"Who told you to touch her?"
Phil seized a man by the hair and slammed his face-first into the glass coffee table. The sharp crack of shattering glass merged with the man’s scream of agony.
The others froze, their instincts screaming at them to run, but Phil gave them no chance.
Grabbing a broken wine bottle, he drove it straight through another man’s palm. A mixture of blood and alcohol splattered across his face, dripping onto his brow bone.
Blinded by fury, he turned and crushed the nose of a third man with a single, brutal punch. The man's cry choked in his throat as he collapsed.
The room vibrated with the force of the blows.
Curled up amidst the chaos, Tricia trembled, her eyes fixed on Phil’s bloodied fists. Tears blurred her vision, making it difficult to see his face clearly.
He was supposed to hate her. She was the murderer of her mother. So why…? Why did he save her?
The men lay sprawled across the floor, motionless, their bodies like discarded trash. The pounding music that had once filled the private room had died into eerie silence.
Then, she heard her own voice—weak, trembling.
"Phil… why did you save me?"
For a brief moment, something flickered in his eyes. Then, in an instant, it was gone, replaced by cold fury.
"Don’t flatter yourself," he snapped. "I wasn’t here for you. I thought Kirsten was inside. If I’d known it was you, I wouldn’t have stepped through that door."
His words were like a slap to the face.
"I gave you twenty thousand last time. Wasn’t that enough for you to leave Boston? Why the hell are you still here? Working in a place like this… you deserve whatever happens to you."
Tricia bit down on the back of her hand to stop herself from shaking. A bitter smile tugged at her lips.
"Good," she murmured. "Then you didn’t come for me. I almost thought you still had lingering feelings."
She deliberately provoked him, hoping it would push him away for good.
And it worked.
Phil’s face darkened, his anger igniting like dry tinder.
"Tricia, don’t kid yourself. As if I could ever remember you." His voice was filled with venom. "If you want to rot here, be my guest. I won’t step foot in this place again. Even if you die, it has nothing to do with me."
Tricia smiled.
That’s right. Stay away. Don’t come back.
After Phil stormed out, she dragged herself upright and made her way to the hospital.
There, disguised as a janitor, Officer Blake met her in secret. His face twisted with concern when he saw the bruises and wounds covering her body.
"Tricia," he said, his voice heavy with worry, "isn’t this enough? It’s too dangerous. You only have a few months left… find somewhere safe to spend what time you have."
Tricia shook her head. Determination burned in her eyes.
"Officer Blake, I’ve found something. We’re close. I can’t stop now."
His hands clenched into fists. "But at this rate, you might not even have three months left."
"It doesn’t matter," she said, her smile faint but unwavering. "Dying like this… at least it’ll mean something. Better than wasting away from cancer."
Officer Blake wanted to argue, but he knew her too well. With a heavy sigh, he let her go.
When Tricia returned to the club, she was immediately summoned by Mike Post, the club’s manager.
Her pulse quickened.
Rumor had it that Mike was a key enforcer for a powerful drug lord. Had he discovered her connection to Officer Blake?
To her relief, his tone was casual.
"Short on cash?" he asked, his sharp eyes assessing her. "I’ve got a job for you."
He tossed a small packet onto the table.
"Miss Knight is hosting a party in two days. She specifically requested your help. The guests will be some of the wealthiest heirs in Boston. Your job is simple—slip this into their drinks."
Tricia’s stomach twisted as she stared at the packet.
She knew exactly what it was.
Mike wanted to use her to hook the city's elite on drugs. Once addicted, they’d become lifelong customers.
He patted her shoulder. "Do this right, and I’ll make sure you’re set for life. What do you say, Tricia?"
Tricia forced a smile, masking her disgust.
"Manager Mike, don’t worry. I’ll do it." She narrowed her eyes. "The person I hate most is Kirsten."
The next day, under the guise of a hospital visit, she met Officer Blake again.
Lab tests confirmed what she already knew—the packet contained highly addictive substances.
Officer Blake handed her a bag of flour as a substitute. "Swap it out," he instructed.
She nodded.
At Kirsten’s request, Tricia attended the party as planned.
The moment she stepped inside, a hush fell over the room.
"Tricia?" someone sneered. "You actually dare show up at the Knight estate?"
Several of Kirsten’s wealthy friends turned to stare, their expressions full of scorn.
One of them scoffed. "You pathetic wretch. If you hadn’t been so reckless—if you hadn’t harmed Mrs. Knight—you wouldn’t have ended up like this."
Laughter rippled through the crowd, cold and cutting.
Tricia remained silent.
Kirsten smirked, savoring the moment.
"I invited her," she announced, her voice dripping with cruelty. "She killed my mother, so the least she can do is work like a dog to atone for her sins."
Her eyes gleamed with satisfaction.
Her last plan had failed. She had expected Tricia to take her own life after suffering humiliation at the club, but somehow, she had survived.
That didn’t matter.
Tonight, she had a new plan.
And this time, she would make sure Tricia died without a trace.
