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The day I got out of prison, my husband Ewan Berry came to pick me up. It had been three years, and his gaze was still cold and filled with disdain. He took a bag of pills from the front seat and threw them at me. "These are newly developed drugs. Since you're back, you can try them for testing." Seeing my hesitation, he smirked with a mocking smile. "Melody, don't forget, you still owe Sloan a life." His tone was cold, carrying a threat, as if certain I would refuse to argue. "Fine." I agreed quickly. A long silence fell in the car. "You've learned to behave after three years in prison," he said. I didn't reply, just quietly stared out the window. I was dying, and he would never have the chance to bully me again.