Before Hannah could finish speaking, she pressed the sole of her high heel hard against Cynthia’s face.

Deliberately, she smeared mud over Cynthia’s head and cheeks, now and then digging the sharp heel into her skin, leaving bleeding bruises behind.

“…You’re not angry with me, are you, Cynthia?”

Wiping both heels clean, Hannah put on a look of feigned, timid innocence.

“She wouldn’t dare.” Michael kissed Hannah slowly on the lips, then glanced down at Cynthia with contempt. “The snakes’ fangs have been pulled this time. If there’s a next time… I won’t waste my energy again.”

With that, he tossed down a set of keys, scooped Hannah into his arms, and strode away without looking back.

Cynthia scrambled for the keys, hands trembling as she fumbled to unlock the glass door. Fighting back the nausea and terror churning inside her, she picked her way past the snakes—each one a coil of dread—and stumbled toward her grandmother.

She tried to lift Patricia gently, then froze. There, on the back of her grandmother’s hand, was a clear bite mark. The skin around it had already turned a sickly purple-black, the discoloration creeping up her entire arm.

Michael had lied. The snakes’ fangs were still there.

Nothing else mattered now. Cynthia hoisted her barely-breathing grandmother onto her back and burst out of the house.

But they were in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by pitch-darkness. Days of heavy snow had left the ground treacherous. Every step was a struggle, her grandmother a dead weight on her back.

Her feet kept slipping. Again and again she fell to her knees, skin breaking, blood seeping through her pants and staining the ice below. Still, she gritted her teeth and pushed forward.

"Hold on, Grandma. The hospital… we’ll get there soon. You're going to be okay. You have to be okay!"

She repeated the words like a mantra, her voice shaking uncontrollably.

Then her foot caught on nothing. Her ankle twisted at a sickening angle, and she crashed down with her grandmother into the snow, a tangle of limbs. This time, she couldn’t get up.

“…Cynthia.” Patricia’s voice was barely a thread of sound. “I know… all these years… you’ve suffered for me. You don’t have to anymore… Go. Leave this place. Live well… just live…”

Her grandmother’s voice cut off abruptly. The hand reaching for Cynthia’s cheek fell, striking the snow with a soft, final thud.

Cynthia stared, uncomprehending, at the lifeless form in her arms. It was as if a white-hot blade had been driven through her heart. Raw, overwhelming agony swallowed her whole.

Her mouth opened. She wanted to scream, to cry for help—but all that came out was a violent rush of blood, spraying across the snow before she collapsed beside her grandmother, unconscious.

Cynthia woke in a hospital bed. A passerby had found them and brought them in. But for Patricia, it was too late.

Limping, Cynthia left the hospital carrying her grandmother’s ashes. She took them home; she couldn’t afford a burial plot.

On paper, she was the CEO of Michael’s Group. In reality, her annual salary was one dollar. Even basics—food, clothing, a roof—required a formal request. Anything over fifty dollars needed Michael’s personal approval.

As for the $100,000 she’d applied for two days ago? Still no word.

Now, the total in her bank account couldn’t even buy the cheapest plot of land in the city.

Just as Cynthia was reaching her wit’s end, Michael called, demanding she rush to the club where he usually entertained his lovers—or he would reject her application on the spot.

The moment she stepped into the private room, Cynthia saw Michael locked in a slow, deep kiss with Hannah as the others cheered them on. Instinctively, she dropped her gaze.

Even so, she couldn’t miss the expensive new jewelry Hannah wore—especially the glass-jade bangle circling her wrist. That was a piece reserved only for the wife of the Michael family.

Right after their wedding, Michael had wrenched that same bangle from Cynthia’s arm. “You don’t deserve to wear this.”

“Sis Cynthia, I’m allergic to alcohol. You’ll have to handle this for me.”

Hannah’s face was flushed and smiling sweetly, but her eyes glittered with malice. Immediately, three glasses of strong liquor were set before Cynthia.

“…I had a cephalosporin injection today. I can’t drink.” Cynthia held out her right hand toward Michael.

Even under the swirling psychedelic lights, he could see the faint bluish needle marks on the back of her thin, pale hand, and her fingers thickly bandaged from frostbite—an unusually pitiful sight.

“Drink it yourself, or I’ll have someone help you drink it. Your choice.” Michael’s face stayed utterly indifferent, clearly disbelieving her.

Cynthia knew she had no choice. Taking a deep breath, she clumsily dialed 911.

“Hello, I need an ambulance. Someone at The S Club drank alcohol after a cephalosporin injection. Thank you.”

After hanging up, she drained all three glasses of liquor without expression.

“Wow! Sis Cynthia, you’re amazing… Michael, let’s keep playing!”

In the rounds that followed, Hannah began losing on purpose. More and more glasses of strong liquor piled up in front of Cynthia.

Cynthia said nothing, enduring the violent reaction building inside her. She drank one glass after another as calmly as if it were water—yet her cheeks flushed rapidly, and she gradually grew unsteady, swaying visibly on her feet.

Michael noticed. He knew Cynthia’s alcohol tolerance was high, honed through endless business negotiations and social rounds. This shouldn’t have been enough to drunk her.

He instinctively frowned, about to tell her to stop.

Suddenly, someone knocked at the private room door. An anonymous parcel had arrived for Hannah.

Curious, she opened it in front of everyone. Inside was a document envelope. Hannah glanced at the contents—then immediately broke down into hysterical sobs.

Photos spilled across the floor. With her vision already blurring, Cynthia strained to see: they were explicit pictures of Hannah, clearly taken under coercion.

“Sis Cynthia, I know you hate me! You can’t stand me being with Michael! Do I have to die before you’ll leave me alone?”

Screaming through her tears, Hannah snatched a paring knife from the table and plunged it into her own chest. Blood gushed out, some splattering across Michael’s face.

“Hannah!” He scooped her up and rushed out—just as the ambulance arrived. Paramedics ran upstairs with a stretcher; Michael laid Hannah onto it and turned to leave.

By now, Cynthia could no longer stand. She collapsed painfully to her knees, struggling even to breathe.

On the verge of suffocation, she mustered her last strength and carefully clutched the hem of Michael’s trousers. “Michael… save… save me. I… don’t want to die yet.”

“You’d be better off dead.” Tossing the words coldly over his shoulder, he kicked her hand away without looking back.

The back of Cynthia’s head struck the sharp corner of the coffee table with a heavy thud—and the world before her eyes went completely dark.

Cynthia wasn't dead. Her eyes fluttered open to the familiar sterile white of a hospital room, her wounds neatly dressed. Five minutes later, she wished she *had* died back in that private room at the club.

Without warning, several masked strangers burst in. Before she could react, a cold, unknown liquid flooded her veins from a needle. Instantly, paralysis took hold. She couldn't move a finger—could only watch, helpless, as they stripped her bare under the stark, pitiless glare of camera lenses. Manipulated like a marionette, she was forced into a series of lewd poses, the room echoing with coarse whoops and jeers.

She wanted to scream. To vomit. But she was trapped in a waking nightmare, her silent tears the only protest. Why was this happening? What had she done? Over and over, a desperate prayer looped in her mind: *Someone, anyone, please save me!*

She jolted awake, drenched in sweat and gasping for air. Michael stood over her bed, looking down.

"Bad dream?" His expression held an uncharacteristic softness.

Cynthia nodded numbly, the line between nightmare and memory blurring.

Michael extended a hand. Hesitantly, she took it. In the next instant, his arm locked around her waist, steering her—pushing her—toward the massive floor-to-ceiling window.

"I have a surprise for you. Shall we count down? Three… two… one… Well?" His low whisper brushed her ear. "Do you like it?"

Horror washed over her. The advertisement on the giant outdoor screen was gone, replaced by an image of a naked body. The face wasn't visible, but Cynthia recognized it instantly—the small red birthmark on the chest, the telltale patches of frostbite scattered across the skin. It was her.

An icy dread seized her bones, turning them to water. She went utterly limp, sagging back against him.

He took the opportunity to press her down onto the bed, sinking his teeth into her collarbone. At her choked gasp, a satisfied smirk touched his lips.

"Remember," he murmured against her skin, "this is just a small warning. I don't want there to be a next time."

He was about to continue when Cynthia—always docile, always yielding—suddenly began to struggle violently.

"...Aren't you afraid Hannah will get angry, Mr Michael?" Her words were deliberate, cold.

Michael's expression frosted over instantly. He gripped her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. The desolation and utter despair he saw in her eyes inexplicably irritated him.

Releasing her abruptly, he stood and turned to adjust his suit jacket. "You're right. For the duration of Hannah's hospital stay, you will take care of her. Remember—you only keep your place as my dog if you're obedient enough. Understood?"

Without another glance, he left.

Cynthia fought to steady her breathing. Finally, her resolve hardened. She picked up her phone and dialed Matthew's number.

"A woman with your looks and talent shouldn't suffer such indignities. You should be playing for a winning team. Why not come to my side? I promise you won't be disappointed."

Matthew was Michael's fiercest business rival. Cynthia had snatched several multi-million-dollar contracts right from under his nose. Yet, instead of hating her, he'd developed… an interest.

He'd made similar overtures before, once even deliberately in front of a drunken Michael, who had a pretty young thing draped over his arm at the time. Michael had merely shot Cynthia a drunken, dismissive glance. She'd immediately lowered her eyes and murmured, "It is my greatest honor that Mr Michael allows me to remain by his side."

Even that display of submission hadn't spared her. Michael had been furious afterward. He'd collared her like a dog and kept her in bed for three days and nights, his breath hot in her ear as he repeated the same phrase: *"A dog must be loyal. Do you understand?"*

"**Cynthia.** You calling me… I'm genuinely surprised. And delighted."

"I want to leave Michael. Can you help me?" She cut straight to the point.

She knew Michael would never agree to a divorce. Even if she somehow got the papers, he'd find her—for him, it would be like snapping his fingers. She needed to disappear completely.

"Of course! Nothing would please me more." Matthew paused, his voice taking on a new, calculating edge. "But Cynthia, I'm a businessman. And in business, we expect a return on our investments."

"...What do you want?"

"You. I fell for you at first sight. Surely you don't doubt my sincerity?"

His tone was flippant, almost mocking. Cynthia couldn't help a cold, derisive laugh. She didn't believe a word of it.

But it didn't matter what Matthew wanted. The Cynthia of now was willing to pay any price.

"Fine. I'm yours. How long do you need to prepare?"

"Ten days, maximum," he promised, his voice turning serious.

"Good. It's a deal. I'll see you then."