched into every line of his face.

"Mariah needed over twenty stitches. She passed out three times from the pain—and you know how terrified she is of pain. You did this to her. You will pay."

Before Cynthia could react, he seized her arm and dragged her out to the hospital entrance, forcing her to her knees on the hard pavement.

"Mariah still hasn’t woken up. You will kneel here and pray for her recovery. Pray like you mean it. If she suffers even a little—I’ll send you to keep her company in the afterlife!"

Cynthia opened her mouth to speak, but Ethan was already turning away. She lunged, fingers grasping for the hem of his trousers, but caught only empty air.

Under the blazing sun, guarded by Ethan’s men, Cynthia knelt at the hospital entrance for two days and two nights.

Passersby pointed and whispered, but no one dared to help.

Her pride was ground into the dust beneath her knees.

Yet the humiliation was nothing compared to the searing pain tearing at her insides—so fierce it drew cold sweat onto her skin despite the sweltering heat.

She begged the guards to take a message to Ethan, to ask for mercy, but he was completely consumed with Mariah’s condition. The mere mention of Cynthia’s name would make him snarl, "Get the hell out of my sight!"

On the fourth day, the heat and the pain finally overwhelmed her. Cynthia collapsed, her consciousness fading.

In the blurry darkness, a familiar silhouette approached.

Ethan had spent the past few days looking after Mariah. Each time he tried to visit Cynthia, Mariah would suddenly take a turn for the worse.

So he stayed.

Only when he learned Cynthia had collapsed from heatstroke did he finally go to her.

Seeing her there—pale and motionless on the stretcher—a cold dread settled in his chest.

He told himself he should hate her.

After what she had done, she deserved to pay.

But faced with her like this, he felt no satisfaction—only a sharp, clawing guilt.

Cynthia hated the heat more than anything, yet he had forced her to kneel outside for four whole days. He couldn’t imagine what she had endured.

Just then, Cynthia on the stretcher began shaking her head frantically, her face etched with terror.

“I didn’t abandon you… Ethan, I didn’t. Please don’t hurt me. Don’t lock me in that room again. I’m scared…”

“Really, I didn’t… I swear… Please believe me…”

Ethan froze, thinking she had woken.

But her eyes remained shut, her face even paler than before.

A single tear traced a path down her temple. She looked as fragile as a fading flower.

Something wrenched hard inside Ethan’s chest—a deep, sickening ache.

At that moment, Cynthia’s phone slipped from her pocket.

The screen lit up. A new message from the same doctor.

“Ms Cynthia, while a cure isn’t possible, palliative treatment could help manage your symptoms and extend your comfort. I’d strongly advise inpatient monitoring.”

Ethan remembered—the day he locked her away, a message had come from this same contact. He hadn’t seen it then; Mariah had distracted him.

This time, he saw it clearly. The words struck him like a physical blow, rooting him to the spot.

It took him a long moment to move. Before they wheeled Cynthia into surgery, he used her fingerprint to unlock the phone.

With a sinking heart, he opened the messages. After reading the exchange, he stood there, stunned.

Cynthia had cancer. And he had known nothing.

Through the operating room window, Ethan watched her lying motionless on the bed, surrounded by machines.

His heart lodged in his throat. His hands clenched into fists at his sides.

*Cynthia, you have to be okay.*

After the procedure, she was out of immediate danger and moved to a regular ward.

Still uneasy, Ethan insisted they run every test possible.

While waiting for the results, Cynthia woke.

She blinked, surprised to find Ethan beside her. He seized her hand before she could speak, his expression frantic.

“Cynthia, why didn’t you tell me you were sick?”

She was taken aback that he already knew.

“I…”

But before she could finish, a doctor entered with the report, addressing Ethan seriously.

“Mr. Ethan, the tests indicate Ms Cynthia is in good health. She has mild anemia, but supplements should resolve it.”

Silence hung in the room for two full seconds.

Ethan’s brow furrowed deeply.

“That’s impossible. I saw it myself—her doctor said her organs were cancerous. How can she be healthy? There must be a mistake in your tests.”