Chapter 2

By the time I rushed to the hospital, my daughter had already been admitted to the intensive care unit.

Through the glass doors, I saw her lying there, hooked up to all sorts of tubes.

I frantically dialed Charles Whitmore's number, but all I got was that cold, mechanical voicemail.

I had no choice but to start begging my old friends for money.

But it felt like I hadn't had anyone to rely on for a long time.

Ever since Charles left the Whitmore family, he'd been living frugally, counting every penny.

Because I was broke, I stopped joining any of the get-togethers my friends invited me to.

Slowly, they stopped contacting me altogether. Naturally, there was no way they'd help me out financially.

I thought about asking the owner at the express station, but he shut me down right away.

Since he knew all about my family's situation, he was sure I'd never be able to pay him back.

I used to be a senior lawyer at a law firm.

But after I got married, life became all about getting through the daily grind and taking care of my daughter. In the end, I had to work the night shift sorting parcels just to keep us afloat.

My parents always favored my younger brother, and the second I refused to marry the owner of a meat shop they'd picked out for me, they cut me off completely.

Despair wrapped around me, suffocating my spirit. I bit down hard on my lip, just trying to hold on to a shred of clarity.

Staring at the loan texts piling up on my phone, I finally tapped one of the links for the first time.

I maxed out every legit online loan I could find, barely scraping together enough to cover the first round of treatment.

Slumped against the corridor wall, my hands were sweating so much that I nearly dropped my phone.

The critical condition alert light flashed red, stinging my eyes every time it blinked.

The doctor burst through the doors, worry written all over his face.

"She needs another round of dialysis. We can go ahead with it for now, but you need to get the funds together. Honestly, it looks like she might need a third one..."

I nodded, grateful beyond words.

"Thank you, doctor. Please, you have to save my daughter. I'll figure something out right now," I said, my voice trembling.

But how? Who was I supposed to turn to now?

It wasn't even late yet, the sun was still shining bright, but all I could feel was a bone-deep chill.

Out of options, I called the company Charles had told me he worked for.

"Is Charles Whitmore there? I really need to talk to him. It's urgent," I said.

The receptionist's confused voice shattered whatever hope I had left.

"He's just a figurehead here. He hasn't set foot in the office in seven years," she said.

My phone hit the ground with a sharp crack, the shattered screen throwing back the ghostly pallor of my face.

Unexpectedly, Charles' name flashed across the display.

I scrambled to grab it, only to hear a playful, teasing woman on the other end.

"What do you want with Charlie? He only saved your name as Miranda, so I can't tell what you are to him."

"If it's nothing urgent, stop calling and bothering us."

My heart ached, my words caught in my throat like I was choking on stones.

"I'm his wife. Our daughter is really sick. I desperately need to talk to him," I replied.

When she heard who I was, I could almost hear her disdainful snort.

"So what if you're his wife? Seriously, that's just gross and dumb. You want cash, right? How trashy," she snapped.

The line went dead, and a crushing despair suffocated me.

Just when I thought I couldn't breathe anymore, my phone buzzed with another message.

[Get your money here. Miss it, and you're out of luck.]

It was an art exhibition.

I hailed a cab and rushed over.

The moment I stepped inside, I froze, rooted to the spot in shock.

All the paintings in the gallery featured just one woman.

And now, that same woman was standing right in front of me, smiling as if she'd been expecting me.

As soon as she saw me standing at the entrance, she shot me a smug smirk.

"You actually showed up? How obedient—just like a dog begging for scraps," she taunted.

I knew exactly who she was.

Olivia Reynolds, Charles' childhood sweetheart.

"You see all these paintings? I was abroad for seven years, and he spent every one of those years painting me," Olivia said.

"The month after his uncle threw him out, they found out his uncle couldn't have kids. So in the end, the family was always going to end up in Charles' hands."

"If I hadn't been gone, he never would've wasted his time with that whole act of playing poor and marrying you. He only did it because he was bored without me around," she sneered.

Standing here, looking at these paintings, I could see that every single brushstroke was practically saturated with love.

Anyone could sense just how much of the artist's heart went into them.

The love was so intense that it felt like it might just overflow straight out of the canvas.

I didn't feel sad or hurt anymore. Saving my daughter was the only thing that mattered.

"I'm here. So, where's the cash? Give it to me, and I'll divorce Charles," I said flatly.