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

Waking again, she found herself on a hospital bed, her mind completely blank.

A middle-aged couple sat beside the bed.

Seeing her eyes open, they immediately frowned.

"When will you stop this nonsense?"

"If Timothy Mitchell hadn't gotten drunk and stumbled into the wrong room that night, he'd have married Patricia Campbell instead," the woman snapped impatiently.

"He doesn't love you—no wonder he avoids coming home. Yet you threaten him with suicide over and over. All these years, did he ever visit you once during these attempts?"

"We'd have given up on you long ago if you weren't our biological daughter," the man sighed.

"You'll never measure up to Patricia."

Shirley stared at them, bewildered.

She had lost all her memories, didn't even know who she was, and could only piece together a fragmented life from the scolding of this couple who claimed to be her parents.

She was originally the eldest daughter of the Campbell family, got lost and kidnapped as a child.

And when she was finally found, she discovered that her family had adopted a girl named Patricia.

Her parents, who should have doted on her, now had eyes only for their adopted daughter.

And the position that should have been hers was completely taken over by someone else.

Later, she fell in love with Timothy, president of the Mitchell Group, but that man's heart was filled with Patricia.

Until that banquet, Timothy got drunk, entered the wrong room, and took her body.

After one reckless night, he had to marry her, yet reserved all his indifference and disgust for her.

Her parents didn't love her; her husband didn't love her either.

Trapped in this tormented existence, she saw no escape, resorting to repeated suicide attempts just to grasp their attention.

"Enough. We must return to prepare Patricia's meal," Mr. and Mrs. Campbell rose, their voices clipped.

"Stay here and reflect on your actions."

The moment the hospital door clicked shut, a sharp pain pierced Shirley's chest.

Though her memories were gone, the crushing despair of being abandoned by the world felt hauntingly real.

How could parents shower affection on an adopted daughter while neglecting their own flesh and blood?

And that man Timothy...

He was the one who entered the wrong room.

He was the one who mistook her for someone else.

She dared not dwell on it.

Just hearing these unfamiliar past events made her heart ache like it was being cut by a blunt knife.

What about her former self? Facing day after day of being unloved by parents and ignored by her husband—how utterly hopeless that must have felt?

Shirley slowly pushed herself up and completed the hospital discharge procedures alone.

But standing at the hospital entrance, she had no idea where to go.

She couldn't remember where her parents' home was, nor where Timothy's home stood.

More tragically, neither home welcomed her.

Suddenly, commotion erupted at the hospital entrance.

Shirley looked up to see a tall, slim man walking briskly toward her, carrying a delicate figure in his arms.

The man wore a sharply tailored black suit, his shoulders impeccably straight, devastatingly handsome.

Every step carried an undeniable presence.

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

His gaze as he looked down at her was piercingly tender, his tightening embrace radiating possessiveness.

Even his footsteps instinctively softened, afraid to jostle her.

"Move!"

His voice wasn't loud, yet the onlookers instantly parted like the sea.

"My god, is that Timothy?" someone gasped behind her.

"Who else in Philadelphia commands such presence? So handsome it makes my legs go weak..."

Shirley froze.

So this was her husband, Timothy.

He was holding her adopted sister Patricia in his arms.

As the man passed by her, his footsteps paused almost imperceptibly.

Those pitch-black eyes swept over her, cold like ice scraping against skin.

But in an instant, he averted his gaze and strode toward the emergency room with the person in his arms.

Shirley's slender frame trembled slightly.

She didn't follow, still wondering where she should go—

The next second, footsteps sounded behind her.

Turning around, she saw Timothy had returned.

He grabbed her wrist with enough force to make her wince.

"Are you RH-negative?"

Without waiting for an answer, he pulled her toward the blood draw room.

"Patricia's in critical condition after the car crash, and the hospital blood bank is running low. Go donate some blood for her."

"I..."

Before Shirley could respond, Timothy suddenly cupped the back of her head and kissed her.

The kiss was brief and fleeting, cold as ice.

"Will you donate now?" His voice was low, eyes devoid of warmth.

Still dazed, Shirley found herself pushed into the blood draw room. Outside, nurses' whispers cut through the air.

"Is that Mrs. Mitchell who attempted suicide 108 times? Rumor has it her first try was to make Mr. Mitchell kiss her, the second for a date, the third to sleep with him... Rejected every single time. How shameless."

"And now Mr. Mitchell finally kisses her—just to make her donate blood for Miss Patricia..."

"She must be torn between joy and heartbreak? Thrilled to finally get his kiss, yet crushed it's for another woman..."

Shirley lay on the blood donation chair, watching through the glass as Timothy kept vigil by Patricia's bedside.

His slender fingers gently enveloped her pale hand as he lowered his head to place a tender kiss on her knuckles.

Strangely, she felt neither joy nor heartache.

The sting of the needle piercing her vein seemed muffled, as if behind a veil. Even those emotions that should have torn her apart had been diluted by this amnesia.

Forgetting everything turned out to be heaven's mercy to her.

After donating 400cc of blood, Shirley emerged pale, her vision darkening in waves.

She struggled for a long time before finally choosing to approach Timothy.

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

Timothy frowned, "What tricks are you playing now? Forgotten where home is after all those suicide attempts?"

"No, I've lost my memory..."

"The driver's at the entrance." Timothy cut her off. "He'll take you back."

"Thank you." Shirley murmured. "I'll prepare your gift."

"Don't bother." His tone turned icy. "I've no interest in anything from you. Stop trying to please me."

Shirley lowered her gaze, a faint curve touching her lips.

Really?

But this time, you'll like the gift.

After getting in the car, she found the lawyer's number in her contact list and sent a message:

"Hello, I need a divorce and to cut all ties with family. Please draft the documents."

The lawyer replied promptly:

"Understood, Ms. Campbell. I'll prepare them immediately."

Shirley put away her phone, watching the blurring scenery outside.

Amnesia was a gift from heaven—her chance to escape and start anew.

"Not home yet," she suddenly told the driver. "Take me to the immigration office."

The driver froze, shooting her a startled glance through the rearview mirror before answering respectfully.

"Yes, ma'am."

The process went smoothly.

The staff told her that all the documents would be ready in half a month.

When getting in the car, Shirley hesitated for a moment, then still spoke up.

"Don't tell Timothy about today's matter."

The driver's hand on the steering wheel tightened.

"Mrs. Campbell, Timothy always... doesn't allow us to mention you in front of him."

Shirley twitched the corner of her mouth.

So Timothy hated her to such an extent that he didn't even want to hear her name.

Back at the manor, Shirley stood at the Entry Hall and looked around.

This home felt both familiar and strange.

Familiar because every detail matched her taste, strange because it was so deserted it didn't seem like anyone had lived here.

She ran her fingers over the embroidered cushion on the sofa, remembering how she'd decorated this home with such joy, dreaming of a happy life with Timothy.

The wedding photo on the wall showed her gazing at him with adoration, while his handsome face remained aloof.

Shirley shook her head and headed upstairs. Entering the bedroom, she instinctively pulled open the drawer.

A leather-bound journal slipped onto the floor. On its first page, drunkenly scrawled handwriting read:

"Today's our wedding day. Timothy went straight to his study without a word. It's okay—I'll wait."

Every subsequent page pierced her heart like knives.

"On the 37th suicide attempt, he still didn't come to see me. The assistant said Patricia had a fever, and he stayed by her bedside all night. I lay in the emergency room, listening to the drip sound until dawn."

"On the 89th attempt, I swallowed sleeping pills. When I woke up, I heard him on the phone in the corridor, saying 'Let her die.' At that moment, I realized that what hurts more than death is hearing the person you love most wishing for your death."

"On the 108th attempt, I decided to give up. If this time still doesn't work, I'll disappear completely. After all, in this world, no one cares whether I exist or not."

Shirley suddenly closed the diary, her chest feeling as if it had been ripped open.

Those scars on her wrists suddenly became burning hot, each one silently accusing the past despair.

She slowly crouched down, hugging her knees tightly.

All these three years, she'd lived so pathetically, begging like a dog just to earn a glance from him.

"It's okay," Shirley wiped her tears, placing the diary into the drawer.

"Shirley, it's okay if no one loves you."

Moonlight streamed through the window, casting a small pool of light at her feet.

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

Shirley stayed in this empty manor for several days, and Timothy never returned.

Without memories or affection, she didn't feel any hardship being alone in the empty house.

Instead, she thought waiting quietly like this until her immigration paperwork was processed might be just fine.

The phone call from her mother shattered the peace.

"Patricia's birthday is tomorrow. Seven p.m. at the Grand Imperial Hotel." The voice on the line was icy and detached. "Don't be late."

"I don't..."

"That's settled."

The call ended abruptly, leaving no room for refusal.

On the evening of the banquet, Shirley chose the simplest black gown.

Upon entering, she saw Patricia surrounded by admirers, and Timothy whom she hadn't seen for days.

"Patricia is truly blessed," whispered two society ladies nearby.

"Her adoptive parents cherish her like precious jewels, and even Mr. Mitchell dotes on her so."

"Absolutely. I heard Mr. Mitchell personally arranged this banquet. See that champagne? Flown in specially from France—each bottle costs six figures. And those flowers? Freshly airlifted from Holland this morning. The entire ballroom's decorated as Monet's Garden, just how Patricia likes it. Must've cost a fortune."

The guests' chatter drifted over.

Shirley sipped her wine, gaze settling on Timothy nearby.

He wore a black suit today, shirt collar casually undone to reveal half of his collarbone—all lazy elegance.

Yet this very man now knelt adjusting Patricia's gown hem, his usually cold features softened by a smile.

The host announced, "Now let's welcome Mr. and Mrs. Campbell to bless their beloved daughter!"

Shirley's parents immediately escorted Patricia onto the stage.

Mr. Campbell cleared his throat, scanning the crowd.

"Today, I announce a significant decision. Sixty percent of Campbell Group shares will be inherited solely by Patricia."

A startled buzz swept through the audience as Shirley's knuckles whitened around her glass.

Timothy then approached the stage, producing a velvet box from his pocket. Inside lay an antique jadeite ring.

"Isn't that the Mitchell heirloom?" someone gasped.

"I heard Laura Mitchell reserved that ring for her eldest grandson's bride."

"Heavens! Gifting an heirloom to his sister-in-law—Timothy's publicly humiliating Shirley..."

The ring slid onto Patricia's ring finger—a perfect fit.

"Dad, Mom, Timothy, isn't this inappropriate?"

Patricia suddenly glanced toward the corner, her voice deliberately hesitant.

"After all, Shirley is the Campbells' biological daughter and Mrs. Mitchell. Shouldn't these belong to her?"

Hearing this, Mom and Dad immediately grasped her hands.

"Nonsense! Shirley married well with the Mitchell Family backing her. Naturally, we must plan more for you. Leaving our assets to you is only right."

Timothy stated flatly, "If not for that accident, this ring would've been yours all along."

Shirley stood at the crowd's center like she'd been stripped naked in public.

Her parents' words struck like slaps. Timothy's words cut like knives, lashing across her face.

The guests' stares were like searchlights, leaving her nowhere to hide—pitying, mocking, gloating, each gaze spelling out "pathetic loser."

She could even feel Patricia's smug look, like a victor flaunting her trophy.

In the past, this would've crushed her.

But now, she only felt calm.

Shirley gently set down her wine glass. As she turned, whispers reached her ears:

"Look, her eyes are red..."

"Probably hiding in the restroom to cry..."

"How pitiful—her own parents and husband prefer the adopted daughter..."

Without breaking stride, she walked straight to the restroom. Her reflection showed flawless makeup—not a single tear had fallen.

She had long forgotten everything.

She forgot how she had once begged her parents for affection, Timothy's love; no longer remembered how she had repeatedly set aside her dignity just to earn a single glance from them.

Those she had once looked up to with such humility now meant nothing to her—strangers all.

Now, she only needed to quietly wait for her immigration paperwork to finalize, then learn to truly love herself.

Shirley touched up her lipstick and was about to leave the restroom when she abruptly halted at the corridor's corner.

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

His slender fingers tangled in her hair while his other hand gripped her waist tightly, as if trying to meld her into his very being.

Patricia tilted her head back, her fair neck forming a graceful curve.

After what felt like an eternity, Timothy finally released her. His thumb brushed her slightly swollen lips as his deep voice rumbled.

"Satisfied now?"

Clinging to his chest, Patricia's voice came out soft and sweet.

"Timothy... do you think I'm being too much? I've already accepted your heirloom, yet I still demanded a kiss... If Shirley sees this, she'll probably be heartbroken again."

"I'm just in so much pain. Had that accident never happened, we would have been together..."

Timothy's eyes remained calm while pulling her closer.

"Her sadness means nothing to me."

"I never liked her. Never will."

"The one I've always loved is you, Patricia."

His lips captured hers once more.

Shirley stood frozen, her heart clenched by an invisible fist until each breath became a ragged gasp.

Pressing a hand to her chest, she thought: This must be the lingering warmth from loving him. Once that warmth faded, nothing would remain.

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

Only when their figures vanished completely did Shirley emerge from the shadows.

She drew a deep breath, smoothed her gown, and headed back to the ballroom for her purse. But upon entering, Patricia seized her wrist.

"Shirley, if you liked the ring Timothy gave me, you could have just asked. Why steal it?"

Shirley stood frozen.

"What do you mean stealing? What are you talking about?"

"Stop pretending!" Patricia's eyes were red-rimmed.

"I just went to the restroom, and my ring vanished! The waiter said you were the only one near my purse!"

The Campbells rushed over at the commotion. Without a word, Shirley's father slapped her across the face.

"Shirley, can't you go one day without causing trouble?!"

Her cheek stung fiercely. Before she could react, Mrs. Campbell shrieked, "Someone! Search her!"

Several waiters immediately surrounded Shirley, roughly yanking at her gown.

Shirley struggled desperately.

"I didn't steal it! Let me go!"

Riiip—

The sound of tearing fabric echoed. Shirley's bare shoulders were suddenly exposed to the room, met by gasps and snickers from the onlookers.

"Found it!"

A waiter pulled the jadeite Ring from her purse.

"It was with her after all!"

Patricia took the ring, tears streaming down her face.

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

Shirley trembled all over, just opening her mouth when the crowd suddenly parted—

Steady footsteps echoed closer.

She looked up to see Timothy approaching step by step, his polished leather shoes clicking against the marble floor. Each step felt like stepping on Shirley's heart.

"What was the point of stealing it?" His voice was soft, yet it silenced the entire banquet hall.

"You do know I never considered you my wife?"

Shirley lifted her gaze, meeting his icy stare.

"Shirley, some things don't belong to you," he spoke with thin lips, each word like a poisoned blade, "and they never will."

Shirley suddenly laughed.

This smile made Timothy's brows furrow almost imperceptibly.

He had seen her cry, seen her rage, seen her hysterical, but never seen her smile like this. Like relief, yet like mockery.

"I didn't steal." Her voice was soft, yet crystal clear.

The banquet hall's chandelier cast fragmented light in her eyes – like tears, or like stars.

"And what's more—"

She took a deep breath, enunciating each word deliberately.

"I don't like you anymore!"

As her words fell, the entire room plunged into dead silence.

Everyone widened their eyes, unable to believe their ears.

That Shirley who had been obsessed with Timothy was now saying she didn't like him?

All eyes fixed on Shirley, faces etched with shock.

Only Timothy stood before her, immaculate suit and icy demeanor, not a ripple of emotion in his eyes.

"How many times have you played this hard-to-get game?"

His deep voice dripped with undisguised mockery.

"I told you, no tantrum of yours will ever work."

He leaned in slightly, thin lips parting as each deliberate word aimed to crush the last shred of her dignity—

"I don't like you. Period."

As the words fell, the surrounding guests finally snapped out of their shock, whispers rising like a tidal wave.

"I told you—how could Miss Campbell suddenly stop loving Timothy?"

"Exactly. She attempted suicide over a hundred times just to catch his attention before."

"Tsk tsk... pitiful and pathetic..."

Shirley clenched her fingers, nails digging deep into her palms, yet she felt no pain.

She parted her lips, ready to declare once more—

This wasn't some game of hard-to-get. She truly, genuinely no longer loved him!

But before a sound could escape, her father cut in sharply.

"Our apologies, everyone. We failed to teach our daughter, allowing her to disgrace our family with theft!"

With a cold wave of his hand, he ordered the bodyguards.

"Escort her to the hotel's cold storage. Let her spend the night there to clear her head!"

Shirley's pupils contracted violently as her head jerked up.

"I said I didn't steal—"

Yet no one listened.

Shirley was pinned by two bodyguards who roughly clamped down on her wrists.

She fought desperately, only to feel a sharp pain explode at the back of her neck.

Struck by a metal baton, she staggered backward, her vision blurring into darkness.

In that final second before unconsciousness, her eyes locked with Timothy's.

He stood there, watching her with icy detachment—not even a flicker of concern crossed his face.

Later, Shirley woke to bone-chilling cold.

Frost crusted her eyelashes; each breath hung as white vapor. Her limbs had stiffened, her blood feeling like frozen sludge.

The freezer was set to -30°C. Clad only in a thin slip, her exposed skin had turned mottled purple.

"Can't die..."

She dragged herself forward, muscles screaming.

"I won't die..."

Her immigration paperwork was almost finalized. She still needed to escape this place.

Soon, she could start a new life.

Using every ounce of strength, she crawled inch by inch toward the freezer door.

Her fingers turned purple with cold, yet she kept pounding desperately against the heavy metal.

"Help... me..."

"Is anyone... out there...?"

Her voice came out hoarse and broken, but no response came from beyond the door.

Until—

"Stop knocking."

A sweet, laughing voice drifted through the door.

Shirley froze.

It was Patricia.

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

She giggled, undisguised triumph lacing her tone.

"Oh, here's something funny—"

"Today's your birthday too, isn't it?"

"Too bad nobody remembered."

Shirley bit down hard on her lip, the metallic tang of blood flooding her mouth.

"I was the center of attention in the lavish banquet hall, while you're freezing half to death out here..." Patricia chuckled.

"Shirley, what if you're the real heiress? What if I'm just an orphan adopted from the welfare home?"

"You still ended up beneath my feet."

Just then, Patricia's phone rang abruptly.

She deliberately hit speakerphone, forcing Shirley to hear the voice clearly—

"Patricia, where did you go?"

It was Timothy.

His low, gentle voice carried a tenderness she'd never heard him use before.

Shirley slowly closed her eyes. For some reason, she suddenly remembered those long days and nights she'd poured into her diary.

On the yellowed pages, ink blurred by tears, every stroke etched her own despair.

She wrote about how Timothy had booked the entire revolving restaurant for Patricia's birthday, just so she could watch the snow;

She wrote about how he stayed by Patricia's bedside all night when she had a fever, even missing his company's IPO bell-ringing ceremony;

She wrote about the gentle warmth in his eyes when he looked at Patricia, like spring snow melting—

but when his gaze turned to her, only biting frost remained.

For countless days and nights, she'd been a pitiful voyeur, hiding in the shadows watching them fall in love.

Thankfully, she no longer loved him now.

This realization made Shirley curl her lips as she sank into darkness.

When Shirley woke again, she found herself lying in the manor's bed.

Exaggerated laughter and cartoon dialogues boomed outside the door, the volume cranked so high it seemed to shake the walls.

Pushing herself upright, she opened the door to see Patricia sitting cross-legged on the living room carpet. Hugging snacks to her chest, the girl doubled over laughing at the television.

"Shirley's awake?"

Patricia turned, remnants of laughter still dancing across her face.

"Sorry, did my anime bother you?"

She deliberately crunched her chips loudly.

"My chest has felt tight lately. The air's better in this neighborhood, so Timothy suggested I stay here to recover... You don't mind, do you?"

Shirley instinctively glanced toward the sofa—

Timothy sat there, slender fingers flipping through financial reports, his gaze cold and focused beneath his gold-rimmed glasses.

The TV blared, yet his brow remained smooth.

Shirley suddenly remembered words from her diary:

"He got angry today because I ate an apple beside him. My chewing distracted him, so he told me to leave."

"Remember: When he's in the study, even your breathing must soften."

But now...

Patricia rustled the chip bag noisily, exaggerated fight scenes booming from the anime, yet Timothy didn't even look up.

She was about to speak, but Timothy suddenly said, "If it weren't for that accident years ago, this home would have been yours."

His tone was cold, his gaze still fixed on the documents.

"She's just a usurper; why do you need to report to her?"

Shirley said calmly, "Yes, no need to report to me. You can stay as long as you want."

Timothy's finger paused slightly as he turned the page, and finally he looked up at her, his gaze behind the lenses narrowing slightly.

This wasn't like her.

In the past, she would either cry hysterically or hold back tears with red eyes, never this... calm.

But this strangeness only lingered in his mind for a second.

He averted his gaze and resumed handling the documents.

After all, anything related to her never crossed his mind, let alone mattered.

Shirley didn't care about his thoughts either, walking straight in and shutting the door.

The entire day, Shirley locked herself in the room, listening to the jarring noises outside.

Patricia blasted reality shows at maximum volume, clacked her high heels across the hardwood floors, and even opened Timothy's treasured wine to pair with fried chicken.

Each act landed squarely in Timothy's forbidden zones.

Once, her accidental brush against his bookshelf earned her an icy glare; the shuffle of her slippers prompted a frown and immediate silencing; touching his wine was utterly unthinkable...

Yet now, she clearly heard Timothy say with resignation.

"Take your time. No one's rushing you."

Only when dinner approached did Shirley push the door open and step out.

The dining table was laden with dishes. Patricia sat beside Timothy, her eyes crinkling with a smile.

"Timothy, these are all my favorite dishes!"

"Mhm," Timothy's gaze softened. "I never forget your preferences."

A blush spread across Patricia's cheeks.

Spotting Shirley at the doorway, she called out, "Sister, come join us!"

Shirley silently walked to the far end of the table and sat down. Here Patricia reigned like the lady of the house, while Shirley felt like an uninvited guest.

She picked up some food with her fork. After two bites, her throat suddenly tickled.

She frowned and tried another dish, but the discomfort only intensified.

"Shirley, what's wrong?" Patricia suddenly exclaimed.

"Why are there red spots on your arms? Is it an allergy?"

Shirley looked down to see her arms indeed covered in a rash. Her breathing grew increasingly labored, words trapped in her throat.

With great effort, she pointed toward her bag containing emergency medication.

Patricia scrambled to check but accidentally knocked over the steaming soup bowl—

"Ah..."

The scalding broth splashed across Shirley's rash-covered arms. Searing pain sent tears streaming down her face.

She saw Timothy dart forward, only to—

Shield Patricia in his arms!

"Did it burn you?"

He anxiously examined Patricia's hands, his voice dripping with tenderness.

"How could you be so careless?"

Darkness swam before Shirley's eyes. Before losing consciousness, her last sight was Timothy carrying Patricia away...

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

A nurse changing her IV remarked, "With allergies this severe, you nearly died. Second-degree burns too. How come no family's visited in two whole days?"

Shirley parted her lips, but voices drifted from the hallway:

"Heard Mr. Mitchell reserved the entire floor?"

"Just for that minor burn on Miss Patricia's hand."

"Utterly spoiled. Any later and it'd have healed completely..."

Shirley slowly closed her eyes.

"I have no family here."

The nurse hesitated to speak but ultimately left in silence.

The hospital room had just settled into quiet when her phone suddenly rang.

Shirley fumbled to answer it.

A voice, aged yet robust, came through, "Child, it's Grandpa."

Shirley froze.

In her diary, this elder from the Mitchell Family seemed the only relative who'd shown her kindness.

"My dear, I've learned everything that's happened lately."

Grandpa Mitchell's voice held both tenderness and heartache.

"You've endured too much. Since Timothy married you, he must treat you right. Don't worry—I'll make this right."

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

Shirley's nose stung, tears threatening to fall.

"No need, Grandpa. I'm fine."

"You always make my heart ache, girl." The old man sighed.

"You're our true heiress, yet after being kidnapped you suffered so much. Your own parents show less care for you than their adopted daughter. And Timothy..."

"After all you've sacrificed for him these years... he treats you with such cold indifference, incapable of genuine affection. He will regret this!"

Shirley stared blankly at the snow-white ceiling.

She remembered none of this.

Yet merely hearing it made her heart clench in waves of aching pain.

"Alright, this old man needs his check-up now." He finally said.

"Remember—come to Grandpa whenever you need support."

Not long after the call ended, the hospital room door burst open.

Timothy stood at the door, suit impeccably pressed, eyes icy cold.

"First you pull an allergy stunt to fake suicide, then you run to Grandpa for backup. Shirley, is there any trick left besides suicide and Grandpa to get my attention?"

Shirley wanted to explain, but seeing the mockery in his gaze, she finally murmured softly, "I didn't mean to fake anything. I just forgot about my peanut allergy."

"Forgot your peanut allergy?" Timothy sneered. "Why not say you forgot who you are?"

Shirley watched him silently.

Yes, she had forgotten who she was.

She'd forgotten the Shirley who groveled for love, forgotten those years of soul-crushing despair, and forgotten... the bone-deep love she once felt for him.

But she didn't say a word about any of this.

Perhaps pressured by her grandfather, Timothy reluctantly stayed to "care" for her.

But it was less like care and more like another form of torment.

He ignored the blood backing up in her IV line; stayed indifferent when hot water scalded her hand; even when she struggled to breathe and pressed the call button, he only phoned his assistant:

"Has Patricia's burn been redressed? Deliver the best scar treatment ointment."

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

How had her former self—that woman desperately in love with Timothy—endured years of this endless torture?

As plane tree leaves drifted past the window, she suddenly remembered the words on her diary's last page:

"If I ever stop loving you, it'll mean my heart has died."

Now she realized that Shirley who wrote those words had likely died long ago in countless ignored nights.

The day Shirley was discharged, the hospital room stood empty.

Shirley knew Timothy had gone to find Patricia again.

Three years into their marriage, the days he'd spent by her side could be counted on one hand.

She'd grown accustomed to it, silently waiting for her immigration paperwork to be processed.

Meanwhile, Patricia's Social Media Feed never paused—

Skiing in Switzerland, the Eiffel Tower in Paris, island sunsets...

In every photo, Timothy's gaze was piercingly tender.

The latest post showed them at a mountain's snowy base.

Timothy's slender fingers gently gathered Patricia's scarf as he bent to secure it tighter. Patricia leaned into his embrace, her smile beaming.

The caption read: He promised to show me the whole world.

Shirley scrolled past it calmly, as if viewing a stranger's post.

Three days later, immigration finally called to confirm her paperwork was ready.

She immediately hailed a cab.

After collecting her passport and visa, she stopped by the law firm to pick up the divorce papers and cut all ties with family.

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

Shirley neatly folded the divorce agreement and family severance documents, tucking them into the innermost compartment of her bag.

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

Patricia: 「Sis, we need to talk.」

Shirley: 「About what?」

Patricia: 「You've held the title of Mrs. Mitchell for three years. Isn't it time to return it?」

Shirley's lips twisted into a cold smirk as she typed: 「Already did.」

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

As she pushed open the front door, the motion-sensor light in the Entry Hall remained dark.

Frowning, she fumbled for the wall switch when a sharp pain exploded at the back of her head—

Before consciousness faded, she heard Patricia's voice speaking with a man.

She woke again to biting wind scraping her face.

Shirley's eyes flew open—she was dangling over a cliff edge. Coarse ropes bit into her wrists above a bottomless abyss.

Twisting painfully, she saw Patricia suspended nearby, trembling with ghostly pallor.

"Awake?"

The kidnapper took a drag of his cigarette, smirking.

"Relax. Your men will be here soon."

The roar of an engine cut through the wind as he spoke.

Several black SUVs sped toward the cliff edge and screeched to a halt. Timothy strode out as doors flung open.

Dressed in a black trench coat, his cold and stern expression made the air around him feel heavy.

"Take the money. Release her." His low voice carried undeniable command.

The kidnapper grinned.

"Straightforward as always, Mr. Mitchell."

After verifying the cash in the briefcase handed by a bodyguard, he waved dismissively.

"You get the girl. We'll trouble you to rescue her yourself."

He left with his crew without looking back.

Shirley dangled mid-air, the fraying rope sending pebbles tumbling down the cliff. She clenched her jaw, forcing calm.

"Timothy! I'm terrified!"

Patricia cried, tears streaming down her face.

"Save me..."

Bodyguards urgently inspected the ropes, their expressions turning grim.

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

Without a second's hesitation, Timothy walked straight toward Patricia.

Just then, Mr. and Mrs. Campbell's car screeched to a halt. They gasped at the cliffside scene.

"Patricia!"

"Save Patricia first! Now! She's too frail for this!"

Mrs. Campbell's voice cracked with strain. Mr. Campbell rushed to help. Together, the three hauled Patricia to safety.

But the rope near Shirley groaned under tension—

Snap!

She plummeted downward, rocks tumbling past her into the bottomless darkness!

"Madam!"

The bodyguard lunged forward, gripping the rope with desperate force.

Coarse fibers bit into his palms as blood dripped between his fingers, hauling her up at last.

Shirley collapsed on the ground, wrists raw and bleeding.

She lifted her gaze—

Timothy was cradling Patricia in his arms, his thumb gently brushing tears from her cheek, his voice soft enough to melt.

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

Mr. Campbell hurried to drape his coat over his adopted daughter while Mrs. Campbell cupped the girl's face.

"My darling, you scared me half to death..."

How bitterly ironic!

Her own husband, her own parents—even strangers showed more concern than they did.

The entourage shielded Patricia toward the car, nobody sparing a glance to see whether she lived or died.

"Ma'am..." the bodyguard spoke hesitantly, "Are you alright?"

Shirley slowly stood up, dusting off her clothes, then suddenly smiled.

"Thank you for saving me."

She said softly, "Could you do me one more favor?"

She pulled out prepared documents from her bag—divorce papers and cut all ties with family—handing them to the bodyguard.

"Deliver these gifts to my parents and Timothy."

The bodyguard didn't examine them closely or ask questions, just nodded as he accepted.

"Of course, I'll take them over now."

Shirley remained standing, watching the bodyguard approach Timothy.

Timothy didn't even look up, his voice icy.

"Gifts from her? At a time like this? Toss them in the car."

Mr. and Mrs. Campbell paid no attention either, focused solely on comforting Patricia.

"You must be scared, darling? Mom will take you home..."

The bodyguard had no choice but to shove the documents into the car.

Shirley watched the scene and suddenly laughed, her eyes growing teary.

It didn't matter. They'd see it someday.

She turned and walked toward the highway without looking back, hailing a taxi.

"To the airport, please."

The door slammed shut, the engine roared to life.

In the rearview mirror, Tim held Patricia as they got into their car, her parents following close behind. Not one glanced her way.

Shirley averted her gaze, watching the blurring scenery outside before softly closing her eyes.

It didn't matter.

From now on, these people wouldn't be part of her life.

The taxi accelerated, carrying her toward a brand-new beginning.