Chapter 7

Under the glass dome of the Museum of Modern Art in New York, lights blazed. The air mixed perfume, cigars, and hypocritical laughter. Everyone wore their most expensive clothes, speaking the prettiest garbage.

I stood in the shadow near the giant sculpture, wearing a simple black gown. My task was to "ensure on-site security"—a laughable title. My real position was background scenery Ricardo needed to display for everyone.

When Sofia appeared, the entire venue quieted for a moment. She wore an ivory-white custom gown, the skirt studded with crystals.

She held Ricardo's arm, her face wearing that impeccable sweet smile. The blue diamond ring on her finger hurt to look at under the lights.

She walked straight toward me.

"Miss Ella," she stopped before me, her voice light and sweet, ensuring several people nearby could hear. "It's so good you could come. I was worried you weren't feeling well and couldn't make it."

"Congratulations," I said.

Her gaze slid over my chest. I was wearing that iris brooch. This was my first completed design. Many years ago, Ricardo and I had brought it to reality together.

"That brooch is really unique," Sofia extended her finger as if to touch it, then drew back, covering her mouth with a light laugh. "Though, it's a bit old, isn't it?"

She tilted her head, blinking. "I don't mean anything by it. Just feel that someone as capable as you should wear something more befitting your current 'position.'" She bit the word "position" with subtle emphasis.

I said nothing.

She picked up a glass of champagne from a passing waiter's tray, elegantly taking a sip. Then her hand "accidentally" slipped.

The golden liquid spilled out, all over the scarf I wore as decoration. That was my mother's keepsake—I almost never took it off.

"Oh my!" Sofia gasped lightly, her expression utterly innocent. "I'm so sorry, Miss Ella. I'm so clumsy. This scarf... looks very special. Is it alright?"

The wine stain quickly spread, soiling a large area. The cold liquid seeped through the fabric, sticking to my skin.

Sofia immediately leaned in. I didn't even have time to dodge before she pulled out a tissue, pretending innocent "concern" for the scarf.

But the next second, the sound of fabric tearing came—

I saw a gleam of coldness flash through the middle of the tissue. She did it on purpose.

My breathing nearly stopped.

"What happened?" Ricardo's voice cut in. He walked to Sofia's side, his hand naturally resting on her waist, his gaze sweeping over the fabric strip in my hand, then returning to my face.

"I accidentally spilled wine on Miss Ella's scarf. I wanted to help her wipe it clean, but the scarf seemed too old—I accidentally tore it." Sofia leaned into him, her tone aggrieved. "I'm so sorry, darling."

Ricardo glanced at me. Just one glance, very brief, without any emotion.

"It's just a scarf," he said to Sofia, then turned to me, his voice businesslike. "Ella, don't stand here. Go check the monitoring lines at the east exit. Guard your post."

"Yes." I don't know how I managed to say this.

He turned with Sofia, going to receive the next wave of congratulations. Sofia looked back, giving me a fleeting victorious smile.

I held the broken, wet scarf, standing there. A few meters away, they were surrounded by crowds, radiant. I stood in shadow, holding the keepsake my mother had left me that had just been deliberately destroyed, wearing that ridiculous, outdated brooch on my chest.

Just then, all the lights, without warning, went completely out.

The huge exhibition hall instantly plunged into absolute darkness. The crowd quieted for a second, then burst into screams.

"What's happening?" "What about backup power?!" "Security! Where's security?!"

My body had already reacted automatically, crouching and dodging toward a nearby sculpture pedestal, my hand reaching for the outer side of my thigh. Almost simultaneously, gunfire tore through the air.

Short bursts and continuous shooting erupted from different directions. Automatic weapons' muzzle flashes flashed madly in the darkness, illuminating shattered glass and falling figures. Screams, collision sounds, glass breaking sounds merged into chaos.

"Protect the boss!" Marco's roar came from some direction.

More gunfire came from the museum's second-floor gallery. Crossfire. This was an ambush.

In the brief light of muzzle flashes, I saw Ricardo pulling Sofia toward a massive stone pillar. They weren't far from me, with overturned tables and several motionless bodies between us.

Just then, I saw a dark object fall from the second-floor edge. It hit the second-floor railing with a dull sound, changed direction, flew down at an angle, smashed onto the marble floor, bounced once, then rolled rapidly across the smooth surface.

It rolled in the direction of where the three of us were located.

Grenade.

Time seemed to stretch. I could clearly see its matte metal shell rotating as it approached in the dim light.

Ricardo saw it too.

His reaction was terrifyingly fast. When the grenade rolled to within a few steps of us—before it had completely stopped—he moved.

He didn't look at me. Not once.

His entire body lunged toward Sofia, violently knocking her behind the nearest thick stone pillar. He used his entire back facing the explosion direction, completely covering her beneath him.

And while lunging out, his right arm swung backward, not toward me, but heavily striking the pedestal of the sculpture I was hiding behind.

The sculpture's pedestal, struck by his full-force blow, immediately lost balance and toppled toward me.

I instinctively retreated sharply to dodge, but my foot caught on an overturned chair leg, my entire body losing balance and falling backward.

Less than a meter behind me was that grand piano.

I fell heavily beside the piano. Before I could get up, that toppling granite sculpture had already crashed down on one side of the piano.

Just then, the explosion occurred.

The explosion's flames and shockwave engulfed everything around the grenade. The scorching shockwave came like a giant hand. That heavy grand piano was completely overturned, pressing down on me.

I had no time to dodge.

The piano's massive weight crushed my left leg. Intense pain shot through my entire body like lightning. I heard my bones make a clear, teeth-aching crack. Immediately after, the explosion's shockwave mixed with debris slammed hard into me, pushing me along with the piano crushing my leg backward against the wall.

The world spun, ears ringing shrilly. The heat wave scorched my skin and hair. Thick smoke and the smell of blood choked into my throat.

I coughed up blood, my vision blurring. Through the drifting smoke and dust, I saw Ricardo holding Sofia, standing up from behind the pillar. The back of his suit was torn with several cuts, some dust, but he stood steady. Sofia trembled in his arms but appeared unharmed.

He quickly surveyed the chaotic battlefield, gave Marco a few brief orders. Then, half-embracing, half-carrying Sofia, he turned and ran without hesitation toward the safe passage opposite the main exit.

He didn't look in my direction. Not once. Didn't confirm whether I was dead or alive, didn't even glance at the piano crushing me.

His entire attention was on the woman in his arms.

They disappeared into the passage's darkness.

I lay at the corner between the piano and wall, my left leg firmly pinned by the piano, unable to move. Waves of intense pain attacked. Warm blood soaked through my skirt fabric. I had difficulty breathing—every inhale brought sharp pain between my ribs.

I tremblingly raised my still-movable right hand, reaching toward my chest.

That iris brooch was gone. Only a small hole remained where the broken pin had torn through my clothes.

My fingers groped across the cold, filthy floor, touching several hard, angular pieces. I grabbed them, holding them before my eyes.

Fragments of the brooch. The sapphire had shattered, scattered among the wreckage of the metal iris petals, having lost all luster. The petals were twisted and deformed, stained with someone's blood mixed with blood from my hand.

My mother's scarf had been thrown outside, burning in the explosion's flames.

Ricardo's first gift, my first design—shattered.

My leg was probably broken too.

And he, holding his new bride, walked away without looking back.

Again.