Chapter 2

Before I could finish picking up all the cash on the ground, two men yanked me up off the snow.

They were in black suits, their grip so tight it felt like their fingers were digging into my flesh, making my bones creak with pain.

I shouted, struggling with all my strength, "Let go... let me go! My money..."

"Cut it out! Mr. Grant wants to see you," one of them barked at me, his voice sharp and mean.

Who was that "Mr. Grant"? I didn't know him.

They shoved me into a car, and it was so warm inside.

My eyelids kept drooping—I was so comfortable, I just wanted to pass out right there.

But I forced myself to stay awake. If I fell asleep, they'd kick me right out.

The car drove for ages before finally pulling up in front of a huge mansion.

The place was lit up like a palace, all golden and dazzling.

They shoved me inside.

The handsome guy who'd tossed money at me out in the snow was lounging on the couch, a glass of red liquid in his hand. He shot me a look, and his brows scrunched up into a deep scowl.

"You reek. Emily, did you show up smelling like this just to make me sick?" he said, pinching his nose in disgust.

I shrank back, scared. "I-I don't smell... I... I washed up in the snow yesterday..." I whispered, trying to explain.

"Shut up!" Samuel barked, yanking me by the collar and hauling me into the next room.

"Scrub yourself clean!" he snapped.

He twisted the shower knob, and hot water blasted out, steam instantly smacking me in the face.

"Ah!" I screamed, hugging my head and trying to burrow into the corner like a terrified animal. "Help! Don't burn me! It hurts!" I cried, scrambling on all fours, desperate to escape.

Samuel just stood there in the steam, glaring at me, cold as ice.

"Emily, your performance is really leveling up. You used to be all about long baths, and now you freak out over a little hot water?

"Is this your plan? Make me think you've lost it, so I'll go easy on you?"

I didn't get a word he was saying. My skin felt like it was on fire, and the steam stung my nose and throat.

"No hot water... please, no hot water... I'll be good... please don't scald me..." I whimpered, curling up in the corner.

"If you're so scared of hot water, then wash yourself," he snapped.

Samuel threw the showerhead down hard. "Don't come out until you're clean."

Then he turned and slammed the glass door shut behind him.

I stared at the shower, still blasting water, frozen in fear.

After what felt like ages, the water finally cooled off a bit, and I edged over, super careful.

I didn't dare take my clothes off. The iron box strapped to my belly was where I kept my cash stash—if I undressed, Samuel would definitely snatch it away.

Still wearing my filthy coat, I huddled on the floor and wiped my face with cold water.

If I just washed my face, that should do it. Maybe I wouldn't smell so bad now.

When I finally shuffled out of the bathroom, dripping wet, Samuel was still sprawled out on the couch.

When he saw me—soaked and still wearing those filthy clothes—his face got even grimmer.

"Come here," he said coldly.

I didn't dare go over. I glanced at the leather couch, then looked down at my shoes, all covered in mud.

If I walked over, I'd just mess up the floor. He'd definitely get mad.

So I shook my head, shuffled over to the corner, and crouched down, hugging my knees just like I always did in the park.

"I... I'll just stay here. I won't mess up your floor," I said, giving him a hopeful smile.

Samuel smashed the crystal glass to the floor, red liquid spraying everywhere—like blood splatter in a crime scene.

I jumped, hands flying up to cover my ears.

He strode over, grabbed me by the collar, and yanked me up like I was a stray kitten—then tossed me onto the white couch.

"Ah!" I cried out.

My bread roll—my little treasure—fell out.

I scrambled to grab it, but he kicked it away before I could touch it.

"Emily, drop the pathetic act! Weren't you so cool and carefree when you ditched me three years ago? What now—your rich guy dump you already?" He grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him.

Three years? Why did that number ring a bell?

I couldn't think straight. Everything was just getting foggier, and my head hurt so bad.

"It hurts... mister, it hurts..." I whimpered, tears streaming down my face.

His fingers flinched, a sudden, involuntary shudder.

He stared at the face before him—so familiar, yet somehow a stranger—his movements stalled for a moment.

In his memories, my eyes were always bright and lively. When had she ever looked so lost and clueless, like a confused little pup?

For a crazy moment, he even wondered if this was really the same Emily he used to know.

But in the next instant, those words from three years ago hit him like a punch to the gut. "Samuel, just seeing you makes me want to puke."

The confusion in his eyes was instantly drowned out by a wave of disgust. His grip on her chin tightened. "Pain? So you know what pain is? Emily, did you ever think about how much it hurt when you stabbed me in the back like that?"

I never stabbed anyone. I wouldn't even hurt a chicken.

I wanted to tell him he was wrong. It had to be someone else who stabbed him, not me.

But when I opened my mouth, my brain just jammed up—like it glitched and refused to work.

The words I wanted to say were right there, but no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't string them together into a sentence.

"K-knife..." I stammered, the word barely making it past my lips.

It felt like forever before I could squeeze out even those broken words, my brain all scrambled up.

"No knife... I didn't have a knife..." I mumbled, voice shaky and small.

The more I tried, the thicker the fog in my head got. I was so helpless, my eyes stinging and hot with frustration.

"Not me... really... wasn't me..." I just kept repeating those same few words over and over, hoping he'd finally believe me.

But the more he stared at me, the colder and meaner his eyes got—full of hate.

He let go of me, looking totally grossed out as he pulled out a tissue and wiped his fingers, like he'd just touched something filthy.

Then he snatched a bright red card off the table and tossed it right at me.

"See for yourself. Next month, I'm getting married. She's younger than you, prettier than you, and most importantly—she loves me for me, not for my money or anything else!"

I picked up the card.

It was bright red, with gold lettering on it.

It looked so pretty, so cheerful, and full of good vibes.

I couldn't read the tiny words, but I could tell it was something nice.

Back when I was a kid, whenever the neighbors had a happy occasion, they'd always give out candy.

"Wedding... that's nice... Will there be candy?" I said, running my finger over the gold letters with a silly smile.

The air went so quiet, it was scary—like you could hear a pin drop.

Samuel stared at me, breathing so hard it looked like he might explode.

"Emily!" he suddenly shouted, yanking the invitation right out of my hands, about to rip it apart.

"No, please!" I pleaded, my voice trembling with panic.

I suddenly lunged forward and clung to his hand, desperate.

"Don't tear it... it's so pretty... Save it for him... he said he'd marry me, too..." I begged, my eyes filling with tears.

His hand froze, and his eyes went strange, a mix of confusion and curiosity. "What did you just say? Who are you saving it for?"

I sniffled, looking at him with all the seriousness I could muster. "He's the most important person to me. He promised he'd marry me. This red card is so pretty—I'm saving it for him."

Samuel stared at me, then suddenly let out a cold, mocking laugh.

"Emily, you really are something," he said with a bitter chuckle, roughly stuffing the invitation back into my arms like he was taking out his anger on me.

"Want to keep it? Fine, keep it! Open those damn eyes and watch me marry someone else!"

With that, he slammed the door and stormed off.

I hugged the red invitation tight, like it was my little treasure.

Even though my stomach was empty and Samuel was so mean, I still couldn't help but feel a little happy inside.

I pulled out the iron box from my pocket and tried to fold the invitation as small as I could, hoping to stuff it inside. But no matter how I bent it, the card was just too big—it wouldn't fit.

I was totally lost about what to do.

In the end, I had to tuck it inside my clothes, hugging it close to my heart.

This was the safest spot. No one could take it from me.

"I miss you..."

I leaned against the corner of the couch, closed my eyes, and muttered to myself, "I miss you... Where are you?"

The iron box strapped to my waist was digging in, making it hurt. I rubbed the spot, and suddenly a blurry memory flashed through my mind—a boy in a T-shirt, grinning at me. His smile was so warm, warmer than sunlight.

He had said, "Emily, eat up. Don't be shy with the meatloaf. I made it extra sweet this time, three whole tablespoons of sugar in the glaze. You'll love them."

That voice sounded so familiar, but no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't remember who he was.