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."

In that split second, Coleen didn't know where the strength came from—but she grabbed the nearest chair and smashed it hard against the kidnapper's head.

The man collapsed. She twisted her dislocated arm free from the ropes and bolted toward the dark forest outside the factory.

Her arm throbbed with pain as she fumbled with her phone. Coleen tried to call the police, but her injured fingers kept missing the button. Panic rose in her throat, and she pressed her phone's emergency contact instead.

She prayed—prayed—that Bruce would answer.

But time after time, the call was hung up.

She stumbled, fell, dragged herself up, and ran until she had no strength left.

Until she had no strength left.

Until exhaustion consumed her.

Until the camera captured her terrified, desperate face.

And in that moment, she thought faintly, 'So this is how it ends.'

...

The police arrived too late.

At the hospital, the doctors assessed her condition and concluded that she was temporarily unable to care for herself. They contacted her emergency contact.

Bruce walked into the hospital room, looked at the woman lying on the bed, and spoke with chilling detachment. "You brought this on yourself."

Coleen didn't try to explain.

Even with all the evidence in the world, people only believe what they want to believe.

She gave a faint, mocking smile. "Please leave. We're already divorced."

"The divorce hasn't been made publicly yet," he replied flatly. "As far as the media's concerned, you're still my wife. That means I'm obligated to visit you."

He glanced at his watch and added, "The new product launch is at two this afternoon. As my wife, you'll attend. A driver will pick you up in twenty minutes. Unless, of course..."

He stared at her with cold eyes. "...you'd rather your clinic stays shut down for good."

Her stomach clenched. She thought of the staff at the psychological counseling clinic—doctors and assistants who had turned down higher-paying jobs because they trusted her.

She'd already been forced to suspend operations for half a month. She couldn't let their careers be destroyed too.

So she went.

And when she saw Emily standing on stage in a dazzling gown, she realized how ridiculous her decision had been.

Her plaster had just been removed, her wrist still twisted and weak. Exhaustion clung to her. Next to the youthful, radiant Emily, she was nothing but a shadow.

"Ms. Vega, why did you come to the press conference?" Emily's voice rang out, clear and loud. "Your paper plagiarism scandal is still all over the news—it'll bring a negative impact to the company!"

Her shocked tone drew everyone's attention.

All eyes turned toward Coleen again—accusing, scrutinizing, judging.

This time, she didn't hesitate.

Even though her hand ached, she raised it and slapped Emily across the face.

Gasps rippled through the room. Emily stared at her in disbelief, anger flashing in her eyes.

Coleen's expression didn't waver.

"If you want to accuse me of plagiarism, show evidence. Otherwise, I have the right to sue you for defamation."

The hall erupted in chaos.

Then Emily laughed softly, covering her reddened cheek. Her voice dropped to a whisper meant only for Coleen. "Proof? I wonder if this will satisfy you."

The massive screen behind them flickered—and suddenly, the image of Coleen's terrified face, taken just hours earlier, filled the display.

Her pupils contracted. Her body went cold.

"Scared now?" Emily cooed. "You should be trembling."

Before Coleen could react, Emily swayed and deliberately fell backward toward a table of champagne flutes.

Security rushed forward. The photo was quickly taken down—but the damage was done. Coleen knew her reputation had been destroyed.

Her face turned pale, but she no longer hoped for rescue.

Bruce's furious voice thundered in her ears.

"I can publicly dismiss this as a rumor to protect the company—but you should know it yourself, Coleen. You're shameless!"

"I've already arranged for you to be sent to a private psychiatric facility abroad. From now on, you'll stay away from the public eye!"

He pulled Emily into his arms as security cleared the venue.

Coleen was dragged out toward the airport.

"Mr. Sandoval said," one of the men told her coldly, "your father's ashes are already on the plane. If you refuse to board, the jet will still leave—with or without you."

A threat.

By now, there was no affection left between them—only control and humiliation.

And yet Coleen didn't resist.

Because she saw someone in the distance—her old university mentor—waiting anxiously in the terminal.

When their eyes met, the mentor's expression eased, and Coleen understood.

Everything that followed felt like fate.

She excused herself to use the restroom. Her mentor distracted the guards.

And just before the gate closed, Coleen slipped aboard the private jet bound for Australia.

That cursed marriage of thirteen years—built on love, deceit, suspicion, and ruin—ended with a silent explosion in the sky.

The plane that carried her, and all the wreckage of her past, was swallowed whole by the sea.