On the day I married Dominic Westwood, my mother was killed in a hit-and-run.
The driver? Ivy Mercer—the little princess Dominic had raised with his own hands.
The traffic police released the dashcam footage. Ivy had been driving a Maybach. She hit my mother, dragged her for dozens of kilometers. By the time the car stopped, there was barely anything left of her body—bones exposed, beyond recognition.
“She went too far this time. No matter what you decide, I’ll stand by you,” Dominic told me.
It was the first time in our eight-year relationship that he actually took my side.
I filed a lawsuit against Ivy for intentional homicide.
But the night before the trial, Dominic handed me a blank check and said coldly,
“Ivymade a mistake. She was young and reckless. I’ve already punished her.”
“Elena, if she goes to prison, her life will be ruined.”
To stop me from showing up in court, he locked me—pregnant—in the basement for three days and nights.
That was the moment I finally understood: Dominic would never choose me. Not when it really matters.
——
Three days later, he opened the heavy basement door and stepped in.
“Elena,” he said, sitting down across from me. “Have you thought about withdrawing the lawsuit?”
No concern. No apology. Just another plea—for her.
I looked up, jaw clenched, voice shaking with resolve.
“I will never drop the charges.”
“I will make Ivy pay.”
In the dim light, I could barely see his face. But his eyes were cold and unreadable.
“She’s young,” he repeated, as if that excused everything. “She had a few drinks and hit your mother by accident. I’ll pay compensation. Write whatever number you want on the check.”
“Your mother was 60. At most, the payout’s a million.”
“You’re still coming out ahead, Elena.”
Coming out ahead?
The words punched the air from my lungs. My stomach turned, cold sweat soaking my back.
“Dominic, that was my mother! She gave me life, raised me—how dare you put a price on that?”
“Ivy knew she hit her. She kept driving. She dragged her. That’s not a mistake—that’s murder!”
Dominic’s patience snapped. His brow furrowed, voice harder now.
“Elena. I’m giving you one last chance.”
His assistant placed a tablet in front of me. The screen lit up with a video: a feed from the hospital.
My father—now a vegetable—lay alone in his bed. A shadowy figure stood beside him, holding a pair of scissors pointed at his oxygen tube.
“Drop the case, or save your father. Choose.”
I froze.
My blood surged in reverse, flooding my brain. I screamed, but Dominic grabbed my arms, forcing me still.
“Think carefully,” he said coldly. “Are you really going to throw your life away over a dead woman?”
His words sliced through me like ice.
Back when Dominic first inherited the Westwood family business, he made enemies with his iron-fisted, no-compromise style. At a trade fair, someone retaliated—he was kidnapped.
My father, a senior police officer, led the rescue mission.
He took a bullet to save Dominic’s life.
After that, Dominic brought us—my mother and me—into his world. He paid for all of my father’s medical care. Treated me like family.
For five years, he cared for me. Showed up for every little thing in my life. I fell in love without even realizing it.
When I graduated college, he proposed in front of the entire school.
He promised me the happiest marriage in the world.
And now, here we are.
He broke that promise.
