All the blood in Coleen's body seemed to rush backward. Her vision blurred as she stumbled to her feet and ran out the door.

Behind her, Bruce's shocked gaze lingered—but she didn't look back.

By the time she reached the lobby downstairs, the entrance was already swarming with reporters.

They descended on her like vultures scenting fresh blood, microphones shoved in her face, flashes exploding like gunfire.

"Dr. Vega! Your psychology clinic has been reported and temporarily shut down! There are also accusations online claiming your master's thesis was plagiarized—do you have any comments?"

"I didn't plagiarize!"

She pushed through the crowd, her grief raw and blinding. Her father was gone—she couldn't think, couldn't breathe—she just needed to see him one last time.

"Move!"

Her shout was sharp, but it was swallowed by the noise around her.

"Ms. Vega, please respond to the allegations!"

The reporters pressed closer, reading comments from their live broadcast like feeding off her misery.

"She could've stayed a rich wife, but no—she had to compete for patients. Guess mental illness is just her way of making money!"

"Plagiarized her thesis, used her family's influence to get her degree—typical spoiled socialite!"

Just then, Bruce arrived. He didn't expect that his father-in-law's health would be that poor. Nonetheless, he looked at Coleen calmly.

"Coleen," he said coolly, taking her arm. "He's gone. You can't bring him back. Right now, you need to compose yourself and maintain a positive image for the media. Otherwise, Sandoval Group's stock will take a hit."

"Don't worry, I'll handle your father's funeral arrangements."

Coleen stared at him, disbelief and heartbreak twisting together.

"He's my father. He just died, and you want me to smile for the cameras instead of saying goodbye?"

"I visited him last night," Her voice trembled, "He told me he regretted how he treated you. He asked me to apologize on his behalf."

"For the sake of our thirteen years, Bruce," she choked out. "I'm begging you—turn on the security system. Let me see my father one last time."

His hand hesitated. For a moment, she saw a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes—a faint hope she clung to. But before he could answer, Emily came rushing through the crowd.

"Bruce, take Madam away first! I'll handle the reporters, don't worry about me—ah!"

Her words ended in a cry as the reporters shoved her to the ground.

"Who are you? We want Coleen! Let her explain herself!"

Bruce's grip shifted direction. In Coleen's disbelieving gaze, he turned from her—and bent down to help Emily up.

"Coleen can handle her own mess," he said curtly. "You're hurt. We're going to the hospital."

And just like that, he led Emily away without looking back.

They left Coleen standing alone—surrounded by cameras, microphones, and sneering questions.

She endured every jab, every cruel laugh, until the crowd finally dispersed, satisfied with their footage.

Only then did she stagger out of the building, hail a cab, and race toward the hospital.

She ran the entire way to her father's ward—one shoe lost somewhere in the chaos, hair tangled, hands shaking. People stared as she passed, but she saw none of it.

At the ward door, she caught a nurse rushing by.

"Where's the patient in this room?" she demanded, her voice trembling.

The nurse frowned.

"Oh, he's been cremated. He passed away this morning, and since the beds are full, we went ahead with the cremation after getting the family's consent."

The nurse hesitated, then added softly, "Strange, though... I've worked here for years, and I've never seen anyone cremated that fast."

Realizing she'd said too much, the nurse stopped abruptly and pointed toward another ward. "The family member who signed the papers is there."

Coleen turned—and through the half-open door, she saw him.

Bruce.

Carefully tending to Emily's scraped knees, his movements gentle, intimate.

The air between them glowed with quiet warmth.

Coleen closed her eyes. Suddenly, she didn't feel anger anymore. Not even sorrow. Just... emptiness.

Leaning against the wall, she pulled out her phone.

A flight reminder flashed—tomorrow morning. Then, a message from her clinic assistant popped up.

[Miss Coleen, we'll have to close the clinic for two weeks. By the way, someone left flowers for you—I think they meant something. There's a note.]

She opened the photo.

It was a bouquet of roses, and tucked inside, a card.

The handwriting was faint but familiar, like a ghost from thirteen years ago. [I, Bruce Sandoval, vows to share joy and sorrow with Emily Olivar for the rest of my life.]

Coleen's lips curved into the faintest, brittle smile. Her fingers moved across the screen.

[Throw it away. No one wants it.]

Suddenly, the ward door swung open.

Emily stood there, smiling sweetly as she clutched a folder in her hands.

"Madam," she said gently, "this should be the last time I call you that."

She handed over the folder—it was the divorce agreement.

"Mr. Sandoval—oh, I mean, Bruce has agreed to the divorce."

When Coleen lifted her head, she saw Bruce standing behind Emily, cold and impassive as he watched her face the agony of her father's death.

"Ten thousand," Emily said softly, her tone smooth and deliberate. "Bruce said it's hush money. From now on, the two of you owe each other nothing."

Ten thousand...

That was the same amount Coleen had scraped together years ago after her parents cut her off completely. Every last cent of her savings—she'd given it to Bruce without hesitation, to help him start his company.

Money loses value, but people change faster.

The Sandoval Corporation had since grown into a powerhouse. In today's Chicago, ten thousand dollars couldn't even buy a closet-sized room.

Emily's tone dripped with mock sympathy. She was savoring her triumph, wielding her new status like a blade. Pitying Coleen—this was the most elegant form of ridicule she could offer.

Coleen gave a faint, bitter laugh. Just as her fingers brushed the edge of the divorce papers, Emily curled her lips into a smile and deliberately let the folder slip from her hand, scattering the papers across the floor.

"Oh—sorry, Miss Vega," she drawled. "Guess I didn't hold it firmly."

Bruce frowned and took a step forward immediately. "Did it hit your hand just now? Let me see."

Coleen froze, then slowly bent down to pick up the papers. She said nothing.

Later, she carried her father's urn back to the apartment they used to share.

In just one day, her belongings had been cleared out and dumped at the door like trash.

The paintings she chose, the coffee table she designed, the pillows she handpicked—everything she'd carefully arranged when they first bought this place together had either been replaced or destroyed.

She stepped over the pile of discarded things and reached for the door handle.

Beep, beep—

The sound of a failed fingerprint scan broke the silence.

Her hand froze midair as the lock flashed red.

A moment later, the door opened from the inside. A new housekeeper peered out, suspicious and impatient.

"Who are you?"

"I'm the owner's... ex-wife. Just came to see if I left anything behind."

Recognition dawned in the woman's eyes, followed by open mockery.

"Oh, so you're that ex-wife—the one who couldn't have children. You do look a bit old for him, don't you? No wonder he left. Anyway, your junk is over there."

After that, she slammed the door shut.

Coleen stood there for a long time, the sound of the wind faintly rattling the boxes at her feet.

Then she let out a quiet, almost amused laugh.

She was about to call someone to haul the trash away when her foot nudged something. She froze upon seeing the shattered wind chime.

She remembered that night years ago, when they had just bought the apartment. Money was tight, but love was warm.

Coleen couldn't sleep, haunted by dreams of a future where Bruce became successful and drifted away. So he had gone to the beach after work, collecting shells to make her a wind chime. He'd wake up early to make her porridge, call her every night to say goodnight, and swear again and again— "I'll give you a better life."

And he did.

Bruce gave her more properties, more money. But also more late nights, more absences, and eventually, someone else's perfume lingering on the sheets where his warmth used to be.

Maybe the wind chimes, like his promises, belonged to a time that would never return.

Coleen's fingers went slack. She didn't look back at the boxes, the memories, or the ghosts of what used to be home.

With nothing left to hold on to, she turned and walked away.

In the quiet hours before dawn, the streets of Chicago were nearly deserted.

The little café she and Bruce used to frequent was now boarded up, the lights long extinguished. The saplings they once planted together had grown into towering trees.

Coleen suddenly realized that traces of their hard work were scattered all over Chicago—silent witnesses to years of shared dreams.

On the big screen in the square, her interview was playing—followed immediately by a barrage of online attacks against her and the Sandoval Group.

She stood still, staring up at the screen, her expression calm and unreadable.

Until a murmur rippled through the crowd. Someone recognized her.

Insults and accusations followed like a wave. Coleen turned and fled, her footsteps echoing down a deserted alley.

When she finally stopped, she exhaled softly.

'Safe now,' she thought.

But the next second—someone struck her from behind. Then everything went dark.

...

"Bruce," a gruff voice echoed in the dimly lit factory, "the two women closest to you are in our hands. You'd better hand over the two confidential documents immediately. Otherwise..."

A cold laugh followed. "The result won't be something you want to see."

The chair beneath Coleen was hard and cold, the steel biting through her skin. A blade pressed against her throat, gleaming in the dim light.

Emily whimpered beside her, tears streaking her face.

"Bruce... my wound... it hurts so much—it won't stop bleeding..."

Compared to Emily's desperate cries, Coleen's silence seemed almost dignified.

Bruce's gaze turned sharp as ice. His tone was lethal.

"If you lay a finger on Emily, you'll never get what you want."

The kidnapper hesitated and slightly loosened his grip.

Bruce let out a quiet, humorless laugh. Then he tossed a black folder across the floor.

"Here. The information you wanted."

The man snatched it up, flipped through it—and his face darkened. "There's only one file?"

"Because I only intend to save one person," Bruce replied indifferently.

The words dropped like shards of glass.

"Give Emily back to me. As for Coleen..." His tone was flat, merciless. "Do whatever you want with her."

Thunder cracked across the sky, illuminating the rain-slick floor. Coleen stood frozen, her heart colder than it had ever been.

Through the flashes of lightning, she watched Bruce and Emily's silhouettes disappear into the darkness—leaving her behind in despair.

"Mrs. Sandoval... what a devoted wife you are," one of the men sneered.

He grinned, the tip of his dagger tracing a cruel line along her cheek as if deciding where to cut first.

Suddenly, Bruce's earlier words echoed in her mind.

"You did this, didn't you? Emily was tortured, while you're spotless and unscathed. Coleen, since when did you become so vicious?"

Her?

Coleen almost laughed.

He once told her that the simplest explanation was often a lie—that people only showed you what they wanted you to believe.

So why had he forgotten his own lesson?

Had Emily's injury blinded him that completely?

The kidnappers burst into crude laughter.

"Well, at least we got one file and one beauty—wait... this file is fake!"

Rage consumed his face. He slapped her hard across the cheek, the crack echoing through the empty space.

"Damn it! That slick bastard played us!" he snarled, eyes blazing. "And you—you useless woman!"

His voice dropped to a menacing whisper, low and guttural.

"If we can't get the real file..." He leaned closer, the knife pressing harder against her skin. "Then we'll just take you instead."