Every trace of tenderness vanished from Ivor's face. He seized Jocelyn's chin in a vise grip, his words grinding through clenched teeth. "Go ahead and try, Jocelyn. As long as you're not afraid of someone ending up dead, I'll play this game with you to the very end."
A contemptuous smile curved her lips. She was about to respond when the door swung open and a nurse rushed in.
"Mr. Sanchez! What are you doing? She just came out of critical condition—let go of her!"
Only then did Ivor realize how far he'd slipped. His fingers loosened, and he forced the savage fury churning behind his eyes back down.
"Noted. Leave the medication and get out. My wife and I still have things to discuss."
The room fell silent again. Ivor studied her face, pale as paper, and frowned with displeasure.
"When are you going to learn to be as considerate as Nellie? She got hurt in that accident too—her face was injured—and she's still worried about you. She's been blaming herself so much she won't even see me."
"She wanted to come apologize to you in person. But I know exactly what kind of reception she'd get here, so I stopped her."
"Even so, she still feels terrible. She's been in the kitchen every single day making soup, just so you'd have something warm the moment you woke up."
"That's the kind of heart she has. And yet you just tried to send her to prison." He shook his head slowly. "That's cold, Jocelyn. Even for you."
He paused, watching her expression, then continued. "Here's what's going to happen. That gallery of yours in Central—I've decided to give it to Nellie to run. I'll have the paperwork sent over shortly. All you need to do is sign."
It was as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice water in her face. Jocelyn stared at him, stunned.
"What... what did you just say?"
"That's mine! It's my premarital asset. What gives you the right to hand my property to someone else?"
The calm mask on Ivor's face cracked apart, revealing the darkness coiled beneath.
"What gives me the right? The fact that you're my wife." His eyes narrowed. "All that talk about finding other men—you were testing me, weren't you?"
"All these years, and you still can't forget him. Why else would you guard this gallery he gave you so fiercely that I can't so much as touch it?"
Pain lanced through Jocelyn's chest. The man in front of her grew more irrational by the second.
She'd been seventeen. He had guided her through her first financial report, taught her how to negotiate, taught her how to stand her ground in a world that devoured the weak.
He had been her first love. In the end, it simply faded away—no dramatic ending, just silence.
But the gallery wasn't precious because of him.
It was precious because of everything she'd built between seventeen and twenty-seven, piece by painstaking piece. Her empire, assembled one brick at a time.
It was her lifeblood. Her proof of existence in this world—a flame that would never go out.
She had believed, once, that Ivor understood that.
She never imagined he would take her ambition and her pride and weaponize them—a gift to appease another woman, a blade turned against herself.
Jocelyn's fists twisted into the bedsheets until her knuckles went white. Her voice trembled. "I will never sign that over to you."
Ivor, hearing this, grew eerily calm. A faint smile even tugged at the corner of his mouth—as though her fury were nothing more than a pet baring its teeth.
"You won't sign? That's fine. I was only informing you as a courtesy."
"While you were lying unconscious in this bed, I already lifted your fingerprints. The transfer paperwork for the gallery should be going into effect any minute now."
He leaned in close. A vein pulsed at his temple. "You knew this the day you married me, Jocelyn. When I want something, I get it. Always."
Something detonated inside her skull. Without thinking, she grabbed the glass from the bedside table and hurled it at his face.
Glass shattered with a bright, clean crack. Blood traced a slow line down from Ivor's brow. He didn't flinch. Didn't step back. He let the blood smear across half his vision and advanced on the bed, step by deliberate step.
"Neither you nor Nellie will ever be allowed to leave my side."
He turned and slammed the door behind him.
Jocelyn stared at his retreating figure and remembered the first time she'd met him. Back then, he'd been the Sanchez family's unremarkable second son—an older brother above him whose brilliance cast a long shadow, branch families circling below like wolves. He was trapped in the middle, belonging nowhere.
In those days, when people in Harbor City spoke of the Sanchez family, they knew the eldest son. Nobody knew Ivor.
But he had clawed his way forward through sheer ruthlessness, tearing open a path by force.
After Jocelyn married him, she had cleared every obstacle in his way, one by one, until he sat securely at the helm of the Sanchez Group. The man everyone feared. The man everyone called Mr. Sanchez.
Yet he knew it himself—he didn't possess the talent or finesse of those he'd surpassed. The only thing he had was madness.
A madman's greed to seize. A madman's obsession to possess. And a madman's compulsion to destroy everything he couldn't have.
Jocelyn felt a sudden, piercing clarity: this man was pathetic.
His heart had rotted through long ago, eaten away day after day by jealousy and resentment until nothing was left.
Her gaze drifted to Victoria Harbor, glittering with light beyond the window, and a resolve crystallized inside her.
She could not let this lunatic keep using the Henson family's foundation to rule Harbor City unchallenged.
Jocelyn reached for her phone and dialed a number she knew by heart.
"Interested in a deal with guaranteed returns?"
"Who am I?" A beat. "Jocelyn Henson. Heiress of the Henson family."
