Sylvie Ainsley, everyone knew her seductive smirk, those red lips, and eyes full of mischief.

Alaric Savrelle, the most dazzling heir of high society, was cold and untouchable.

No one would ever know that they would have sex in the back seat of a Maybach at night, in the charity gala restroom, or in the front of the windows of a private vineyard, with his hands gripping her waist until her knees went weak.

After another wild night, the sound of water drifted from the bathroom.

Sylvie leaned against the headboard and dialed her father, Devin Ainsley.

"I'll marry that dying heir in Orlando to bring him luck," she said, "but I have one condition..."

On the other end, Devin could hardly contain his delight. "Anything! As long as you're willing to marry, I'll agree to whatever you want!"

"I'll explain later." Her voice was soft, but her eyes were icy cold.

She hung up and was about to get dressed when she caught sight of Alaric's laptop on the nightstand.

The WhatsApp interface was still lit, showing the latest message from a contact named "Clarisse."

"Alaric, there's thunder. I'm so scared..."

Sylvie's fingers trembled.

The bathroom door swung open. Alaric stepped out, water running down his collarbone. His shirt unbuttoned, that usual restraint tinged now with a lazy allure.

"Office emergency. I have to go," he said, picking up his jacket, his voice as cool as ever.

Sylvie's red lips curled. "Work, or are you going to see your first love?"

He didn't catch her words. "What?"

"Nothing," she replied, slipping out of bed barefoot and walking on the plush carpet.

His eyes darkened, thumb stroking her puffy lips. "Be good. Stay out of trouble."

The moment the door closed, Sylvie's smile vanished.

She called for a car and followed him.

Half an hour later, her car stopped outside a hotel. Through the rain, Sylvie watched as Clarisse, dressed in white, ran out from the lobby.

Alaric hurried over, draping his suit jacket over her shoulders before lifting her into his arms.

"It's cold out here. Why'd you come out without a coat, huh?"

He moved with such practiced ease, as if he'd done this a thousand times.

Sylvie's grip on the car door tightened, her nails digging deep into her palm.

When Alaric carefully carried Clarisse into the hotel, her mind flashed back to the first time she'd met him.

Back then, she and Devin were constantly at odds. When she hit him on the head again, he sent her to be disciplined by his best friend's son.

At their first meeting, Alaric was sitting in the top-floor office of the Savrelle Group, his gaze behind gold-rimmed glasses as cold as ice.

She didn't wanna stick around. So she kept causing trouble.

On her first day, she "accidentally" spilled coffee all over his custom suit worth over a hundred grand. Alaric just glanced at her, "Italian cashmere, air-shipped. Put it on the Ainsley family's tab."

The second day, she tossed the meeting documents into the shredder. Alaric calmly recited every detail, leaving the executives stunned.

On the third day, she spiked his coffee and set up a camera, ready to catch him in a compromising position.

Instead, she worked as an antidote for him.

The next morning, she woke up aching all over, furious to kill, but Alaric just pinned her against the window for another round.

"Syl," he whispered hoarsely against her ear, "be good."

That one word—"Syl"—was enough to make her defenses crumble.

No one had called her that since her mother, Paige Lenner, passed away.

From then on, everything between them changed.

Every time she caused trouble, Alaric would haul her into his office. People thought he was disciplining her, but he actually had her on his desk.

Slowly, she realized she was addicted.

Was it because he was so skilled? Or was it because she was just that lonely?

She didn't know.

All she knew was that she'd fallen for him, hard.

So on his birthday, she spent the whole day decorating the villa—roses, candles, music, even a proposal ring.

Sylvie waited all night. The candles burned down, the roses wilted, and still, he didn't come.

At three in the morning, her phone lit up with a news alert.

"Tycoon's Midnight Airport Pickup for his first love."

In the photo, Alaric was helping a girl in a white dress into the car, his gaze unbearably gentle.

Her phone clattered to the floor.

Sylvie couldn't believe her eyes.

If there'd always been someone else in Alaric's heart, then what was she? Just a convenient plaything?

With shaking hands, she tried calling him, desperate for answers, but her calls never went through.

After the final failed attempt, Sylvie set her phone down and walked into the room Alaric never let her enter—his study.

The moment she opened the door, she felt like she'd been struck by lightning.

The room was filled with photos of Clarisse—graduation pictures, vacation snapshots, and even candid shots of her sleeping.

The self-controlled Alaric had done something so obsessive.

Did she even need an answer anymore?

Sylvie suddenly laughed, the sound echoing harshly in the empty room.

But her tears spilled down her cheeks, splattering onto the floor.

She trashed the entire villa in a rage.

When Alaric returned the next day, he looked at the wreckage and simply called for someone to clean up.

He didn't spare her a second glance, as if this was normal.

Sylvie watched as the housekeeper swept her carefully prepared proposal ring into the trash.

He had no idea what was in that box.

No idea she'd once wanted to spend her life with him.

And no idea that, in the moment the ring hit the garbage, she decided she would never love him again.

"Ms. Sylvie, where to?" The driver's voice snapped her back to reality.

"Home," Sylvie said coldly. "Back to the Ainsley's residence."

The moment she stepped into the Ainsley family's villa, Devin rushed to greet her. "Syl, is it true you're willing to marry into the family in Orlando?"

From the stairs, her stepmother, Thalia Pritchard, also watched her with hopeful eyes.

"It's true," Sylvie replied, her gaze icy. "But didn't I say I had a condition?"

"What condition?"

"You're not—" Sylvie enunciated every word, "my father anymore."

The air froze.

Devin's face twisted in shock. "Have you lost your mind? Do you know what you're saying?"

"Loud and clear," Sylvie's voice was glacial. "You cheated on my mom, forced her to jump off a building. Since that day, I would never acknowledge you as my father."

She stared at Devin's face. "Now the family of Orlando is offering eight billion dollars for a bride to save his life, and you've been pressuring me for three months. If I hadn't agreed, would you have dragged me there by force?"

"After this, you can bring your mistress's daughter home and let her be the Ainsley."

Devin shook with anger. "Fine! But that scion supposedly won't last till month's end, so you must be married before then!"

He sneered, "As for Thalia's daughter, she just got back from overseas and has been staying at a hotel. Since you're willing to leave, she'll move in tomorrow!"

Sylvie laughed, her heart aching. "You're so eager to raise another woman's child instead of your own daughter."

She turned to leave, but Thalia blocked her path with a fake concern. "Syl, how can you talk to your father like that?"

Sylvie stopped in her tracks.

She turned around slowly, years of suppressed hatred boiling in her eyes. "What's wrong? You think once I'm married, you can finally play the role of hostess?"

She stepped closer, her voice sharp as a blade. "Listen to me, Thalia. My mom may be gone, but that doesn't change the fact that you're nothing but a homewrecker! And no matter how high and mighty your precious daughter gets, she'll never wash away the stain of having a mistress for a mother!"

Thalia's face went deathly pale, and she staggered back a couple of steps.

Sylvie turned and left, every step feeling like she was walking on knives.

It wasn't until she was back in her room with the door closed that she finally collapsed to the floor, burying her face in her knees.

The next morning, the sound of laughter and moving furniture drifted up from downstairs.

"What's going on?" She opened her door. "I'm still sleeping."

The butler stammered, "Ms. Sylvie... Ms. Clarisse just moved in..."

Before he could finish, a familiar figure appeared on the stairs.

Clarisse, dressed in white, stood there looking delicate and frail.

Sylvie's blood ran cold.

Sylvie never could have imagined that Thalia's daughter—the one who'd supposedly been "recovering" abroad for years—was actually Alaric's first love.

Life really did have a twisted sense of humor.

The very next moment, Clarisse walked up to her, flashing a sweet, apologetic smile. "Sylvie, I'm so sorry... Did we wake you up?"

Before she could finish, Sylvie slammed the door in her face with a resounding bang.

"Sylvie! Where are your manners?" Devin roared from the hallway. "Pack up your room. Clarisse likes it, so from now on, it's hers!"

Sylvie let out a cold, mirthless laugh and flung open her closet, tossing her things into a suitcase.

Outside, voices drifted through the door.

"Devin, is Sylvie upset?" Clarisse's voice was soft as honey.

"Don't worry about her. She's been spoiled since she was a kid."

"But..."

"She'll be marrying into the Orlando family soon. This house will be yours and your mother's."

Sylvie's hand paused for a split second before her smirk grew even colder.

She quickly booked a flight to Orlando for the end of the month and kept packing.

Half an hour later, she wheeled her suitcase out of the room.

In the living room, Devin, Thalia, and Clarisse sat together on the couch, sharing snacks and watching TV, the picture of a perfect family.

Without sparing them a glance, Sylvie headed straight for the door.

"Stop right there!" Devin barked. "What now? Don't forget what you promised!"

"Relax. I said I'd do it, and I will." Sylvie didn't even look back. "But I'm not spending the next two weeks here making myself sick."

She went straight to the most expensive hotel in the city and booked a presidential suite.

For the next several days, Sylvie went on a shopping spree.

She bought the priciest wedding dress and splurged at auctions on antique jewelry for her own wedding gifts.

If she had to marry for luck, she'd do it in style.

Her phone buzzed nonstop in her purse, but Sylvie didn't check it until she'd bought the final diamond necklace.

Thirty-eight missed calls—all from Devin.

The moment she answered, his furious roar blasted through the phone. "Are you out of your mind?! You blew through 500 million dollars in a day! Are you trying to bankrupt me?!"

"What's the rush?" Sylvie sneered. "Once I'm married, you'll have eight billion dollars coming in."

"But the money isn't here yet! If you keep spending like this, the company will go under tomorrow!"

Sylvie's laugh was icy.

That was exactly what she wanted—to ruin him.

As for that eight billion, she'd already decided that once she was in Orlando, she'd have the Garrow family in Orlando wire it straight to her personal account.

She wanted to see if Clarisse and Thalia would still stick around when Devin was left penniless.

"Did you really think everyone was as naïve as my mom? Sticking with Devin through thick and thin, working herself into the hospital, only to be driven to suicide in the end."

At the thought of Paige, a sharp pain stabbed through Sylvie's chest.

Her phone vibrated again—this time, a text from Alaric, "What's with the attitude now? Why didn't you come to the office today?"

Sylvie stared at the message for a long time.

For the past year, Alaric had insisted she report to the office every day for his so-called "discipline."

But now that she was about to marry, what was left for him to control?

When she returned to the hotel, arms full of shopping bags, she found all her luggage dumped in the lobby.

"What's going on?" she demanded, her voice icy.

The front desk manager looked uncomfortable. "Ms. Ainsley, your card... It was declined. Per hotel policy..."

Her phone buzzed again—this time, a message from Devin, "Since you want to cut ties, don't use my cards. All your accounts are frozen."

Sylvie stared at the screen until her eyes stung.

Finally, she replied with just two words, "Fine then."

Dragging her suitcase down the street, Sylvie wondered what to do.

Her flight wasn't until the end of the month—she had nowhere to go. Where would she stay for the next two weeks? What would she eat? What would she use?

Her suitcase was stuffed with wedding dresses and jewelry—none of which she could bring herself to sell. As for borrowing money...

She'd rather sleep on the street than beg those vultures in her social circle for help.

A bench in the nearby park would have to do. As soon as she set her suitcase down, a drunk man staggered over.

"Hey, gorgeous. All alone tonight?"

"Get lost."

"No need to be so mean. Come have some fun with me..."

The man's greasy hand landed on her shoulder. Sylvie raised her hand to slap him.

A scream pierced the night.

Alaric appeared out of nowhere, twisting the man's wrist until it snapped.

Before Sylvie could react, he hauled her and her luggage into his car.

"Let me go!"

Alaric clamped down on her struggling wrist. "What now?"

His voice was low and rough. "You're homeless and still didn't think to come to me?"

Those words made Sylvie's nose sting with emotion.

Back when she used to storm out after fighting with Devin, Alaric would always drive all over the city to find her, then carry her home on his back.

"What are you throwing a fit about now?" He'd always say, just like that.

She'd cling to his back, breathing in the crisp scent of cedar that clung to him, naively believing that maybe—just maybe—he cared about her, too.

Looking back now, she thought to herself.

"No one's more of a bastard than he is!"

He never even liked her, yet he still slept with her.

And after he was done, he'd go back to his study and gaze longingly at Clarisse's photos.

She couldn't understand—what made her so much less than Clarisse?

In terms of family, looks, and figure, what did she lack?

Of all the women he could have chosen, why did it have to be Clarisse? Why her, of all people?

"Let go!" Sylvie's eyes were red as she bit down hard on Alaric's hand.

He frowned but said nothing, simply started the car.

Alaric drove them back to the villa, hauling her suitcase inside without a word.

"Just like before," he said, unbuttoning his cuffs in that commanding tone of his, "stay as long as you want, until you're ready to go home."

Sylvie stood in the foyer, her nails digging into her palm. "I'm only staying for two weeks. After that, I'm gone. I'll pay you rent—won't bother you again."

"Won't bother me?" Alaric looked up at her slowly, his gaze behind those gold-rimmed glasses unfathomable. "You really think you can do that?"

His words cut straight through her, sharp as a knife. Her heart clenched painfully.

So he'd known all along.

He'd seen her change—from adversary to someone who couldn't live without him.

She was hopelessly in love with him.

But what about him? Did he really just keep his first love in his heart and watch her spiral out?

"Clarisse..." Sylvie blurted out, "She's my stepmother's daughter. Did you know that?"

Alaric paused in the middle of loosening his tie. "I found out today."

After a moment of silence, Sylvie couldn't hold back. "What's your relationship with her?"

"She was a year below me." Alaric poured himself a glass of water, taking his time. "We went to the same college and worked together on the student council. There was a car accident—she saved me. She's had health issues ever since, so she's been recovering overseas."

He looked at Sylvie, a warning in his eyes. "I know you have issues with Thalia, but this has nothing to do with Clarisse. Don't take it out on her."

Every word Sylvie wanted to say stuck in her throat.

She'd wanted to ask, "Do you love her?" But now, it just seemed ridiculous.

The way he defended Clarisse at every turn—what was the point in asking?

She turned and headed for the guest room, slamming the door behind her.

That night, for the first time, Alaric didn't come looking for her.

Sylvie lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, lost in thought.

"Of course—his first love is back. Why does he care about me now?"

The next day, Sylvie deliberately slept until noon, hoping to avoid Alaric.

But when she opened her door, she was surprised to find him still at home.

Alaric sat on the couch, gold-rimmed glasses perched on his sharp nose, flipping through a finance magazine.

"You're up?" he asked without looking up.

"Aren't you going to the office?"

"It's Saturday."

"Oh," Sylvie muttered, grabbing a few pastries from the fridge and heading back toward her room.

But Alaric spoke up suddenly, "Get changed. You're coming to a party with me."

Sylvie wanted to refuse but then thought better of it. Better to get out than be stuck alone with him.

So she changed and went with him.

It wasn't until they arrived that Sylvie realized—it was Clarisse's welcome-home party.

She immediately turned to leave, but Clarisse caught her arm with a bright, eager smile. "Sylvie, I'm so glad you came! Please don't fight with Devin anymore. Ever since you left, he's been so worried he hasn't eaten all day."

Sylvie gave a cold laugh. "So you do know he's just your stepfather? Whether I run away or fight with him—what does that have to do with you? What, you think you're the family police?"

She shook off Clarisse's hand and strode into the private room, catching a glimpse of Clarisse's eyes welling with tears as she looked plaintively at Alaric.

Alaric shot Sylvie a dark, warning look.

Then he gently ruffled Clarisse's hair, murmuring something that made her smile through her tears.

Sylvie's heart twisted painfully. She dropped her gaze and tossed back a glass of champagne.

The private room buzzed with laughter and clinking glasses, the air thick with noise and celebration.

Sylvie sat in the far corner, watching as Alaric stood at the center of it all, surrounded by friends and admirers, yet his focus never strayed far from Clarisse.

He was always one step ahead of her, twisting the cap off her drink before she could reach for it, handing her a handkerchief the instant a drop of wine stained her dress, quietly raising the thermostat when she coughed, as if he could sense her discomfort before she even spoke.

All these gentle gestures—Sylvie had never known any of them.

She tipped back another drink, her heart aching as if it were being sliced apart, slowly and cruelly, by a dull blade.

For the past year, her relationship with Alaric had been nothing but nights tangled in sheets—never once, not even at the most fevered heights, had she seen him lose control, not even for a second.

"Looks like the bottle's landed on Mr. Savrelle!" someone suddenly called out, laughter erupting around the table. "Time for your penalty!"

A tablet was passed down to Alaric amid the cheers. "They say Mr. Savrelle is the most disciplined bachelor in the city—we'll go easy on you. Just a quick game—pick the person who moves your heart the most, as fast as you can."

The first pair of photos flashed up—one of a famous actress, the other of Clarisse.

Alaric glanced at the screen, answering without hesitation, "Clarisse."

The room exploded with whistles and teasing. Clarisse blushed, ducking her head, but a smile still crept across her lips.

Sylvie dug her nails into her palm, biting back the pain.

Photo after photo flickered by, and each time, Alaric picked Clarisse without a pause.

Sylvie couldn't take it anymore. She got up and headed for the restroom.

She'd barely taken two steps when the room erupted again, even louder. She turned back and saw the screen now displayed her own photo side by side with Clarisse's.

"Whoa!" someone hollered, excitement rippling through the crowd. "Now this is interesting! Ms. Ainsley is the most beautiful woman in our circle—even the celebrities can't compare! If Mr. Savrelle still picks Ms. Pritchard, well, that says it all..."

Every eye in the room turned to Alaric.

For once, he hesitated.

Sylvie froze, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might leap from her chest.

Three seconds passed before she heard Alaric's low voice, "Clarisse."

In that instant, Sylvie's world shattered.

The room erupted in wild cheers, but Sylvie stumbled to the bathroom, twisting the faucet on full blast, letting icy water splash over her face. It did nothing to quell the fire burning in her chest.

After what felt like forever, Sylvie finally looked up at her reflection. The girl staring back at her was breathtakingly beautiful—and utterly defeated.

When she stepped out, the hallway was dimly lit, shadows pooling along the edges.

She'd barely turned the corner when three or four drunken men blocked her path.

"Hey gorgeous, give us your number, huh?" The one in front reeked of booze, reaching for her face.

"Back off!" Sylvie snapped, stumbling back until her shoulders hit the cold wall.

"Don't play innocent," another slurred, grabbing her wrist. "You dress like that, you're just asking for it."

As she struggled, Sylvie's gaze darted through the crowd and locked with Alaric's at the doorway.

She saw his brow furrow, and he started toward her—but then Clarisse's pained cry rang out behind him. "Ah!"

"What's wrong?" Alaric turned immediately.

"My ankle—I think I twisted it..." Clarisse's eyes shimmered with tears. "I'm okay. You should help Sylvie first."

Alaric crouched to check her ankle. "She can handle herself."

Those words stabbed through Sylvie like a blade.

One of the men's hands slid around her waist, his breath hot and foul on her face. "Come have some fun with us..."

Sylvie snatched a wine bottle from the hallway table and smashed it against the wall with a loud crack.

"Touch me again and you'll regret it!"

Blood trickled down her hand from the broken glass, but she didn't care. As the men stared, stunned, she slipped away.

When the party broke up, Sylvie refused to get in Alaric's car. She stood alone on the curb, waiting for a cab.

Clarisse came over, umbrella in hand, her heels splashing through a puddle. "Sylvie, don't you have a car? I can give you a ride."

Sylvie glanced at the brand-new sports car key dangling from Clarisse's fingers and couldn't help but laugh.

"Devin sure is generous, buying such a nice car for a stepdaughter," she thought.

"No, thanks." Sylvie's lips curled into a bright, mocking smile. "I'd rather walk than ride in the mistress's daughter's car."

Clarisse's face darkened, her mask slipping as she grabbed Sylvie's wrist. "Sylvie! Say that again?"

"Say it again? Will that change the fact that you're still the mistress's daughter? Let go of me."

As they argued, a blinding pair of headlights swept over them.

Sylvie turned just in time to see a car careening toward them, out of control.

In a split second, she saw Alaric racing over, pulling Clarisse into his arms.

And then, with a sickening thud, Sylvie was thrown to the ground.

Sylvie lay in a pool of blood, her vision fading in and out.

Through the haze, she saw Alaric shielding Clarisse in his arms, and a lifetime of memories flashed before her eyes.

The first time they met, his gaze behind those gold-rimmed glasses had been cold as ice.

When they clashed, she'd once poured salt into his coffee, but he drank it down without so much as a flinch.

The first time he pinned her against his office desk, she bit his shoulder so hard it broke the skin.

As time went on, she fell for him—so deeply that she decorated an entire villa for his birthday, only to be greeted with rumors of him and Clarisse...

And then there was the night she walked five kilometers alone to the cemetery to visit Paige, her heels rubbing blisters raw on her feet.

Alaric had found her, quietly slipped off her ruined shoes, carried them in one hand, and given her a piggyback ride all the way home.

She'd cried into his neck, thinking, "If I could walk through life like this, maybe that wouldn't be so bad."

After Paige passed, someone finally brought her home again.

But in the end, every memory dissolved into that single image—Alaric holding Clarisse, protecting her.

***

Beep, beep, beep!

The sound of medical equipment pulled Sylvie back to the present.

She opened her eyes slowly, just in time to hear Clarisse's tearful voice drifting from the next room.

"It's all my fault. I shouldn't have argued with Sylvie in the street... I just wanted to give her a ride home... Alaric, why did you save me first? Sylvie will be so angry when she finds out..."

Alaric gently wiped away her tears. "It wasn't your fault," he said softly—the kind of tenderness Sylvie had never heard from him.

"If I had to do it all over again, I'd still save you first," he murmured. "Your health is fragile. I couldn't let you get hurt."

He paused, then added, "Besides, she has no reason to be angry."

Sylvie's chest tightened, as if an invisible hand was wringing her heart.

"Of course. Who am I to Alaric, anyway? What right do I have to be angry? Whom he saves, whom he doesn't—that is his choice alone."

"Stop crying. Go home and get some rest," Alaric soothed her.

He kept comforting her in that gentle tone until Clarisse finally left.

Once the door closed, Alaric turned back—only to realize Sylvie was already awake, watching him quietly.

He showed no guilt, his expression calm as ever. "It's just a flesh wound. But I know you're vain and afraid of pain, so I called in the best medical team. There won't be any scars."

In the past, Sylvie would have cried and thrown a fit, demanding to know why he saved Clarisse first.

But now, she just replied calmly, "I understand. Thank you. I'll pay you back for the medical bills in two weeks."

Alaric's brow furrowed slightly, surprised by her gratitude.

And why did she keep mentioning "two weeks"?

He didn't ask, chalking it up to her usual spoiled attitude and sarcastic streak.

***

For the next few days, Alaric—uncharacteristically—put all his work on hold to stay at the hospital and care for her.

Strangely, Sylvie no longer clung to him or made a scene.

She quietly accepted her treatments, quietly ate, and slept—so quiet it unsettled him.

"Still mad at me?" Alaric finally asked while sitting with her during an IV drip.

"Mad about what?"

"Mad that I didn't save you that day." He hesitated. "It made sense for me to save Clarisse first. She and I..."

Before Alaric could finish, a commotion erupted in the hallway.

"What's going on?" a nurse rushed by.

"I heard the Ainsley Group CEO's stepdaughter fell down the stairs," another whispered. "Just brought her into the ER. Mr. Ainsley looked terrified—he carried her in himself. Honestly, a man who treats his stepdaughter so well is rare..."

Sylvie glanced at Alaric, catching the subtle shift in his expression.

"I have something to do," he said, standing up, more hurried than usual. "I'll check on you later."

Sylvie watched him rush away, knowing exactly where he was headed.

She closed her eyes, exhaustion washing over her, her heart feeling utterly hollow.

When Sylvie woke again, it was to the urgent voice of a nurse.

"How come no one's watching you? The IV backflowed! This could've been really serious!" the nurse scolded.

Sylvie lifted her hand, only to notice the back of it was badly swollen. She picked up her phone and realized seven hours had passed.

Alaric still hadn't come back.

"Miss, where's that handsome boyfriend of yours?" the nurse asked as she changed the dressing. "You can't be left alone with an IV like this. That was dangerous."

Sylvie forced a smile. "He's not my boyfriend."

She made her way down the hall alone, steadying herself against the wall, but the voices drifting through the corridor pierced her like needles.

"That Ms. Pritchard is so lucky. Her stepdad treats her like a princess, and her boyfriend is drop-dead gorgeous!"

"I heard her boyfriend not only booked out the whole VIP floor but even brought in specialists from abroad. He hasn't left her side all day. With a stepdad and a boyfriend like that, Ms. Pritchard must've saved the world in a past life..."

Almost without realizing it, Sylvie found herself standing outside that hospital room.

Through the half-open door, she saw Alaric bent over, carefully adjusting Clarisse's IV drip, his long fingers turning the dial with delicate precision.

Devin sat by the bed, peeling an apple into one long, curling strip, feeding the slices to Clarisse piece by piece.

Suddenly, Sylvie couldn't breathe.

Hot tears spilled down her cheeks before she could stop them, scalding her skin.

She wiped them away, hard.

"Sylvie," she whispered into the empty hallway, "who are you crying for? There's no one left who cares. Don't you dare cry."

When she turned, her back was ramrod straight, her steps brisk and steady.

Only her tightly clenched palm betrayed her, blood seeping from where her nails dug in deep.

Alaric didn't show up once in the days that followed.

Not until the day she was discharged did Sylvie spot that familiar black Maybach at the hospital entrance.

The window slid down, revealing Alaric's sharply defined profile.

"Get in," he said, his voice as cold as ever.

Sylvie turned to walk away.

"You want me to take you right here, in front of all these people?"

She froze, stunned he'd say something like that. He used to threaten her this way, back when it was just a twisted kind of affection. But now that his first love was back, what right did he have?

Jaw clenched, Sylvie got in the car.

Alaric handed her an auction catalog. "You've seemed down lately. Didn't you always love shopping? I'm taking you to an auction today."

Sylvie was about to refuse, but as she flipped through the pages, her eyes went wide.

It was Paige's pearl necklace.

Ever since Thalia moved in, she'd claimed nightmares as an excuse to have Devin clear out every last one of Paige's belongings.

Sylvie had begged, but all she got was Devin's cold reply, "She's dead. Keeping her things around is just bad luck."

She never expected to see Paige's favorite necklace here.

Sylvie clutched the catalog so tightly that the paper crumpled in her palm.

Hands trembling, she pulled out her phone and quickly messaged her private attorney, "Sell everything I have in my safety deposit box. Immediately!"

For that necklace, she'd endure any humiliation—even if marrying into that family meant being the butt of every joke.

The auction hall glittered with gold and crystal.

Following Alaric into the VIP section, Sylvie immediately spotted Clarisse in the reserved seats.

Clarisse wore a white dress and flashed her a sweet, dazzling smile.

"Sylvie!" Clarisse looped her arm through hers with practiced affection. "I told Alaric I wanted to apologize to you at the auction—I can't believe he really brought you! You two must be so close."

Sylvie went rigid.

Slowly, she turned to look at Alaric.

He was scanning the auction list, his sculpted profile cold in the lights, not sparing her a single glance.

So that was it.

He hadn't brought her because he noticed her sadness or wanted to cheer her up.

He'd only brought her along because Clarisse wanted to "apologize"—and she was just a convenient prop.

But strangely, the pain she expected never came.

Sylvie only felt an empty ache in her chest, as if a piece had been carved out long ago, and there was simply nothing left to bleed.

Sylvie sat down with a stony expression, her back ramrod straight, eyes fixed on the auction stage ahead.

The auction reached its midpoint, but Sylvie remained utterly disinterested—until the auctioneer pulled away the red silk from a velvet tray, revealing the pearl necklace, shimmering with a gentle luster under the spotlight.

Sylvie's pupils contracted sharply.

She remembered how, as a child, Paige always wore that necklace to galas—the pearls resting against her slender neck, swaying softly with every graceful step, like moonlight made tangible.

"Do you want it that badly?" Alaric's deep voice murmured in her ear.

Sylvie didn't answer. She simply raised her paddle. "Eight million."

"Nine million."

A sweet voice chimed in from beside her. Clarisse offered her a faint smile. "I really love this necklace too, Sylvie. May the highest bidder win—hope you don't mind?"

Sylvie's nails dug into her palm. "Thirteen million."

"Sixteen million."

"Thirty million."

"Forty-five million."

***

The price soared to 160 million.

Sylvie's funds from selling off her own wedding gifts were nearly gone, but Clarisse kept bidding, calm and poised, her smile betraying utter confidence.

"One hundred sixty million, going once." The auctioneer looked to Sylvie. "Ms. Ainsley, would you like to bid again?"

Sylvie's throat tightened.

She never imagined she'd one day have to beg for a necklace.

"Yes," she forced out, her voice hoarse. She turned and grabbed Alaric's sleeve. "Alaric, lend me the money..."

Her voice trembled. "It was my mom's. I have to have it."

Alaric was visibly stunned.

He'd never seen Sylvie—so proud, so radiant—reduced to pleading.

"I'm begging you." Sylvie's eyes were rimmed red, her voice barely a whisper.

Alaric reached into his suit for his black card, just about to hand it over—

"Alaric." Clarisse suddenly clutched his arm, eyes glistening with tears. "I really, really love this necklace..."

She bit her lip. "This is the first time I've ever wanted something so much. Please, don't help Sylvie—okay?"

The air seemed to freeze.

Sylvie looked at Alaric—the man who once shielded her from every storm.

He hesitated, his gaze flickering between her and Clarisse.

After a long, heavy silence, Alaric finally looked at Sylvie and spoke, his words slow and deliberate, "Let her have it."

Four words—soft as a feather—but they cut through Sylvie like a knife.

The gavel fell. "Sold! Congratulations, Ms. Pritchard!"

Sylvie stood frozen, ice-cold all over.

She watched Clarisse accept the pearl necklace and watched her gloat with a triumphant smile. Sylvie's fingernails bit deep into her palm, blood seeping between her fingers onto the carpet—yet she felt nothing.

It was the first time Alaric had ever seen Sylvie like this.

Her eyes were bloodshot, but she stubbornly refused to cry; her lips were white from being bitten, but she kept her back straight, refusing to break.

For some reason, a strange ache twisted in Alaric's chest.

"Alaric..." Clarisse leaned against him, feigning frailty. "I'm not feeling well—it's that time of the month. Could you get me a blanket?"

Alaric hesitated but finally stood and left.

Sylvie lost all interest in the auction.

She sat, ears ringing, Paige's smiling face flashing before her eyes, always with that necklace at her throat.

As soon as the auction ended, Sylvie stopped Clarisse in the corridor.

"Sell me the necklace," Sylvie rasped. "Name your price—anything."

Clarisse laughed lightly. "Anything at all? What if I told you to get on your knees?"

Sylvie trembled.

She remembered Paige's dying words, her hand gripping Sylvie's. "Syl, no matter what happens, you must live with dignity."

But now, for the sake of a necklace, she was ready to give up her last shred of pride.

"Fine."

The word was dragged from her, barely audible.

Her eyes were red as she slowly bent her knees.

"Don't bother." Clarisse suddenly laughed, cutting her off. "Even if you get on your knees, it's useless.

"I already had that worthless necklace tossed out to a stray dog."

She whipped out her phone and swiped to a photo—a filthy stray mutt, muddy pearls dangling from its neck.

"Your mother's keepsake belongs on a dog—" Clarisse leaned in, enunciating every word with a venomous whisper, "After all, trash deserves trash. Forever and ever."

Sylvie's pupils constricted.

She shook all over, a deafening roar filling her ears, as if someone was pounding a hammer against her skull.

Paige's pale, dying face flashed before her eyes, that once elegant necklace now...

"Say that again." Sylvie's voice was chillingly soft.

Clarisse smiled smugly. "Trash deserves trash. Forever and ever. What, didn't you hear me?"

Sylvie slowly lifted her head, her eyes blazing red. "Which hand did you use to put it on?"

"This one." Clarisse flaunted her right hand. "Why, are you—"

Before she could finish, Sylvie snatched up the fruit knife from the table and drove it straight into Clarisse's palm.

"Aaaah—!!"