Chapter 1

New York high society knew one thing for certain: Vincent Rossi—the man destined to rule the entire East Coast underworld—had only lost his composure once, and that was at our wedding.

When he picked up the emerald ring symbolizing the matriarch's position in the Rossi family and slipped it onto my finger, those hands that could lock onto a target from a thousand meters away trembled like a helpless child's.

Ten years. He'd taken me, an orphaned Hawthorne girl, and spoiled me into Manhattan's most pampered—and most envied—rose.

No one knew that this man who swore he loved me to his bones would push me off a cliff with his own hands. Three times.

...

The first betrayal happened on a night when rain hammered down like bullets.

He claimed he had "family business" to handle, but fell victim to a setup—drugged by rivals, he spent the entire night entangled with a woman named Grace.

I clutched the signed divorce papers, hadn't even reached the family's legal counsel yet, when he intercepted me on the stairs.

He pulled out his custom Colt Python, eyes burning crimson with madness, pressing the barrel hard under his own jaw. "Evelyn, without you, living is just a slow execution. You sign those papers, I pull the trigger right now."

I watched his finger on the trigger, my heart contracting into a tight knot.

In the end, I couldn't watch him die in front of me.

Those papers, crumpled in my fist, ended up as a paper ball in the fireplace.

The second time, I saw him at a baby boutique on Fifth Avenue, accompanying Grace—that woman who clung to him like a parasitic vine—as they picked out formula.

Under the warm lights, the line of his profile looked almost tender.

That night, he knelt on the cold marble floor of the manor's entrance hall, wretched and pitiful.

"Grace's father, 'The Butcher' Victor, is the one who killed your father." His eyes were bloodshot, voice hoarse. "Right now, she's the only one who can draw him out. This is the only chance to avenge your father."

"I swear, when this is over, I'll send her away myself. Somewhere she can never bother us again." He grabbed my hand, his palm burning hot.

I believed him.

The third time, with one phone call to the family-controlled private hospital, he used his privilege to intercept the heart transplant my mother had waited six months for—the only match.

I burst into the oak-paneled conference room at family headquarters and, in front of all the elders and bodyguards, slapped him across the face. The crack echoed, making my eardrums ring.

He didn't dodge. Just looked at me with eyes mixing exhaustion and stubbornness.

"Grace took a bullet for me. She needs a heart. She's done right by me, by the family, Evelyn! She's innocent. I can't abandon her!"

"Just give me a little more time." He tried to move closer, but my icy stare pinned him in place. "Once she has the baby, everything will go back to normal. I promise."

Back to normal? Looking at him, I could only find it absurd.

"Vincent," my voice shook, "when 'The Butcher' Victor carved out my father's heart and lungs, I was hiding in that closet. I watched it all happen. Vincent, am I not innocent?"

How could we go back? Back to before the blood, before the betrayal, before Grace?

Several family uncles who'd watched us grow up stepped forward to restrain me, murmuring, "Evelyn, calm down. We know you've been wronged, but Vincent, he's got it hard too..."

Vincent's Adam's apple bobbed. He was about to speak when his private cell rang.

He answered, his face changing instantly. "What? Grace is in premature labor? Umbilical cord prolapse? RH-negative blood... I understand! I'll be right there! Save her at any cost!"

He shoved past everyone around him and charged toward the door. The force knocked me off balance, my temple striking the hardwood wall where the family crest hung. My vision went black.

On the edge of consciousness, I heard his footsteps disappear down the corridor: "Get the blood ready! I'm on my way!"

Someone steadied me, handed me a handkerchief. I took it silently, pressed it to my temple. The voices around me blurred: "Evelyn, Miss Grace did save Master Vincent's life... please understand..."

Understand?

A life debt, plus that baby about to be born...

Vincent, what you owe her, you'll never repay in this lifetime. And between us? We've been shattered beyond repair for a long time.

I walked out of the building alone. Snowflakes landed on my lashes, ice cold.

A black Rolls-Royce stopped in front of me. The window lowered, revealing Mr. Carlton—a family elder, and the only one who still truly cared about me.

His bodyguard handed me two files.

"Child," Mr. Carlton sighed, "I know what happened. Your mother's situation—I'll arrange it. Send her to the best hospital in Switzerland. As for this one," he gestured to the other file, "it's a European venture. Take it if you want, or go rest with her in Switzerland if you don't."

I took the file, my fingertips ice cold. Looking up at New York's gray sky, snowflakes fell on my face, melting quickly like tears, but I knew—I was beyond tears now.

The snow kept falling, but Vincent and I had long since walked different paths.

Three days later, I arrived at the hospital with freshly drafted divorce papers. Grace occupied the most luxurious VIP suite. The bodyguard at the door lowered his head when he saw me.

The door was ajar. I didn't enter immediately, but peered through the gap.

Vincent sat by the bed, carefully spooning up soup, blowing on it to cool it, then bringing it to Grace's lips. The setting sun fell on him, gentle to the point of blinding.

"The doctor says you can only have liquids right now." His voice was low, patient in a way that made my chest ache.

Only after she'd swallowed did he put away the bowl and spoon and stand to leave.

I stepped back several paces, ducking into the corridor corner, back against the cold wall, my heart clenched tight.

Once he disappeared into the elevator, I walked toward the suite, but the bodyguard raised his hand to stop me.

"Miss Hawthorne, please wait here."

I pulled out my phone directly and called Mr. Carlton.

"Let me in." My voice was cold as ice. "If Vincent Rossi has a problem with it, tell him to come talk to me himself."

I hung up. The bodyguard silently stepped aside.

I entered the room—disinfectant mixed with perfume. Grace was propped up in bed, and when she saw me, her eyes immediately reddened.

"Miss Evelyn... about the heart, I'm truly sorry... I didn't know it was urgently needed for your mother..." Her tears began to fall. "Mr. Vincent was just afraid something would happen to me and he couldn't explain it to the council of elders, so he had no choice but to use that heart first... He explained to me that I'm just someone who helped him once, and you're the only one he truly loves..."

"I won't, and I wouldn't dare, compete with you..." She wept, shoulders trembling.

Even the bodyguard at the door murmured, "Miss Hawthorne, Miss Grace... she's innocent too."

I cut him off coldly. "Would you mind stepping outside? I have a few words I'd like to say to her alone."

The bodyguard hesitated, then retreated, but left the door open.

How ironic. My father gave his life for the Rossi family. I married the heir to this family. Yet now, I was treated like an outsider.

"Enough, Grace." I walked to the bedside, looking down at her. "There's no audience here. I know exactly what you want."

Grace lifted her head timidly. "I... I don't understand..."

"Don't understand?" I leaned in, lowering my voice. "That night during the shootout, why wasn't Vincent wearing his bulletproof vest? Why was it on you? Don't tell me you didn't know."

Her pupils contracted, her fingers gripping the sheets turned white.

"Do something for me." I placed the divorce papers on the bedside table. "Vincent won't agree to sign. Find a way to make him sign this document 'accidentally.'"

"No..." She shook her head in terror. "If Vincent finds out... I'm finished..."

"Finished?" I smiled slightly, but my eyes remained cold. "Would you rather be permanently separated from your child later? Grace, you're a smart woman. This is your best opportunity."

She stared at the document, lips trembling, finally reaching out to grab it and stuff it under her pillow. Her voice was barely audible: "...Thank you... for your generosity."

Generosity?

Besides being generous, what else could I do? Should I tear into her like some shrew and turn the entire Rossi family into a laughingstock?

I couldn't bring myself to be that ugly. And I could never forgive.

Right now, all I could do was surgically remove Vincent Rossi from my heart. Even if it hurt. Even if it bled.

Grace's brow furrowed slightly, her face showing a trace of—was that pity?

I looked away, lifted my chin, my tone laced with contempt. "No need to thank me. From now on, you and I are strangers. We need never meet again."

My father, until his death, kept his principles.

And I, Evelyn Hawthorne, even if I lost everything, wouldn't give her the satisfaction of seeing me broken.

Back in the empty master bedroom of the manor, I began packing. Removing Vincent's gifts, one by one, from my life.

When I was eight, he climbed into my family's garden and shoved a silver tin full of caramel into my arms. "Here, caramel I made myself. Sweeter than anything you can buy."

On my eighteenth birthday, he pulled me close on a private beach and placed a bullet engraved with "V.R." in my palm. "My life is yours. You can't shake me off."

At twenty-two, he knelt on one knee in the family chapel. Those hands that held sniper rifles steady took several minutes to successfully slide the ring onto my finger. He smiled triumphantly. "You're my wife forever. Without my permission, you can't escape."

Finally... I dug out a napkin from the very bottom of my jewelry box. On it, his bold handwriting:

"Once I deal with those old bastards and take full control of the family, I'll take you out to sea to see the whales. — V.R."

I jerked my head back, staring at the chandelier, forcing the moisture in my eyes back down.

If there had been no Grace, if there had been no lies, maybe I really could have waited for that day—standing on a boat with him, watching whales leap from the waves.

But the most useless word in the world is "if."

I found a cardboard box and packed these old things one by one, scheduling the fastest delivery service.

"Just this box." I told the customer service rep on the phone, my voice calm. "Please ensure it arrives on the recipient's birthday exactly."

"A note?" I paused, the corner of my mouth lifting slightly. "Write: Birthday gift. Wishing him—all his dreams come true."