When I was fifteen, I walked in on my father having an affair. He looked at me coldly and said, "Hattie, your mother doesn't need to know about this. If she finds out, she'll be the only one who gets hurt."

I didn't believe him. Through tears, I told my mother everything.

That same night, she jumped from a building.

Lost in despair, I decided to end my own life.

But Sylvester Payne showed up just in time and saved me.

Afterward, everyone blamed me for my mother's death.

Sylvester told them all to shut up.

Over the next seven years, he put me back together, piece by piece. Thanks to him, I became that carefree heiress again.

I even started writing a love story about us online, which soon gathered a devoted readership.

I thought that happiness would last forever.

Then came Miranda Johnston—an obsessive fan who became infatuated with the male lead of my novel.

She spent a fortune to track down Sylvester in real life and pursued him with relentless determination.

Yet no matter what she tried, he remained unmoved.

I was confident he would never be drawn to someone so unhinged.

But when I posted in my novel that Sylvester and I were about to marry, Miranda uploaded photos of her slit wrists.

That day, for the first time, Sylvester left me behind. As he rushed out, he said, "Hattie, if we get married now, Miranda might die. Maybe we should wait."

I endured the heartache and waited for him—again and again.

Until the ninety-ninth time, when Sylvester abandoned me once more because Miranda was threatening suicide again.

I'd had enough. I went straight to City Hall with my best male friend, ready to marry him instead.

But to my utter shock, the clerk informed me I had already been married two months earlier—to a man named Liam Spencer.

***

I slammed my ID card onto the City Hall counter. "Get me a marriage license. Now! I have to get married today!"

My friend tugged urgently at my sleeve. "Marriage is a serious thing. However upset you are, you can't just marry anyone recklessly."

But I was beyond reason, too furious to listen.

Then the clerk looked up and said, "I'm sorry, Ms. Meskill. You're already married. You can't register again."

The words hit, cold and sharp. I went still, every vein turning to ice. "What did you say? I'm married? How is that possible?"

"See here?" The clerk pointed at the screen. He explained patiently. "The system shows you registered your marriage with a Liam Spencer two months ago."

Stunned, I stumbled back, nearly losing my balance.

Liam Spencer... Wasn't that the autistic bodyguard from Miranda's family?

Leaving my bewildered friend behind, I grabbed my ID and headed straight for Sylvester's company.

I had to get answers.

But at his office, his secretary told me he'd gone to the hospital.

When I arrived, I was stopped at the entrance.

"I'm sorry. Mr. Payne's orders—no one enters without his permission."

Just then, the elevator doors opened, and Sylvester stepped out, holding a woman in his arms.

Miranda, in a hospital gown, leaned weakly against him, her face pale. She murmured, her voice barely a whisper, "Syl, I'm too heavy... You should put me down..."

"Not at all," he replied, his voice unbelievably tender. "I'm only worried I might lose my grip on you—or that I'll hold you too tight and hurt you."

The scene twisted like a blade in my heart, leaving a suffocating pain.

Sylvester walked out after settling Miranda into her room. He didn't see me in the corner.

His business partner clapped him on the shoulder and teased him, "Don't tell me you've actually fallen for Miranda. To calm her down, you went so far as to marry Ms. Meskill off to Miranda's autistic bodyguard.

"You know how Ms. Meskill feels about betrayal, after what happened with her mother. Aren't you afraid she'll leave you if she finds out?"

Sylvester rubbed the bridge of his nose, weariness in his eyes. "If I didn't agree, Mira would have killed herself. My hands are tied.

"Besides, Hattie won't find out. No one is to tell her, understand?

"Once I get things settled and send Mira away, I'll arrange a fake license for Hattie.

"She's madly in love with me—she could never leave me."

Hidden in the shadows, I listened to his calm, brutal planning, feeling the blood freeze in my veins.

Face streaked with cold tears, I stumbled out of the hospital.

Sylvester was gravely mistaken.

In this world, no one was truly indispensable.

I took out my phone and asked my assistant to find Liam's number.

I remembered Miranda once posting on Instagram about hiring an autistic bodyguard, with a photo of a young man's back.

When I got the number, I called him immediately. "This is Henrietta Meskill. Since we're already registered, I wonder if you'd be interested in having a wedding with me."

From the background noise, he seemed to be at the airport. "OK. But my family lives out of town. I need to go back and prepare a wedding gift for you. Can you give me three days?"

Strangely, his voice was deep, fluent, and pleasant—nothing like what I'd expect from someone autistic.

"Deal," I said. "Come marry me in three days."

After hanging up, I glanced back toward the hospital one last time. Then I wiped my tears away and walked off briskly in my heels.

As if I cared that Sylvester didn't want me. As the esteemed heiress of the Meskill family, I had plenty who did.

That night, I invited my friends out for drinks.

I was thoroughly drunk, and then one of them drove me home.

When I opened the door, Sylvester was sitting on the sofa, his expression dark and dangerous.

"Out drinking with another man—is that why you didn't answer my texts all day?"

He drew me into a possessive embrace, his message to my friend clear and unchallengeable—"She's mine."

My friend was about to explain, but I shook my head. "Thanks. You can go. I'll handle this."

After he left, Sylvester gripped my wrist so tightly I thought the bones might crack. "You know how I feel about you drinking with other men. Why are you doing this? To upset me?"

I snapped impatiently, "Upset you? And who exactly are you to me?"

His face turned grim, a dangerous glint flashing in his eyes. "I'm your fiancé. What's gotten into you?"

I looked up at him, my eyes red-rimmed. "When you married me off to Miranda's bodyguard to humiliate me, did it ever occur to you that you were my fiancé?"

Just then, a loud crash came from the bedroom, drowning out my words.

Sylvester instantly shoved me aside and rushed in.

I followed and found Miranda sitting by the bed, her finger cut and bleeding.

My gaze turned icy. "What is she doing here? In our room, no less?"

"Mira twisted her ankle. There was no one back at her home, and I was worried she couldn't manage alone."

Sylvester stood protectively in front of her, frowning at me with impatience.

"She twisted her ankle. She didn't lose her legs!"

Right after saying this, I saw the fragments scattered across the floor, and my breath caught.

It was the ceramic doll my mother had made for me before she passed away—the only one of its kind in the whole world.

I walked slowly toward Miranda, my voice shaking. "That was the last thing my mother ever gave me."

She trembled, tears streaming down her face. "I'm so sorry, Hattie. My ankle—I couldn't walk properly, and I stumbled into it by accident. Just tell me how much it's worth. I'll pay you back."

She was lying. I had placed the doll deep inside the cabinet. How could she have "stumbled into it" there?

The thought pushed me over the edge, and I slapped her hard across the face.

"Pay me back? How? By bringing my mother back to life?"

Sylvester yanked me away with such force that I slammed against the wall.

"It was just an object. Stop being so melodramatic! Henrietta, since when did you become so unreasonable?"

He shot me a look full of disappointment, then dragged me into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Ice-cold water drenched me from head to toe.

"You're drunk. Sober up—and learn what you can and cannot do."

The water was bone-chilling. I shrank back, but he ruthlessly kept the high-pressure stream aimed straight at me.

Only when I was completely drenched, my lips turning purple, did he finally shut it off. "Stop acting spoiled," he spat coldly. "I will never accept a willful shrew as my wife."

The door slammed shut, the deafening sound shattering the last of my illusions.

Outside the window, the world was swallowed by swirling snow. Suddenly, the memory of Sylvester teaching me to shoot for the very first time washed over me.

I had been furious then, too—unable to steady the gun, missing every target.

He had stood behind me, his calloused hands covering mine, guiding me with infinite patience.

"Be patient. Lower the muzzle just a bit. Follow my breathing."

I had stared at his serious profile and asked, "Everyone says I'm spoiled. Will you grow tired of me one day?"

He had looked down, the sunlight from the shooting range glinting in his eyes, his voice firm yet gentle. "Maybe others find you willful. But I'm the exception. That way, you'll have no one else to cling to but me—for a lifetime."

Now, standing there with water still dripping from my body, I almost laughed.

"Sylvester," I whispered, "is this what you call a lifetime? How short it turned out to be."

After drying myself off, I fell into a fitful sleep.

When I woke the next morning, Sylvester and Miranda were gone.

Without hesitation, I began to pack.

My eyes fell on the oversized pre-wedding photo of Sylvester and me. Then I picked up a nearby model and hurled it at the frame.

Glass shattered instantly.

Barefoot, I stepped on the shards, picked up a pair of scissors, and madly cut my face out of the photo until it was unrecognizable.

Still unsatisfied, I smashed and tore every picture of us, every couple's item in the house, until the place was in ruins.

Only then did my anger begin to subside.

I called a cleaning service.

When the worker arrived, I gave her all the gifts from Sylvester.

With everything settled, I loaded my belongings into the car and drove toward the airport.

On the cross-river bridge, a Jeep suddenly accelerated, cut me off, and forced me to stop.

Sylvester stepped out. His expression was icy, his suit impeccably pressed, his presence intimidating.

"Where do you think you're going?" His voice was cold as steel.

"Mr. Payne, mind your own business. I'm not your subordinate. I don't answer to you."

I restarted the engine, ready to drive past him.

But he dragged me out of the car and shoved me into his Jeep.

"Have you lost your mind? Let me go!" I struggled, but he floored the accelerator, speeding toward the hospital.

"If you want to be my wife, you need to learn discipline and boundaries.

"Ruining an innocent young woman's reputation—how could you sink so low?

"If I hadn't arrived in time, Mira's life would have been destroyed."

He hauled me into the hospital room.

Miranda lay in bed, her face deathly pale. The moment she saw me, she struggled out of bed, crawled toward me, and wrapped her arms around my leg, pleading pitifully.

"Hattie, I was wrong... Please... Forgive me... Don't send those villains after me again..."

My fingertips went cold, my voice trembling. "I didn't—"

"They confessed. You hired them. Stop lying," Sylvester cut me off sharply. He then helped Miranda up, wiping her tears with unsettling gentleness. "Don't be afraid, Mira. I'm here. I'll make this right."

Then he turned back to me, his gaze freezing over. "I've spoiled you, Henrietta.

"Think about what you've done."

With that, he dragged me into the detention cell used for holding prisoners.

Darkness swallowed me whole.

In my dream, I was fifteen again.

After I'd witnessed my father's affair and told my mother, he had locked me in here.

Through a crack in the window, I saw my mother crying, my father denying everything. Then came the deafening sound of shattering glass.

My mother had thrown herself from the nineteenth floor, right before my eyes.

I had trembled violently, trapped in here for three days and nights.

It was Sylvester who found me first, who carried me out in his arms.

And now, it was he who put me back.

Drenched in cold sweat, I curled into a ball in the corner, pale and shaking, my pupils losing all focus. I could no longer tell reality from nightmare.

The cell walls were bitterly cold, just like the cement ground where my mother had fallen all those years ago.

In the final second before darkness took me, I saw Sylvester as he was four years ago.

In his suit, he had vowed to me with solemn intensity, "I'll never let you down, not until the day I die."

A deafening roar exploded in my ears.

Those long-ago vows shattered into fragments, lost amid the flames.

When I came to, I was in a hospital room.

"I'm so sorry, Hattie. I shouldn't have locked you in there. I didn't know the ammunition depot would explode... I'm sorry..."

Sylvester's eyes were bloodshot, his hand clutching mine, damp with sweat.

"Punish me however you want. As long as you'll no longer be upset with me..."

I looked at him calmly, my gaze empty—no sorrow, no joy.

Seeing my indifference, he reached to stroke my face. "Let me take you out, alright? Consider it my apology."

I tilted my head away from his touch and remained silent.

Early the next morning, he practically forced me to go out.

Miranda came along.

We went to a rose garden, the very one where Sylvester had once planted 999 eternal roses for me.

He had said that by doing this, our love would last forever.

I walked to that patch of eternal roses, picked up a shovel, and began digging every one of them out.

Just as I uprooted the last rose, I felt the cold muzzle of a silenced pistol jammed against the small of my back.

"It's been a while, Henrietta."

I would never forget that voice.

It was Timothy Meskill, my father's illegitimate son.

He'd lost the fight for the family assets to me years ago, and Sylvester had sent him to prison. How come he was here?

"You're so popular, Henrietta," he sneered, malice dripping from his words. "Seems I'm not the only one who wants you dead. Ms. Johnston offered me 500,000 dollars to kill you."

I turned slowly, fighting to keep my voice steady. "Let me go, and I'll give you 1.5 million dollars—"

Before I could finish, Timothy clamped a hand over my mouth.

In the very next second, a bullet tore into my abdomen, and blood seeped out instantly.

My eyes widened, sound trapped in my throat. I could only desperately stretch a trembling hand toward Sylvester.

But all I saw was him lowering his head, kissing Miranda amid the sea of roses.

Timothy shoved me hard, and I tumbled over the mountain railing.

The fall seemed endless. My body crashed through branches before finally slamming to a stop.

A sharp pain shot through my calf—the bone was jutting out. Meanwhile, blood continued to flow from the gunshot wound.

The sky grew dark. Soon, the beasts would catch the metallic scent of blood.

I struggled to reach my phone, but there was no signal.

Blood loss dragged me toward delirium.

In my haze, I saw a young Sylvester in a suit, on one knee amidst eternal roses, vowing, "I'll spend the rest of my life protecting you, Hattie."

Darkness swallowed the valley.

I closed my eyes and surrendered to death.

Then I heard the sound of a helicopter approaching.

A man jumped out, sprinted toward me, and gathered me carefully into his arms.

"How did you end up like this? I've come back to marry you, just as I promised—with your wedding gift."

It was Liam.

"You... Aren't you the CEO?"

He smiled, "Well, well. You recognized me. Let's get you out of here first."

As the helicopter slowly ascended, I cast one last glance toward the rose garden, my lips curling into a bitter smile. "Do me a favor," I whispered. "Get me a new identity. Let Henrietta Meskill ... die here for good."