I lay back on the icy hospital bed, eyes wide open in the boundless darkness and silence, staring at the stark white ceiling.

After a long while, I picked up my phone.

I found Hilary's number and sent an extremely brief, encrypted message.

"Auntie, initiate Plan B. I need to leave. Now. I can't stay another second."

Before dawn, her reply came.

"He is on his way. All proceeding per plan. Await his signal."

He?

Who was he?

No time to ponder. I deleted the messages, hid the phone again, closed my eyes, and waited.

At 9 A.M., Vincent walked into the room as usual, carrying the thermal lunchbox.

His face bore traces of tiredness from his night's activities, but his spirits were high, a smug satisfaction he couldn't quite hide dancing in his eyes.

"Brenna, an important client's daughter has her baptism party today. Can't stay with you at noon. I made you nutritional soup. Drink it while it's hot. I'll come back early tonight."

He ladled out the soup with practiced ease, the lie rolling off his tongue without a flicker of conscience.

I knew he wasn't going to any baptism party.

Dylan's latest intelligence had already reached my backup phone in the early morning. Vincent had scheduled a full prenatal checkup for Cathryn at the city's most exclusive private hospital at ten.

He was playing the doting father to his beloved son.

This provided the perfect window for my escape.

Looking at his nauseatingly hypocrite face, I nodded obediently.

"Alright... you go ahead. Don't worry about me."

Satisfied with my docility, he leaned down as usual and planted a perfunctory kiss on my bald head before leaving.

The moment the door closed, I poured his soup down the toilet.

Then, I gathered every single personal toiletry item in the bathroom bearing my trace and dumped it all in the trash.

I changed into a clean set of my own clothes.

Then, I sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for my extraction team.

10:30 AM, another message from Dylan confirmed Vincent's car had entered the private hospital's underground garage and he had accompanied Cathryn into the specialist's office. At least, it took two hours.

Almost at the same time, a knock came at my door.

It wasn't a nurse, nor was it Brice.

The man who walked in was tall and imposing. Behind him was a five-person team that looked supremely professional.

All wore immaculate white coats and masks, expressions serious.

The lead man wasn't masked. He wore well-tailored casual clothes, tall and straight. His features weren't stunning, but they were pleasant and composed.

"I'm Spencer Holland," he introduced himself simply, showing me a chat log with Hilary on his phone. "Hilary sent me to get you. From this moment, your safety is my responsibility."

So, he was Hilary's Plan B.

"Thank you," I said hoarsely.

Spencer wasted no time on pleasantries. He nodded to his team.

A female nurse swiftly hung a "Patient in Intensive Care, Do Not Disturb" sign on the door and skillfully disabled the door lock's sensor system.

Another nurse quickly removed the useless IV needle from the back of my hand, pressing a disinfectant cotton swab to the spot.

"Ms. Lewis, please relax. We will ensure your comfort and safety throughout."

I was smoothly transferred to a mobile gurney, covered with a sterile, temperature-controlled sheet.

Spencer himself wheeled the gurney. They didn't use the regular patient routes. Instead, they accessed a staff-only elevator requiring a special key card, taking it directly to the hospital's underground parking exit.

A black, privately-marked ambulance with special plates was already waiting.

The doors opened. I was quickly loaded inside.

The vehicle drove off smoothly and swiftly, without sirens, leaving the hospital that held all my nightmares behind.

The ambulance sped through the city, finally stopping at a highly secluded private helipad.

A small medical transport plane stood ready on the runway, engines humming low.

I was transferred from the ambulance onto the plane.

Lying on the comfortable bed in the cabin, I looked out the small window one last time, gazing down the city that held all my love, hate, and pain.

The skyscrapers, the traffic… everything grew smaller, fainter, disappearing behind the clouds.

Goodbye, Vincent.

Goodbye, my dead love.

Once the plane leveled off in the stratosphere, I struggled to sit up.

Spencer, who had been quietly working on documents opposite me, immediately stood, adjusted the bed, and placed a soft pillow behind my back.

"Thank you. There's one more thing I need to trouble you with."

Spencer didn't ask what, just nodded.

I took out the paper and pen I'd prepared.

I wrote out a divorce agreement. At the end, I signed my name without hesitation.

Then, on another sheet, I wrote just one line.

"Vincent, the game is over. I want none of what's yours. Not even your filthy life."

I placed both documents, along with copies of all the evidence I'd gathered, into a manila envelope.

I handed it to Spencer.

"Can you have this placed back on the nightstand in my hospital room?" I looked at him. "It's my final gift to him."

Spencer looked at me, silent for a few seconds, then accepted the envelope solemnly.

"Alright."

With that done, a sense of relief washed over me, unlike anything I'd ever felt.

I had made the most complete break with my past.

Now, I was flying toward my new life.

...

At 3 PM, Vincent had finished the full prenatal check-up with Cathryn.

When the doctor handed him the clear 3D ultrasound image, pointing to the blurry shape on the screen, smiling and saying, "All indicators are perfectly healthy. A very lively boy," Vincent felt his life had reached a state of fulfillment he had never known before.

He carefully tucked the ultrasound image inside his jacket, as if it were a priceless treasure.

After settling the tired Cathryn, he glanced at his Patek Philippe. Time to head back to the hospital.

He'd already prepared his excuse. The baptism party was too lively, he'd been forced to drink too much, and had passed out in a lounge.

Brenna always did whatever he said. She would believe anything after a few sweet words.

He carried a newly purchased container of hot soup back to her room.

He imagined pushing the door open to see her sickly face, still full of dependence and adoration for him.

Instead, pushing the door open, he was met with an empty room.

The room was scrubbed unnaturally clean, almost devoid of personal items, the air thick with disinfectant.

The familiar hospital bed was made with military precision, as if no one had ever occupied it long-term.

The smile froze on Vincent's face.

"Brenna? Brenna Lewis?"

Vincent called out her name in stunned disbelief, a trace of panic in his voice he didn't recognize.

He rushed into the bathroom. It was empty.

He yanked open the closet. Only a few hospital gowns remained.

Where was she?

His shock quickly turned to anger. He thought Brenna was throwing another tantrum.

Then, his eyes fell on the nightstand.

A manila folder lay there, silent and waiting.

Frowning, he strode over, snatched up the folder, and ripped it open.

Two items slipped out from inside.

The first item was a divorce agreement.

At the end, Brenna's familiar, yet resolute, signature.

The second item was a thick stack of A4 papers.

With trembling hands, he picked up the stack.

The top page contained just one line, written in Brenna's handwriting. "Vincent. Game over. I want none of what's yours. Not even your filthy life."

There were more pages below.

On the first page was the test report of the medicinal residues from the tonic he delivered daily, with red annotations indicating that these were the dregs of a decoction boiled twice from a pregnancy-nourishing formula, possessing almost no medicinal value.

The second page was a high-definition photo of the will he had notarized two years prior. Every clause clearly documented his premeditated plan to transfer all his assets to his mistress.

Further down were screenshots of his explicit chat logs with Cathryn, copies of large bank transfers to her brother's company, photos of him accompanying Cathryn on walks, to prenatal checkups…

Each piece of evidence was like a resounding slap, striking his face with brutal force.

All his hypocrisy, all his schemes, all his lies—in this moment, they were stripped bare, exposed under the harsh light of day.

He had always believed himself to be the hunter in control, with Brenna as the gentle prey he manipulated at will.

Only now did he realize with horror that he was the fool who had long fallen into a trap, completely unaware.

He had been played!

A wave of immense shock and humiliation triggered instant fury.

He violently tore all the papers in his hands to shreds, roaring like an enraged beast in the hospital room. "Brenna! Show yourself! Do you think you can hide from me!"

Following the rage came an uncontrollable panic.

Frantically, he took out his phone and dialed Brenna's number.

The receiver delivered the cold, mechanical system message. "The number you have dialed is busy."

He tried calling her best friend's number. Without exception, every call was immediately hung up.

Grasping at his last straw, he dialed Hilary's number.

The call connected. Only one sentence came from the other end.

"Vincent, you will never see her again in this lifetime."

The call was then disconnected, leaving only the monotonous dial tone.

Vincent stood frozen. The phone slipped from his lifeless hand and clattered to the floor.

A terrifying truth, one he could not accept, gradually crystallized in his mind.

She wasn't just throwing a tantrum.

This wasn't her going missing.

She had truly, thoroughly, and methodically, vanished from his world.

He rushed out of the hospital, started his car, and sped through the city like a madman.

He went to their new home, to the art gallery she loved, to the restaurant of their first date.

There was no trace of her anywhere.

Every corner of the city was now devoid of that gentle figure that once belonged to him.

As night fell, Vincent parked his car by the river, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white, his body trembling uncontrollably.

For the first time, he tasted the bitterness of losing control. For the first time, he felt the chill of despair.

He had lost her.

He had personally discarded the only warmth in his life.

...

The private medical jet landed smoothly at the private airport in the coastal city.

As the cabin door opened, I was greeted by a sea breeze carrying a salty dampness. It was utterly different from the suffocating smell of disinfectant in the domestic hospital. Here, the air was fresh. It was freedom.

I took a deep breath, feeling some of the stifling heaviness that had been lodged in my chest for so long begin to dissipate.

A professional medical team was already waiting on the tarmac. Efficient and swift, they offered no unnecessary pleasantries and transferred me directly to an ambulance.

Outside the window were azure skies and coconut trees. It all felt like an unreal dream.

My aunt, Hilary, was waiting for me at the hospital entrance. She didn't cry. There was no excessive sentimentality. She simply walked up and tightly grasped my icy hands.

The warmth transmitted from her palms was firm and powerful.

"Brenna, you're home," Hilary said.

Just those four words caused my tightly strung nerves to finally relax.

Tears fell without warning.

This was not the city that had brought me despair. There was no Vincent here. No lies.

This was the place for my fresh start.

My attending physician was a top expert in hematology, a kindly-looking elderly white man. He and his team conducted a rapid yet comprehensive evaluation.

The translator Hilary had hired clearly relayed the doctor's words to me.

"Ms. Lewis, your physical condition is somewhat better than we anticipated. More importantly, your willpower is very strong," the doctor said, looking into my eyes with an encouraging smile. "The donor's marrow viability is excellent. We can proceed with the transplant surgery immediately. The success rate will be very high."

How high was very high?

What I had always heard back home were phrases like "significant risk" or "not optimistic." Every time Vincent relayed the doctor's words, his face had been etched with grief and concern. Now, I understood that was merely part of his performance.

I looked into the eyes of the expert before me. They held pure confidence and professionalism, untainted by any ulterior motives.

I nodded, my voice slightly hoarse. "I'm ready."

I was wheeled into the sterile operating room.

A pure white ceiling. The regular beeping of monitors.

The anesthetist's voice was gentle, telling me to relax.

Before closing my eyes, the last thing I saw was Hilary's determined gaze through the isolation window.

The past twenty-some years of my life flashed through my mind like a black-and-white film. My parents' love, meeting Vincent, the torment of illness, and that final betrayal.

It was all time for it to end.

If I survived, I would live for no one but myself.

The anesthetic entered my bloodstream, and my consciousness sank into darkness.