Richard’s face paled. Stepping forward, he lowered his voice, trying to intervene. “Larry, not today—it’s—”

“Shut up!”

Larry cut him off sharply, his bloodshot eyes locked on me, waiting—for my breakdown, my rage, my hysteria.

Nine years ago, that’s exactly how I would have reacted.

But he didn’t know. Over the past nine years, I had ground every last emotion down to nothing and buried it in the deepest trench of the sea.

I even laughed. Picking up the black card, I spun it slowly between my fingers.

“Mr. Larry certainly isn’t shy about throwing his money around.”

I walked over to the freshly made tiramisu. Right in front of them, I used the card’s hard edge to scrape off a thick chunk of cream dusted with cocoa powder.

Then I stopped in front of Larry.

His eyes widened in shock. Lunging forward, I grabbed his chin and shoved the cream-smeared card straight into his mouth.

“Taste it,” I leaned in, my voice a low, icy whisper. “Is cake bought with your dirty money especially sweet?”

Time seemed to freeze.

Everyone stood stunned.

Linda let out a sharp, choked gasp.

Richard’s jaw went slack.

Larry’s face was streaked with cream. On his tongue, the bitterness of cocoa clashed with the cloying sweetness of the frosting. A furious tempest darkened his gaze.

He probably never imagined that nine years later, this would be my answer to his provocation.

“You’re asking for death!”

Shoving me away violently, he wiped the cream from his face. His glare was ferocious, as if he wanted to tear me apart with his bare hands.

One of the bodyguards behind him immediately stepped forward, reaching for me.

My gaze hardened. In one fluid motion, I snatched the offset spatula from the counter and, without even looking, pressed its metal edge precisely against the guard’s throat.

“Get out.”

A single word.

The guard froze, a cold sweat breaking on his forehead. He could feel the chill of the metal against his skin—and the unmistakable, unrestrained threat she radiated. The quiet, deadly promise of someone who had truly seen blood.

“Ellie!”

Larry roared.

I didn’t even glance his way. My focus shifted to Linda, whose face had gone sheet-white.

*Slap!*

A crisp, sharp sound echoed through the dessert shop.

I’d put my full strength into it. Linda’s delicate cheek flushed and swelled instantly.

Clutching her face, she stared at me in disbelief, tears welling in her eyes. “How… how dare you hit me?”

“I dare,” I retracted my hand, my voice cold as ice, “because you shouldn’t have brought the person I hate most into my space. You’ve dirtied it.”

“And,” I looked at Larry, my lips twisting into a faint, bitter smile, “I dare because you look a little too much like I used to.”

The words pierced him—venomous and precise.

His face turned a shade paler than death.

Yes, Linda. Eighteen. Fresh-faced. With those two shallow dimples when she smiles.

So much like… so much like the Ellie from nine years ago, before hatred consumed her.

Larry, keeping a replica like this by your side… who exactly are you trying to punish? And who are you really torturing?

The farce of that day ended with Larry storming out, his men trailing behind him.

The look he shot me as he left could have ground my bones to dust.

I knew it was only the beginning.

And sure enough, the very next day, my dessert shop, Moonlight, was smashed to pieces.

When I arrived, chaos greeted me. The glass door was a spiderweb of cracks. Tables and chairs lay overturned. Carefully crafted desserts and pretty tableware lay shattered across the floor, cream and jam smeared over the walls and floorboards. The air hung thick with a cloying, sickly-sweet scent of decay.

Everything I had built with my own hands was destroyed.

I looked at it all calmly. I didn’t call the police. I didn’t cry.

I just walked silently inside, sifting through the wreckage, searching for something.

Finally, deep inside a smashed cabinet, I found it—a small, locked box. The lock was broken, too.

I opened it. Empty.

My parents’ memorial tablets were gone.

In that moment, the dam I had held up for nine years collapsed. My legs gave way, and I knelt in the filth of mixed glass shards and cream.

I could have let everything else go. The shop, these things—ruined was ruined.

But those were my parents’ only memorial tablets.

After that scandal years ago, both the Jordan and Timothy families had seen them as a disgrace. They were forbidden from the ancestral halls, forbidden from having memorial tablets; even the names on their headstones were deliberately blurred.

These two small wooden plaques—I’d had them carved in secret and hidden here, in my safest corner. They were my last tangible connection to them.

Kneeling on the ground, I pressed my forehead against the cold, rough floor and bowed my head again and again.

Not to beg for mercy. Not to repent.

I just hurt.

It hurt so much it felt like my insides were being shredded.

The familiar, suffocating pressure rose in my chest again. I coughed violently, a metallic, coppery taste flooding my throat.

Just when I thought I might die right there, a pair of polished leather shoes stopped in front of me.

I looked up. Through blurred, tear-filled eyes, I saw Larry’s face—cold and utterly devoid of warmth. He looked down at me as if I were a lowly insect.

"Ellie," he said, his voice laced with vengeful satisfaction. "Beg me. Beg me, and I’ll tell you where the tablets are."

I looked at him and suddenly laughed.

Leaning on the floor, I swayed to my feet, wiped the tears and grime from my face, and walked up to him.

"Larry," I said, looking straight into his eyes, my voice hoarse but clear. "Do you really think I’d get on my knees and beg you again, like I did nine years ago for my mother?"

His brow furrowed slightly, as if my reaction surprised him.

"You’re wrong," I continued. "My mother is dead. My family is gone. I have nothing left now."

I leaned in close, almost whispering into his ear. "A person with nothing left… can go mad. Guess what a mad bounty hunter might do?"

His body went rigid for a split second.

"For example," I smiled even brighter, "make your pretty, clean little fiancée disappear from this world. Completely."

"You wouldn’t dare!" A flicker of something—alarm, anger—finally broke through in his voice.

"Watch me."

I let the smile drop, my face expressionless. "Larry, give me back the tablets. Otherwise, this ends when one of us is dead."

In the end, I still didn’t get my parents’ memorial tablets back from Larry.

By the time I left the ruins of the dessert shop, my body was at its limit. Leaning against the wall, I half-stumbled to my car and drove to Dr. Louis’s private clinic.

Dr. Louis had been my mother’s attending physician and was the only person who knew about my condition. He looked at my latest test results, his brow knotted so tight his graying beard seemed to tremble.

"Reckless! Utterly reckless!" He slammed the report on his desk. "Ellie, how many times have I told you? You must rest, avoid any emotional stress! Look at this now—the rate of metastasis is three times faster than I projected! Are you trying to kill yourself?!"

I sat across from him, calmly pouring myself a glass of water.

"Uncle Louis, don’t be angry," I said softly. "You’ve always said this illness has no cure."

"That doesn’t mean you give up!" he replied, pained and exasperated. "At least… at least you could buy more time! You’re still so young…"

I smiled faintly and said nothing.

More time for what? To suffer one more day in this endless pain and hatred?

"Uncle Louis," I took a card from my bag and slid it toward him. "There’s enough in there to cover all the fees. Keep the rest. Consider it a token of my gratitude."

"What is this?"

"I don’t want to continue treatment."

I looked at him, my gaze steady. "For whatever time I have left, I want to live with some dignity. Not lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to tubes, like some monster."

Dr. Louis looked at me, his lips moving soundlessly for a long moment before it all dissolved into a heavy, weary sigh. He knew my temperament. Once my mind was made up, nothing could change it.

When I left the clinic, night had already fallen over Seaport City.

I drove aimlessly through the streets. Outside the window, neon lights glittered, crowds bustled, and countless windows glowed with warm light.

Not a single one was lit for me.

I took out my phone and found the number I had blocked countless times, yet was etched into my very bones.

I dialed.

It rang for a long time before he answered. Larry’s voice was icy and impatient. "What game are you playing now?"

"Larry," I coughed twice, suppressing the coppery taste in my throat. "Let’s make a deal."

He scoffed. "What gives you the right to make deals with me?"

"Haven’t you always wanted me dead?" My voice was calm, as if discussing something unrelated to me. "I’m dying. You won’t have to lift a finger."

Silence stretched on the other end.

"When I’m gone," I watched the cityscape fly past the window, my voice quiet, "I don’t want to be alone. Will you take care of my remains?"