After finishing my job, I hurried back to the small bakery I used as a front to tend to my injuries.

The wall-mounted TV showed Mitchell Harvey's return.

The former golden boy of New York's elite circles, now Mexico's top arms dealer, was back in town. Of course, it was headline news.

I roughly bandaged my wound and moved toward the small memorial corner I kept for my father.

Suddenly, a girl with chin-length hair burst into the shop.

She looked serious but spoke loudly. Clutching red roses, she pointed at the display case. "I'll take everything here!"

Close behind was Roderick Dunlap, Mitchell's best friend and right-hand man.

When he saw me, he froze, his expression tightening. "Yas, maybe we should go somewhere else?"

The girl refused immediately. "No way!

"I brought Mitch desserts from here before. He said they were amazing. It's his birthday today. I need to get more."

She gave me a pleading look. "Ma'am, my fiancé's returning today. He loves your pastries. Could I use your space for a birthday surprise?"

I couldn't refuse, so I nodded.

"Could we get some extra desserts?" she asked.

I agreed, noticing my fresh bandage was already bleeding through.

I hid my hand under my apron and walked unsteadily toward the kitchen.

It wasn't fear or nostalgia.

My illness was flaring up again.

It was incurable.

"Roderick, we're running out of time! Help me set up! Mitch's gonna be here any minute, and I want everything perfect."

Roderick didn't move.

He knew Mitchell was never happy to see me.

On the news broadcast, Mitchell smiled for the cameras, yet his eyes remained cold.

"I'm sure she's watching too. I'm looking forward to... seeing her again."

The camera zoomed in, highlighting the scar bisecting his eyebrow.

It was my doing, with a knife.

I was having a bad day, and he was there. So, I attacked him.

The ugly scar on my neck was his doing. He crushed a glass and used a shard to attack me.

Again, there was no deep motive.

We had a simple understanding: hurt the other, get hurt in return. We liked seeing each other in pain.

The news anchor smiled suggestively. "Planning a long stay, Mr. Harvey? Those roses... Are you meeting someone special?"

He paused, his voice low. "My fiancée."

In the shop, the girl was adjusting roses in a candelabra. She glanced up at the TV.

"Roderick," she said, "I heard Mitch had some messy history with a girl here for ten years. You know anything about that?"

I kept my head down, polishing a knife, but felt Roderick's gaze flicker toward me.

"Mitch!" Her shout cut through the tension.

She forgot her umbrella and dashed outside.

"Yas."

Mitchell caught her in a one-armed hug, his umbrella shielding her from the rain.

She rose on her toes and pressed a quick, rain-damp kiss to his lips.

I thought I saw him lean back, just slightly.

Then his eyes found mine through the wet glass.

The girl tried to turn, but he cupped her chin and kissed her again, deeper this time.

I looked away and snipped the ribbon I was holding.

Roderick approached.

"Paulette," he said, voice low. "It's his birthday. For one night, could you just not anger him?"

He hesitated, seeming to think of something. "She's nineteen. Clean slate. Reminds him of you before."

I nodded, my fingers feeling numb.

"She's pretty. Prettier than I was."

The door opened. Mitchell stood there, folding his black umbrella.

"Discussing my fiancée?"

His tone was light, but his stare was cold as it rested on me.

Roderick watched me, holding his breath.

He was waiting for one of my classic outbursts.

Instead, I simply pushed the boxed cake toward them. "Your dark chocolate cheesecake."

Yasmine Murphy gazed at Mitchell with adoration. "Try it, Mitch. Is this your favorite?"

He took a sip of coffee, rubbing the edge of the cup, before cutting a small piece with the silver dessert fork.

"Bitter. Unpleasantly so. Not for me."

His tone was light, his eyes smiling as he teased Yasmine.

She looked confused and took a bite herself. "It's delicious! You're lying to me again!"

She didn't see that his gaze remained fixed on me over her head.

Suddenly, the door chime jangled loudly.

"Hey, Mitch! Welcome back!"

A few men crowded in, their laughter cutting off abruptly when they saw me.

Their eyes followed me, wary and questioning, before turning to Roderick.

I carried over the pot of lemonade. The men flinched in unison, raising their hands defensively, as if I were holding acid.

Back when Mitchell and I were at each other's throats, his crew got caught in the crossfire a few times.

It was never anything serious, just minor incidents. I was surprised they still reacted this way.

Someone nudged Roderick. "Roddy, what's she doing here?"

Roderick just shrugged, not explaining.

"Enjoy your lemonade," I said, turning to leave.

Yasmine caught my wrist. "Wait! Could you take a picture for us?"

"No," I said, calmly removing her hand.

I'd only taken a few steps when a figure moved to block my path.

I looked up to see Mitchell's gloomy face. "I know how this works," he said, his voice flat. "Everything has a price. So name it. How much to get you to..."

He paused deliberately, waiting for me to react. When I didn't, he finished coldly. "Take a picture for us."

I looked him over and tried to step around him.

A sharp pressure on a nerve in my arm sent a jolt of pain through me, and my legs gave way. I fell to my knees. A black card was flung down, its edge catching my cheek and drawing a thin line of blood.

"That's more than enough to make you disappear."

I pushed myself back to my feet, my fingers gingerly touching the cut, my eyes fixed on Mitchell.

Yasmine quickly stepped between us, her smile strained. "Mitch, stop it, okay?

"Sorry, miss. He must have had too much to drink."

But he didn't smell of alcohol. He was simply picking a fight, same as always.

It convinced me he'd been having such a good time abroad that he'd forgotten who he was dealing with.

I bent down, picked up the black card, and stood facing him again.

His friends let out a low laugh.

"Some things never change. She still jumps for money."

He held out his phone with a confident smirk, pleased by my apparent cooperation.

I moved fast. I grabbed his jaw, scraped the edge of the card through a thick glob of chocolate frosting, and shoved it into his mouth.

I didn't stop until I smelled blood. Then I grabbed two glasses from the table and poured the liquor down his throat.

"Consider your mouth cleaned," I said.

I turned and slapped the man who had spoken. "Learn when to keep quiet."

The whole thing was over in seconds. No one else moved. The only sound was the rain hitting the windows.

Roderick, leaning against the far wall, drained his glass and sighed heavily. "I told you not to provoke her."

Yasmine finally snapped out of her shock, her posture defensive as she confronted me. "We were out of line first. I get it. But this is just insane!"

She raised her hand to strike me.

"Ah!" I caught her wrist mid-swing and slapped her, hard, across the face.

The sound was sharp in the quiet room.

Mitchell spat out a mix of blood and frosting, a cold smile on his lips. "You want a fight with me? Fine. But you can't touch her."

He pulled the sobbing Yasmine close, her cheek still swollen from the slap. "How about I trash this place for you? Will that make you feel better?"

She nodded and covered her cheek, tears in her eyes.

His bodyguards in black swarmed in. Clubs swung down, shattering glass and smashing the overhead light.

Cold wind and rain blew through the broken windows, soaking my face.

Mitchell gripped my chin, forcing my head up.

"You didn't start this. But she needs to see it end. Send me the bill for the damages. All of it."

His eyes scanned me like I was a piece of discarded furniture.

I shoved his hand away, a sudden coughing fit seizing me. I frantically searched through the wreckage.

A small white prescription bottle rolled into view. My eyes locked onto it.

He was faster. He bent down and plucked it, reading the label.

"Six of these at once? Are you trying to kill yourself?"

He tossed the bottle into a rainwater puddle, put his arm around Yasmine, and walked away.

I knelt by the puddle, retrieved the bottle, and swallowed two more pills.

This medication was for anxiety and pain.

I started with half a pill. Now, eight couldn't stop my pain.

The pills were nearly gone. And so was I.

Three years passed, and my mother died too.

My work was unstable. I'd taken many lives and become a target myself.

I'd spent all my savings on that bakery. Now, with it destroyed, I had nowhere left to go.

Maybe it was the pain seizing my limbs again, but I lacked the strength to move. I simply sat amidst the wreckage, letting the rain soak me.

Overnight, every major tabloid in New York led with "Mitchell Harvey Returns to Wreak Havoc on His Ex."

By sunrise, I was ready to leave.

Before going, I faced the shattered ruins and slowly bowed.

Mitchell appeared out of nowhere. He hauled me to my feet with one hand.

"It's just a bakery. Is it worth this?"

I slapped his hand away, steadied myself, and then struck him three sharp slaps across the face.

"My parents' memorial plaques were inside. They're gone now," I said, my voice flat. "The bow was necessary."

He worked his jaw, then smirked. "Three slaps for your mother's memorial? Sounds like I got the better deal."

I ignored him, staring at the devastation.

He stood behind me, deliberately twisting the knife.

"Paulette Sherman. I'm talking to you."

I acted as if I hadn't heard and walked away.

He caught up in a few strides, blocking my path.

"Stop pretending you're fine! Look at yourself. You're ghostly pale. What are you trying to prove?"

"My old condition flared up. A little tired, that's all." I looked up, offering a cold smile. "Mitchell, did you really think you were important enough to affect me?"

But I knew the truth.

He'd come back specifically to make my life hell.

If I were still in good health, I wouldn't mind another round, maybe breaking a few of his bones in the process.

But now, just standing upright consumed all my energy.

In the hospital, the smell of disinfectant was nauseating.

Several doctors studied my scans, their expressions grim.

"How much of your last prescription is left?"

"It's gone."

"Gone?!" Steven Harriman's voice rose sharply. "That was a three-month supply! It's only been a week!"

Steven had handled my case for years. His hesitation told me everything—my time was running out.

"Is... there anyone else in your family?" he asked carefully.

"Have you forgotten?" My tone was flat. "My father's dead. My mother's gone. It's just me."

He removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You were managing well for three years. What happened this past week..."

My phone screen lit up with a news alert—a prominent photo of Mitchell with Yasmine on his arm at some gala.

The person I thought I was over still hurt me the most.

Mitchell was the source of my deepest wounds, the one who knew how to hurt me most without leaving a mark.

"Your condition is extremely unstable. After stopping the medication, the first week, the first month, and the third month are all critical periods.

"Take this," he said, handing me a small bottle. His voice was heavy. "Three pills when the pain is severe. No more than three."

Before he finished, I'd twisted the cap off, shaken a handful into my palm, and dry-swallowed them.

The number didn't matter, as long as it dulled the bone-deep agony.

A week or three months made no difference to me.

After taking the pills, I crouched in the most inconspicuous corner of the hospital corridor, my back pressed against the cold wall.

I'd figured out that lowering my body temperature could ease the pain.

Cold sweat soaked through my thin clothes.

For ten minutes, I listened to the desperate prayers and weeping outside the operating room, where all hope hung on a single, fragile thread.

"Mommy, isn't that the lady who was in the bed next to us? Should we say goodbye?"

"Her illness... There's no cure. Let's not bother her. Such a tragic case. No family left, and such a severe sickness. She probably won't even have anyone to hold a funeral for her."

The little girl looked up, confused. "But surely someone in the world cares about her, right?"

I blinked hard, clearing my blurred vision, and focused on my phone screen.

A text came from Mitchell.

He'd been messaging since last night, persistently asking what compensation I wanted.

I thought about it. Maybe no one cared, but there was one person who could handle the funeral arrangements.

I dialed the number I knew by heart.

He answered instantly.

"Made up your mind?"

I took a sharp breath, swallowing the metallic taste in my mouth. "If you insist on paying me back, Mitchell, you can be the one to bury me."

Silence stretched for seconds on the other end, followed by Mitchell's mocking laugh.

"Paulette, someone as vicious and stubborn as you usually lives forever. But if you do somehow die before me, rest assured, I'll give you the most lavish funeral New York has ever seen. I'll have the whole city light memorial candles for you!"

Satisfied with his promise, I hung up.

Outside the hospital, I saw the mother and daughter again.

The little girl was pounding her chest, her voice full of childish conviction. "Who says nobody cares about her just because she has no family? Well, I do!"

"Enough, let's go. The bus is. Oh, the bus!" Her mother pulled her away, rushing for the departing bus.

I walked to the parking garage and got into my black sedan.

Seeing they'd missed the bus, I impulsively rolled down the window. "Get in. I'll give you a ride."

I dropped them off downtown. They thanked me profusely and got out.

Just as I was about to pull away, I heard an irritating voice.

"Well, look at that. Paulette did a good deed. I suppose even you need to score some points."

Mitchell's usual crowd was exiting a nearby club. Yasmine clung to his arm, her gaze sharp and venomous.

I didn't want a scene. I started raising the window to leave.

But Yasmine hurried over and pressed her hand against the glass.

A fake smile played on her lips, but her eyes were cold. "I just found out about your history with Mitch. I hope we didn't... upset you yesterday?"

I had no patience for her act and tried to close the window again.

She gripped the window frame tightly. "I have something for you. I really mean no harm."

"I'm not interested. Get lost." My patience was gone.

Yasmine suddenly let go. As I started the car, she pulled a small urn from her bag.

"I heard your mother's memorial plaque was destroyed in the shop. I gathered some ashes from the ruins this morning so you'd have something to remember her by."

Her voice was sweet, but her actions were pure malice.

She reached through the window and poured the contents of the urn onto my passenger seat.

"Oh! You... you didn't catch it!" she cried, stepping back with a perfect mask of innocence and sly satisfaction. "You're not mad at me, are you?"

I watched her performance, and a sudden anger burned through the sickness inside me.

Good. She asked for this.

The group by the club entrance, clueless, was still praising Yasmine. "Yas is so thoughtful, talking to that mess and even giving her a gift."

Yasmine confidently turned and walked towards a shiny new Porsche parked ahead, triumphantly shaking her key fob.

I rolled down my window and called out, "Yasmine! I have a gift for you, too!"

Yasmine turned, crossing her arms smugly. "What are you giving me, Paulette?"

I tightened my seatbelt, my eyes locking on her. "A one-way trip."

Before the words faded, I slammed the accelerator.

"Bang!"

The front of my car smashed into the Porsche's rear.

Yasmine's car lurched forward uncontrollably.

I reversed, then slammed the gas again, hitting it a second time!

In the rearview mirror, I saw the drunken group jolt into sobriety.

"She's insane! She's actually insane!"

"I told you she was a lunatic! But you had to provoke her!"

"Relax, she won't really do anything. She's just blowing off steam, and then..."

He didn't finish.

True, I was blowing off steam.

But I wasn't done yet.

Yasmine stumbled out of the smoking car, her face pale, already slipping back into her fragile victim role.

"Mitch, wh... what did I do wrong?"

Mitchell had a cut on his forehead from flying glass, bleeding slightly. He moved urgently to shield Yasmine.

He understood my intent in a single glance.

"Paulette! Don't you dare!"

Ridiculous. There was nothing I dared not do.

I kept my eyes on Yasmine, my expression icy, and floored the accelerator.

The engine roared as the car shot straight toward her.

I unbuckled my seatbelt, got out, and coldly observed Yasmine sprawled on the pavement a few yards away.

Her legs and arms were scraped and bleeding.

"You're lucky I let off the gas. Otherwise, you'd have more than scratches," I stated calmly.

She looked up, her eyes filled with naked hatred. "Mitchell will make you pay for this!"

I picked up my handbag from the passenger seat, now soiled with the ashes, and used its corner to lift her chin. "There. The real you is much more tolerable."

I took the bag back, dusting it off with disgust. The group rushed over.

Mitchell hurried to help Yasmine up.

I took out my phone, called an ambulance, then tossed the handbag toward Yasmine.

"This bag's resale value is about 20,000 dollars. More than enough for her medical bills and the car repairs."

"Paulette!" Mitchell's voice was thick with suppressed rage.

I ignored him and walked away.

The taste of blood filled my mouth. I pressed my lips together and quickened my pace.

I nearly ran from the scene. Rounding a corner, sure I was out of sight, I braced myself against a wall and coughed, splattering dark blood onto the grimy brick.

A ringing filled my ears, my vision blurring. I forced myself onward, moving on instinct until I reached my temporary apartment.

If my body had held up, I might have turned back to cause Mitchell more trouble. I desperately wanted to see him furious and helpless against me.

I collapsed near the living room coffee table and poured a glass of water.

But after one sip, I coughed it all back up—water and blood.

The half-glass of water instantly turned crimson.

I lay on the floor, gasping for air. It felt like an invisible hand was twisting my insides. The pain was maddening, but I lacked even the strength to clench my teeth.

I had no idea how much time had passed before the buzzing of my phone and violent pounding on my door dragged me back to consciousness.

For a moment, I'd thought I wouldn't make it through the night.

The name flashing on the screen was Mitchell.

"Paulette! Open the door! I know you're in there!"

His voice came through, threatening and absolute, while the door thumped under his force.

"If you don't open it, I'll break it down!"

I knew he meant it. But I would never let him see me like this—broken and dying.

Summoning the last of my strength, I crawled into the bedroom, moved the wardrobe, and squeezed into the narrow hiding space behind it. The sound of the door being forced open echoed from outside, followed by hurried footsteps.

His texts flooded my screen, one after another.

"Hiding? You think that works?"

"Get out of here! We need to talk!"

"If anything happens to Yasmine, I'll make you pay with your life!"

I stared at my phone. A sudden drop of nosebleed hit the screen, forming a dark red stain. My consciousness faded.