After three years of marriage, Shirley Campbell had attempted suicide 108 times.

When she opened her eyes again, she found herself lying in a hospital bed, her mind utterly blank.

Seated beside her were a middle-aged couple. The moment she stirred, they frowned.

The man snapped, "How long are you going to keep up this nonsense?"

"Timo always liked Tricia in the first place. If he hadn't gotten drunk and wandered into the wrong room, do you really think he would've married you?" The woman's voice was sharp with impatience.

"He doesn't love you. It's only natural that he avoids coming home. And you? You've been using suicide as a weapon against him, again and again. Tell me—after all these years, has he once come to see you in the hospital after any of your attempts?"

"If you weren't our own flesh and blood, we wouldn't even bother with you," the man sighed, shaking his head. "You're nothing compared to Tricia."

Shirley stared at them in confusion.

She had lost all her memories, didn't even know who she was.

All she could do was piece together a shattered version of her life from the scolding of these two who claimed to be her parents.

She had once been the heiress of the Campbell family. As a child, she'd gotten lost and was kidnapped. By the time they finally found her, her parents had already adopted a girl named Patricia Campbell.

The parents who should have cherished her now saw only their adopted daughter. The place that should have belonged to Shirley was now completely occupied by someone else.

Later, she fell in love with Timothy Mitchell, CEO of the Mitchell Group. But the man's heart belonged to Patricia as well.

Then came that fateful gala. Timothy, drunk, stumbled into the wrong room and took her instead.

After that wild night, he had no choice but to marry her. But all the coldness and disdain he felt, he reserved for her alone.

Her parents didn't love her. Her husband didn't love her. Shirley was so desperate she could barely breathe, but was powerless to change anything.

So all she could do was try, again and again, to win their attention by threatening her own life.

"That's enough. We have to get back and make dinner for Patricia," her parents—Harold Campbell and Dolores Perkins—stood up. "You stay here and think about what you've done."

The moment the hospital room door closed, a sharp pain stabbed through Shirley's chest.

She had no memories, but the feeling of being abandoned by the whole world was all too real.

She couldn't understand—how could anyone love an adopted daughter more than their own flesh and blood?

And that man, Timothy...

He was the one who'd gone into the wrong room. He was the one who'd mistaken her for someone else.

Now that he'd married her, why couldn't he just treat her kindly? Why did he have to freeze her out, drive her to the edge?

She didn't dare dwell on it. Just listening to these stories from a life she didn't remember made her heart ache as though it were being sliced with a dull blade.

What about the person she used to be? Day after day, facing parents who didn't care, a husband who ignored her—how much despair must she have felt?

Slowly, Shirley pushed herself upright and checked herself out of the hospital on her own.

But standing at the hospital entrance, she realized she had nowhere to go.

She couldn't remember where her parents lived. She couldn't remember where Timothy's house was.

The saddest part was that neither place wanted her anyway.

Suddenly, a commotion broke out at the hospital entrance.

Shirley looked up and saw a tall man striding toward her, carrying a frail figure in his arms.

The man wore a sharply tailored black suit, shoulders squared, strikingly handsome, exuding an unmistakable air of authority with every step.

The girl in his arms was cradled protectively, her pale face pressed against his chest.

He gazed down at her with a tenderness so intense it was almost blinding. His hold was possessive, his steps instinctively gentle, as if afraid any jolt might hurt her.

"Move!" he commanded.

His voice wasn't loud, but the crowd parted instantly.

"Oh my God, is that Timothy Mitchell?" someone whispered behind her.

"Who else could it be? Who in Philadelphia has that kind of presence? He's so gorgeous, my knees are weak..."

Shirley froze.

So this was her husband, Timothy.

And the girl in his arms was—no doubt—her adopted sister, Patricia.

As Timothy passed by, his steps faltered almost imperceptibly. His eyes, dark as ink, flicked over Shirley, cold as a blade scraping her skin.

But in the next instant, he looked away, hurrying the girl in his arms toward the ER.

Shirley's thin body trembled.

She didn't follow. She was still trying to figure out where she was supposed to go.

A moment later, footsteps sounded behind her.

She turned to see Timothy striding back toward her.

He grabbed her wrist, his grip so tight she winced. "You're RH negative?"

Without waiting for an answer, he dragged her toward the blood lab.

"Tricia was in a car accident and lost a lot of blood. The hospital's blood bank is running low. You need to donate to her."

"I..."

Shirley had barely spoken when Timothy suddenly gripped the back of her head and leaned in, pressing a kiss to her lips.

The kiss was cold and fleeting—gone as soon as it began.

"Can you donate now?" His voice was low, devoid of any warmth.

Before Shirley could react, she was ushered into the blood draw room.

Outside, the nurses' whispers were perfectly audible.

"That's Mrs. Mitchell, the one who's tried to kill herself 108 times? I heard her first attempt was just to get Mr. Mitchell to kiss her, the second was to ask him out, the third was to sleep with him... Every time he turned her down. Shameless, really."

"And now Mr. Mitchell finally kissed her, but it was just to get her to donate blood for Ms. Patricia..."

"She must be both happy and heartbroken, right? Happy to finally get Mr. Mitchell's kiss, but devastated it's only for someone else..."

Shirley lay back in the blood draw chair, gazing through the glass window.

She could see Timothy at Patricia's bedside, his long fingers gently wrapping around Patricia's pale hand, his head bowed as he placed a tender kiss on the back of it.

Strangely, Shirley felt neither happiness nor pain.

The sting of the needle piercing her vein seemed muffled, as if separated by a veil. Even the emotions that should have been gut-wrenching were dulled by the haze of memory loss.

Forgetting everything, she realized, was a mercy from above.

After donating 400cc of blood, Shirley emerged pale and lightheaded, her vision swimming in and out of darkness.

She struggled for a long moment, but finally walked over to Timothy.

"Timothy, could you tell me... our home address? In return, I'll give you a gift."

Timothy frowned. "What game are you playing now? Tried to kill yourself so many times you forgot where you live?"

"No, I really lost my memory..."

"The driver's waiting outside," Timothy cut her off. "He'll take you home."

"Thank you," Shirley replied softly. "I'll make sure to prepare the gift."

"No need." Timothy's tone was icy. "I'm not interested in anything you have to offer. Don't bother trying to win me over."

Shirley lowered her eyes, the faintest hint of a smile touching her lips.

"Is that so?

"But you'll like this one," she thought to herself.

Once in the car, she found her lawyer's number in her contacts and sent a message.

"Hello, I want to file for divorce and terminate parental rights. Please prepare a divorce agreement and a termination of parental rights."

The lawyer replied quickly, "Of course, Ms. Campbell. I'll draft the documents as soon as possible."

Shirley put away her phone, watching the scenery blur past the window.

Amnesia was a gift—a chance to break free completely, to start a brand new life.

"Don't take me home," she suddenly told the driver. "Take me to the immigration office."

The driver hesitated for a moment, glancing at her in the rearview mirror, but answered respectfully, "Yes, Mrs. Mitchell."

The immigration paperwork went smoothly.

The staff told her all her documents would be ready in two weeks.

As she got back in the car, Shirley hesitated before speaking. "Don't mention today to Mr. Mitchell."

The driver's grip tightened on the steering wheel. "Mrs. Mitchell, Mr. Mitchell never... allows us to mention you in front of him."

Shirley's lips twisted in a wry smile.

So Timothy despised her that much—he couldn't even bear to hear her name.

When Shirley returned to the villa, she stood in the foyer and glanced around.

The place felt both familiar and strange.

Familiar, because every detail reflected her own taste; strange, because it was so cold and empty, as if no one had ever truly lived here.

She ran her fingers over the embroidered throw pillows on the sofa, imagining how, when she'd first decorated this house, she must have been filled with hope—dreaming of a happy life with Timothy.

On the wall hung their wedding photo. In it, her eyes overflowed with love as she gazed at Timothy, while his handsome face remained utterly indifferent.

Shirley shook her head and headed upstairs.

In the bedroom, she instinctively pulled open a drawer. A leather-bound journal slipped out and fell to the floor.

She opened to the first page. The handwriting was crooked, as if written in a drunken haze.

"Today is the first day of my marriage to Timo. He didn't say a single word before locking himself in the study. It's okay. I'll wait for him."

Page after page, each entry cut deeper than the last.

"The 37th suicide attempt. He still didn't come to see me. His assistant said Patricia had a fever, and he spent the whole night at her bedside. I lay in the ER, counting the sound of the IV drip until sunrise.

"The 89th time, I took sleeping pills. When I woke up, I heard him in the hallway on the phone, saying, 'Just let her die.' That was the moment I realized—there's a pain worse than death, hearing the person you love most wish you were gone.

"The 108th time, I decided to give up. If it doesn't work this time, I'll disappear for good. After all, nobody in this world cares whether I exist or not."

Shirley slammed the diary shut, her chest aching as if someone had carved it open.

The scars on her wrists suddenly burned, each one a silent testament to the desperation she'd once endured.

Slowly, she crouched down, hugging her knees to her chest.

So this was what the past three years had been—living so small, so humbly, like a dog begging for scraps, just for a glance from him.

"It's okay," Shirley whispered, wiping her tears and tucking the diary back in the drawer. "Shirley, it doesn't matter if nobody loves you."

Moonlight spilled through the window, pooling at her feet in a small, gentle glow.

"As long as you love yourself, you haven't lost."

Shirley spent the next few days alone in the empty villa. Timothy never came home.

With no memories and no love left, she didn't find the solitude difficult at all. In fact, she found peace in the quiet, content to wait for her immigration documents to come through.

Until a call from Dolores shattered the calm.

"Tomorrow is Tricia's birthday. Seven o'clock at Grand Imperial Hotel." The voice on the other end was cold and distant. "Don't be late."

"I don't—"

"That's all."

The call ended abruptly, not even giving her a chance to refuse.

On the night of the banquet, Shirley chose the simplest black dress she owned.

As soon as she entered, she spotted Patricia at the center of attention, surrounded by admirers, and Timothy, whom she hadn't seen in days.

"Patricia really is blessed," two women nearby whispered. "Her adoptive parents dote on her like she's their whole world, and even Mr. Mitchell treats her like a princess."

"No kidding. I heard Mr. Mitchell planned the entire party himself. Look at that champagne—it was flown in from France, and each bottle costs five figures. And those flowers? Shipped fresh from the Netherlands this morning. The whole ballroom is decorated like Monet's garden, just the way Patricia likes it. The whole event must have cost millions."

The guests' chatter echoed all around.

Shirley took a sip of wine, her gaze drifting to Timothy not far away.

Tonight, he wore a black suit, his shirt collar casually open, revealing a hint of collarbone—elegant, yet effortlessly aristocratic.

And this man, who was always so cold, was now crouched down, carefully straightening Patricia's dress, a rare smile softening his face.

"And now, Mr. and Mrs. Campbell, please come to the stage to offer their blessings to their beloved daughter!"

As the emcee finished, Shirley's parents took Patricia's arms and walked her onto the stage.

Harold cleared his throat and looked out over the crowd. "Tonight, I have an important announcement. From this day forward, 60% of the Campbell Group's shares will be inherited entirely by Tricia."

A shocked murmur swept through the crowd below the stage. Shirley's hand tightened around her glass.

At that moment, Timothy stepped up as well, pulling a velvet box from his pocket. When he opened it, inside was an antique jadeite Ring.

"That's the Mitchell family heirloom, isn't it?" someone gasped in the crowd. "I heard that jadeite Ring was left by Laura Mitchell for her eldest grandson's wife."

"Oh my God, giving the family heirloom to his wife's sister—Mr. Mitchell is humiliating Shirley in front of everyone..."

Timothy slid the ring onto Patricia's finger; the fit was absolutely perfect.

"Mom, Dad, Timo, isn't this a bit unfair?" Patricia suddenly looked toward the corner, her voice deliberately hesitant. "After all, Sherry is Mrs. Mitchell and your real daughter. All of this should have been hers, shouldn't it?"

At her words, Harold and Dolores immediately grasped her hand. "Don't say that, honey. Sherry married well; she has the Mitchell family behind her. Of course, we need to think more about you—giving you the inheritance is only right."

Timothy added coolly, "If it weren't for that accident, this ring would have been yours all along."

Standing in the center of the crowd, Shirley felt as if she'd been stripped bare for all to see.

Her parents' words stung like slaps; Timothy's words cut like knives, each one landing squarely across her face.

All around, the guests' stares felt like spotlights, pinning her in place—pitying, mocking, gloating—each gaze silently spelling out the word "pathetic."

She could even sense the smug glint in Patricia's eyes, the look of someone flaunting her victory.

Once, such a scene would have broken her, left her wanting to disappear.

But now, she felt only calm.

Shirley quietly set down her wine glass. As she turned to leave, she overheard the whispers.

"Look, her eyes are red..."

"She's definitely running to the bathroom to cry..."

"So sad—her own parents and husband both favor the adopted daughter..."

Without breaking stride, Shirley walked straight to the restroom.

In the mirror, her makeup was flawless—not a single tear had fallen. Because she had already forgotten everything.

She no longer remembered how desperately she'd once begged for her parents' affection, for Timothy's love; nor did she recall how many times she'd swallowed her pride just to earn a single glance from them.

All those people she once looked up to so humbly—now, to her, were no different from strangers.

Now, all she needed to do was wait quietly for her immigration paperwork to be finalized and learn how to truly love herself.

Shirley touched up her lipstick and was about to leave the restroom when she suddenly stopped short at the corner of the hallway.

Not far away, Timothy had Patricia pressed against the wall, kissing her deeply.

His long fingers tangled in her hair, the other hand gripping her waist as if he wanted to pull her into his very bones.

Patricia's head was tipped back, her pale neck arched in a graceful curve.

No one knew how long it was before Timothy finally released her, his thumb gently tracing her swollen lips, his voice low and rough. "Satisfied?"

Patricia nestled into his arms, her voice soft and coy. "Timo, do you think I'm being too much? I already got your family heirloom, but I still asked for a kiss... If Sherry saw this, she'd probably be heartbroken again.

"I just can't help it. If that accident hadn't happened, we would have been together all along..."

Timothy's eyes were calm as he pulled her closer. "Her feelings have nothing to do with me.

"I never liked her, and I never will.

"The only one I've ever loved is you, Tricia."

With that, he bent down and kissed her again.

Shirley stood frozen, as if an invisible hand had clamped around her heart, squeezing so tightly she could barely breathe.

She pressed her palm to her chest, thinking, "Maybe this is just the lingering warmth from loving him in the past."

Once that last trace faded, there would be nothing left.

Timothy and Patricia kissed for a full three minutes before finally turning and walking away.

It wasn't until their silhouettes disappeared completely that Shirley stepped out from the shadows.

She took a deep breath, smoothed out her dress, and prepared to return to the ballroom to grab her purse and leave.

But as soon as she entered, Patricia rushed over and seized her wrist.

"Sherry, if you like the ring Timo gave me so much, I can give it to you. Why did you have to steal it?"

Shirley froze.

"What do you mean, steal? What are you talking about?"

"Still pretending!" Patricia's eyes were rimmed red.

"I just went to the restroom, and when I came back, the ring was gone! The server said you were the only one near my bag!"

Harold and Dolores hurried over at the commotion, and without a word, Harold slapped Shirley hard across the face.

"Shirley, can you go a single day without causing trouble?!"

Her cheek burned, and before she could react, Dolores shrieked, "Someone, search her!"

Several servers immediately surrounded her, roughly tugging at her dress.

Shirley struggled desperately. "I didn't steal anything! Let me go!"

Rip—

The sound of tearing fabric echoed through the room, exposing her shoulder to the air. Gasps and snickers erupted all around.

"Found it!"

A server pulled the jadeite Ring from her purse.

"Knew it was her!"

Patricia snatched the ring, tears streaming down her face.

"Sherry, what do you have to say for yourself now?"

Shirley trembled all over, about to speak, when suddenly the crowd parted on its own.

A steady, deliberate set of footsteps approached.

She looked up to see Timothy striding toward her, polished shoes clicking against the marble floor—every step felt like it landed squarely on her heart.

"Why would you steal it?" His voice was quiet, but it silenced the entire ballroom.

"I've never considered you my wife. Didn't you know that?"

Shirley met his frigid gaze.

"Shirley, some things just aren't yours," he said, his lips curling in a poisonous sneer, each word sharp as a blade, "and they never will be."

Shirley suddenly laughed.

The sound made Timothy's brow twitch almost imperceptibly.

He'd seen her cry, seen her rage, seen her spiral into hysteria, but he'd never seen her laugh like this—half relief, half mockery.

"I didn't steal it."

Her voice was soft, but every word rang clear. The chandelier above cast a flicker of light in her eyes, glimmering like tears, or maybe like stars.

"And—"

She drew a deep breath, then spoke each word with deliberate clarity. "I don't love you anymore!"

The room fell into stunned silence.

Everyone stared at Shirley, wide-eyed, unable to believe what they'd just heard.

Shirley—the woman who once lived and died for Timothy—was saying she didn't love him anymore?

All eyes fixed on her, faces marked by shock.

Only Timothy stood before her, suit immaculate, expression cold, his eyes utterly devoid of emotion.

"How many times are you going to play this little game of hard to get?"

His voice was low, openly mocking.

"I told you, no matter what you do, it won't work."

He leaned in slightly, each syllable like a hammer, determined to crush the last of her dignity—

"I don't love you. I never will."

As Timothy's words faded, the guests finally snapped out of their shock, and the ballroom filled with a tidal wave of whispers.

"I knew it—Ms. Shirley couldn't just stop loving Mr. Mitchell out of nowhere."

"Seriously, she used to go to the ends of the earth for him. Wasn't it, like, 108 suicide attempts just to get him to look her way?"

"God, it's so sad. Pathetic, really..."

Shirley clenched her fists so tightly that her nails dug deep into her palms, yet she couldn't even feel the pain.

She opened her mouth, wanting to say it again—

She wasn't playing games. She truly didn't love him anymore!

But before she could speak, Harold cut her off with a harsh voice, "Apologies, everyone. It's our fault for not raising her right, letting her do something so disgraceful as stealing."

He waved his hand coldly at the security guards. "Take her to the hotel's walk-in freezer. Let her spend the night there and cool off!"

Shirley's eyes widened in horror. She jerked her head up. "I told you, I didn't steal—"

But no one listened.

Two guards stepped forward, roughly grabbing her wrists. She fought back with everything she had, but a sudden, sharp pain exploded at the base of her neck!

One of the guards struck her with a metal baton, sending her staggering backward, vision swimming with darkness.

Just before she lost consciousness, her gaze locked with Timothy's.

He stood there, watching her with cold indifference, not even a flicker of emotion crossing his face.

Shirley awoke to a chill so deep it felt like shards of ice piercing her bones.

Frost clung to her lashes, every breath a cloud of white mist, her limbs stiff and numb, blood nearly frozen in her veins.

The freezer was set to minus 30 degrees Celsius, and she wore nothing but a thin slip, her bare skin mottled with blue and purple from the cold.

"I can't die..." She forced herself to move, inch by agonizing inch. "I can't die..."

Her immigration papers were almost finalized.

She still had to leave this place.

Soon, she could finally start over.

With every ounce of strength left in her body, Shirley crawled toward the freezer door, her fingers purple and stiff as she pounded desperately on the thick metal.

"Help... me...

"Is anyone... out there... please..."

Her voice was so hoarse it was barely recognizable, but outside, there was only silence.

Until—

"Stop banging."

A soft, mocking voice drifted in from outside.

Shirley froze.

It was Patricia.

"Everyone's busy celebrating my birthday right now. Who has time for you?"

She laughed lightly, her tone dripping with smug satisfaction. "Oh, and here's something funny—

"Isn't today your birthday, too?

"Too bad. Not a single person remembered."

Shirley bit down hard on her lip, the taste of blood spreading in her mouth.

"I'm in the grand ballroom, the center of attention, and you're in here, half-dead from the cold..." Patricia giggled.

"Shirley, so what if you're the real heiress? So what if I'm just some orphan adopted from a shelter?

"You're still beneath my feet."

Shirley squeezed her eyes shut, a bitter taste rising in her throat.

Just then, Patricia's phone rang.

She seemed to deliberately switch to speaker, letting Shirley hear every word from the other end.

"Tricia, where did you go?"

It was Timothy.

His voice was low and gentle, filled with a tenderness Shirley had never heard before.

"I feel a little dizzy..." Patricia's voice instantly turned soft and fragile. "I'm in the lounge..."

"Wait there. I'll be right over."

The call ended, and the freezer was silent once again.

Listening to Timothy speak to Patricia with such warmth, Shirley slowly closed her eyes. For some reason, she suddenly remembered those endless days and nights she'd written about in her diary.

On those yellowed pages, the words were blurred by tears, every stroke etched with her own despair.

She wrote about Timothy renting out an entire revolving restaurant for Patricia's birthday, just so she could see the snow.

She wrote about him staying by Patricia's bedside through the night when she had a fever, even missing the ceremony for his company's IPO.

She wrote about the way his eyes melted with springtime warmth whenever he looked at Patricia, and how they turned to icy frost whenever he glanced at her.

All those years, Shirley had been nothing but a pitiful voyeur, hiding in the shadows, watching them fall in love.

But now, at last, she didn't love him anymore.

The realization made Shirley's lips twitch in a faint, broken smile before she finally surrendered to the darkness.

When Shirley woke again, she found herself lying in a bed in the villa.

From outside the door came exaggerated laughter and cartoon catchphrases, the TV volume cranked so high it seemed to make the walls vibrate.

She pushed herself up and opened the door, just in time to see Patricia sitting cross-legged on the living room rug, arms full of snacks, laughing so hard at the TV her whole body shook.

"Sherry, you're awake?"

Patricia turned, her face still lit with lingering amusement.

"Sorry, am I being too loud with my anime?"

She deliberately bit into a potato chip with a loud crunch. "I've been feeling tightness in my chest lately. The air's so much better here in the villa district—Timo told me to stay for a few days and rest... You don't mind, do you?"

Shirley instinctively glanced at the sofa.

Timothy was sitting there, long fingers flipping through financial reports, his expression cool and focused behind gold-rimmed glasses.

The TV was blaring, but he didn't even flinch.

Shirley suddenly remembered something she'd written in her diary.

"He lost his temper again today because I was eating an apple beside him. He said the chewing noises distracted him from work and told me to leave.

"Remember, when he's in the study, even breathing has to be quiet."

But now...

Patricia rustled her chip bag noisily, the TV blasting over-the-top fight scenes, and Timothy didn't even look up.

The difference between love and indifference was so painfully clear.

Shirley was just about to speak when Timothy interrupted, his tone detached, eyes never leaving the page. "If it hadn't been for that accident years ago, this house would have been yours.

"She's just a squatter. You don't need to check with her."

"Right, no need to check with me," Shirley replied calmly. "Stay as long as you want."

Timothy's fingers paused mid-turn, and he finally glanced at her, his eyes narrowing slightly behind the lenses.

This wasn't like her.

In the past, she'd either break down in tears or bite back sobs, never this... calm.

But the moment passed quickly.

He looked away and went back to his paperwork.

After all, he never spared much thought—let alone any concern—for anything related to her.

Shirley didn't care what he was thinking. She went back in and closed the door behind her.

She locked herself in her room all day, listening to the relentless noise outside.

Patricia watched variety shows with the TV at full blast, strutted around the hardwood floors in high heels, and even opened Timothy's prized wine to pair with fried chicken.

Every single thing she did was a direct hit to Timothy's boundaries.

Shirley remembered how she used to get icy stares just for brushing against his bookshelf; how the sound of slippers on the floor would earn a frown; and touching his wine collection was simply unthinkable...

Yet now, she heard Timothy's resigned voice through the door. "Slow down, no one's going to steal your food."

It wasn't until dinner that Shirley finally emerged.

The table was loaded with dishes, and Patricia sat right next to Timothy, smiling so sweetly her eyes curved into crescents.

"Timo, these are all my favorites!"

Timothy's gaze was gentle. "I haven't forgotten your preferences for a moment."

Patricia blushed, then spotted Shirley at the doorway and called out, "Sherry, come eat with us!"

Shirley silently took a seat at the far end of the table.

Patricia looked every bit the lady of the house, while Shirley felt like an uninvited guest.

She picked up a bite of food, but after just a couple of mouthfuls, her throat started to itch.

She frowned, tasted another dish, and the discomfort only grew worse.

"Sherry, are you okay?" Patricia suddenly cried out. "What's with those red spots on your hand? Are you having an allergic reaction?"

Shirley looked down. Sure enough, her arm was covered in red welts.

Her breathing grew rapid; she tried to speak but couldn't make a sound. She pointed desperately at her purse, where her emergency medication was stashed.

Patricia scrambled up to help, but in her panic, knocked over a bowl of steaming soup—

"Ah..."

The scalding liquid spilled over Shirley's rash-covered arm, the pain so intense it brought tears streaming down her face.

She saw Timothy leap up and rush over.

But he wrapped his arms around Patricia!

"Are you burned?" he asked anxiously, inspecting Patricia's hand, his voice so gentle it could melt ice.

"How could you be so careless?"

Shirley's vision swam, and as she slipped into unconsciousness, the last thing she saw was Timothy carrying Patricia away...

When she woke again, she was in a hospital bed.

A nurse was changing her IV. "Your allergic reaction was severe—you nearly died. And you've got second-degree burns. It's been two days, and not a single family member has come to see you?"

Shirley opened her mouth, but voices drifted in from the hallway.

"I heard Mr. Mitchell booked the whole floor?"

"Yeah, just for that minor burn on Ms. Patricia's hand."

"He spoils her so much—the wound was almost healed by the time they got here..."

Shirley slowly closed her eyes. "I don't have any family."

The nurse hesitated, then quietly left the room.

The hospital room had barely quieted when Shirley's phone suddenly rang.

She fumbled for it and answered, hearing an elderly but vibrant voice on the other end.

"Sweetheart, it's Ross."

Shirley froze.

In her diary, the Mitchell family's patriarch was the only elder who'd ever shown her kindness.

"Sweetheart, I've heard about everything that's happened lately."

Timothy's grandfather, Ross Mitchell, spoke with warmth and concern, his tone gentle yet full of worry.

"You've suffered so much. Since Timo married you, he ought to treat you right. Don't worry, I'll stand up for you."

For the first time since losing her memory, Shirley felt genuine care and affection.

Her nose tingled, and she almost burst into tears. "It's okay, Ross. I'm fine."

"You always make my heart ache," Ross sighed.

"You're the real heiress, and after being kidnapped, you endured so much. Your parents don't even care—they treat their adopted daughter better than you. And Timo... after all you've done for him over the years, he still treats you so coldly, never showing any real affection. He's going to regret it one day!"

Shirley stared blankly at the white ceiling. She couldn't remember any of it, but just hearing it made her heart ache.

"All right, I've got to go in for some tests," Ross said finally. "Remember, if you ever need anything, you can always count on me."

The call ended, and moments later, the hospital room door was flung open.

Timothy stood in the doorway, immaculate in his suit, his gaze icy.

"You pull the 'suicide by allergy' stunt, then run to Grandpa for backup. Shirley, is there any trick you haven't tried just to get my attention? Suicide or Grandpa—those are your only moves, right?"

Shirley wanted to explain, but seeing the contempt in his eyes, she only managed a quiet, "I didn't try to kill myself. I just forgot I'm allergic to peanuts."

"Forgot you're allergic to peanuts?" Timothy sneered. "Why not say you've forgotten who you are altogether?"

Shirley looked at him in silence.

He was right—she really had forgotten who she was.

She'd forgotten the Shirley who'd humbled herself for love, forgotten the years of soul-crushing despair, and most of all, she'd forgotten the love for him that had once been carved into her bones.

But she said none of this.

Maybe it was Ross's pressure that made Timothy grudgingly stay to "take care" of her. But care was hardly the word—it was more like another form of torment.

The IV back flowed, and he ignored it; she scalded her hand with hot water, and he didn't bat an eye; even when she pressed the call button, gasping for air, he was too busy calling his assistant.

"Has Patricia's burn been treated? Make sure she gets the best scar cream."

The cruelest part was that, even though she no longer loved him, Shirley still felt suffocated.

She couldn't imagine how the old Shirley—so desperately in love with Timothy—had survived all those years of torment, day after day, night after night.

Outside, sycamore leaves drifted past the window, and she suddenly remembered the last page of her diary.

"If one day I stop loving you, it must be because my heart has died."

Looking back now, Shirley realized the woman who wrote those words had probably died long ago, lost in countless nights of being ignored.

On the day she was discharged, the hospital room was empty.

Shirley knew Timothy had gone to see Patricia again.

In three years of marriage, she could count the number of days he'd actually been by her side on one hand. She was used to it, quietly waiting for her immigration paperwork to go through.

During this time, Patricia's Social Media Feed never stopped—

Skiing in Switzerland, the Eiffel Tower in Paris, sunsets on tropical islands... In every photo, Timothy's gaze was gentle enough to sting.

The latest post showed Timothy at the foot of a snowy mountain, his long fingers adjusting Patricia's scarf, head bent to tie it snug. Patricia leaned into his arms, beaming.

The caption read, "He said he wants to show me the whole world."

Shirley scrolled past it calmly, as if looking at a stranger's feed.

Three days later, the immigration office finally called—her paperwork was ready.

She hailed a cab, picked up her passport and visa, then stopped by the law firm to collect the divorce papers and the document severing parental ties.

With everything in order, she could finally leave this place for good.

Shirley folded the divorce agreement and the statement of severance, tucking them into the innermost pocket of her bag.

Just as she zipped it shut, her phone lit up.

Patricia texted, "Sherry, let's talk."

Shirley replied, "About what?"

Patricia texted, "You've held the title of Mrs. Mitchell for three years. Isn't it time to give it back?"

Shirley's lips curled into a cold smile. She replied, "It's already yours."

She tossed her phone into her bag and walked home without looking back.

When she opened her front door, the entryway light didn't turn on.

Frowning, she felt for the switch on the wall—when suddenly, a sharp pain exploded at the back of her head.

As her consciousness faded, she heard Patricia's voice, speaking to a man.

When Shirley came to, a biting wind slashed across her face.

She snapped her eyes open and realized, with a jolt of terror, that she was dangling over the edge of a cliff.

Rough hemp rope cut into her wrists, and beneath her, nothing but a yawning abyss.

Straining to look around, she saw Patricia suspended nearby, her face ghostly pale, shivering uncontrollably.

"Awake?" The kidnapper stood off to the side, a cigarette dangling from his lips, smirking. "Don't worry, your men will be here any minute."

Hardly had he finished speaking when the roar of engines echoed in the distance.

Several black SUVs sped toward the cliff, tires screeching as they came to a halt. The doors flew open and Timothy strode out, his black trench coat billowing, his expression cold and severe, the air around him heavy with tension.

"The money's here. Let them go." His voice was low—commanding, impossible to refuse.

The kidnapper grinned. "That's Mr. Mitchell for you. Straight to the point."

He took the case from a bodyguard, counted the cash, and waved his hand.

"They're yours. But you'll have to rescue them yourself."

With that, he and his crew disappeared without another word.

Shirley dangled in midair, her rope beginning to fray, pebbles crumbling from the cliff's edge and tumbling into the darkness below.

She clenched her teeth, forcing herself to stay calm.

"Timo! I'm scared!" Patricia sobbed, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Please, save me..."

The bodyguards quickly checked the ropes, faces grim.

"Mr. Mitchell, the rope won't hold much longer. We can only save one of them right now."

Timothy didn't hesitate for even a second—he headed straight for Patricia.

Just then, Harold and Dolores' car screeched up. They spilled out, saw the scene at the cliff, and cried out in alarm, "Patricia!"

"Save Patricia first! Hurry! Her health is fragile—she can't take this!" Dolores shouted, her voice shrill and cracking.

Harold rushed over to help, and together the three of them hauled Patricia up to safety.

Meanwhile, Shirley's rope groaned under her weight, threatening to snap.

Snap—

She dropped suddenly, the rope jerking as loose stones rattled down, vanishing into the bottomless void.

"Mrs. Mitchell!"

A bodyguard lunged forward, grabbing the rope with both hands, holding on with desperate strength.

The coarse hemp tore into his palms, blood dripping between his fingers as he finally managed to drag her up.

Shirley collapsed on the ground, her wrists raw and bleeding. Looking up, she saw Timothy cradling Patricia in his arms, gently wiping the tears from her face, his voice soft enough to melt water.

"Don't be afraid, I'm here."

Harold hurried to wrap a coat around his adopted daughter, while Dolores fussed over her, cupping her face and inspecting her for injuries. "My darling, you scared me half to death..."

How ironic. Her husband, her parents—not one of them cared about her as much as a stranger did.

Everyone crowded around Patricia, ushering her to the car, completely oblivious to Shirley's existence.

"Mrs. Mitchell..." The bodyguard hesitated. "Are you all right?"

Shirley slowly stood, dusting herself off, then suddenly smiled.

"Thank you for saving me," she said softly. "Could you do me one more favor?"

She reached into her bag and pulled out the documents she'd prepared—the divorce papers and the statement severing parental ties—and handed them to the bodyguard.

"Please deliver these gifts to my parents and to Timothy."

He didn't ask questions, just nodded and took them. "I'll take care of it right away."

Shirley watched as he walked over to Timothy.

Timothy didn't even glance up, his voice cold. "Now? You think I have time for whatever she's giving me? Toss it in the car."

Harold and Dolores didn't bother to look either, too busy fussing over Patricia. "You poor thing, let's get you home..."

With a sigh, the bodyguard tucked the documents into the car.

Shirley watched it all unfold, and suddenly she laughed, her eyes burning with unshed tears.

It didn't matter. Sooner or later, they'd read them.

She turned away, heading for the highway without a backward glance, and flagged down a cab.

"Airport, please."

The door shut, the engine revved.

In the rearview mirror, Shirley saw Timothy carrying Patricia into the car, Harold and Dolores close behind. Not a single one of them looked back.

Shirley turned her gaze to the blur of scenery racing past outside and closed her eyes.

It didn't matter. From now on, none of those people would be a part of her life.

The cab sped away, carrying her toward a brand new beginning.