Under the watchful eyes of the world's top medical team, Irene's dog finally opened its eyes and wagged its tail.
At that exact moment, Julius stepped out of the room—only to find Anastasia standing in the hall, too busy on her phone to even glance his way. His face darkened instantly.
"Who are you calling?" His voice carried a quiet menace. "You didn't even notice I came out."
Something inside Anastasia cracked. She almost laughed at the sheer absurdity.
"I was preparing a gift for you." She brushed past him with a shove. "What's this? Are you jealous now?"
Julius frowned, about to speak, but before he could, Irene's soft cry of pain came from inside the room.
By the time he looked up again, Anastasia was already gone—leaving the penthouse with the doctor in tow.
The drive from the club to the hospital normally took half an hour, but Anastasia made it in ten minutes.
Her brother was alive, but barely. The doctor had arrived too late.
The bullet had blocked the artery, and infection spread fast. To save him, the doctors had to amputate his right leg.
Outside the ward, two nurses whispered just loud enough for her to hear through the crack in the door.
"Has Madam fallen out of favor? Why hasn't Mr. Perkins visited Young Master Rios?"
"Please. He only married her because she looks a little like the woman he really loves. Now that the real one is back, the stand-in should step aside..."
The words sliced into Anastasia's ears like knives.
Inside, her brother lay pale and motionless, his right leg gone, his life uncertain.
Her heart bled as she stared at him—at what her blind devotion had cost him.
Everyone knew she was just a substitute.
Everyone but her.
She had been the only fool still pretending her love meant something, dragging her brother into ruin and leaving him crippled.
She sat beside his bed all night, unmoving, feeling empty.
At dawn, she returned to the villa to gather divorce papers.
But the moment she opened the front door, a crash of splintering wood and barking echoed from upstairs—from the nursery.
She ran up in a panic.
The room she had once tended so carefully was now a wreck—furniture overturned, toys smashed, walls gouged.
And in the middle of the chaos, Irene's dog was rolling on the floor, growling playfully.
When Anastasia saw what it had in its mouth, her pupils contracted violently.
She lunged forward—
It was her child's urn!
The Rottweiler snarled and sank its teeth into her wrist. Pain seared up her arm, but she didn't care; she tried to wrench the urn free—and a shadow flashed past her.
"Ah!"
A sharp blow struck her lower back, sending her crashing into the ruins of the room. Blood flooded her throat with the taste of iron.
The urn slipped from her grasp and shattered before her eyes—ashes scattering across the floor.
"Little Pea was just playing," Irene whimpered, clinging to Julius's chest as tears streaked her cheeks. "Miss Rios, how could you be so cruel to her?"
Julius hadn't even changed out of his suit before he came running. His first look was for Irene, eyes full of concern.
Then he turned to Anastasia—his gaze cold, devoid of warmth.
"Anastasia," he said sharply, "you've gone too far."
Pain drained the color from her face, but she didn't even feel it.
She crawled toward the broken urn, desperately trying to scoop the ashes back together with trembling hands. But the ashes had mixed into the dust and rubble—lost forever.
Her voice trembled, ragged with grief. "My child's clothes are on her dog. My child's ashes—your dog used them as a toy, and now they're gone!"
Her eyes burned as she stared up at him.
"Tell me, Julius... who's really gone too far?!"
"Have you forgotten what you once swore to me?"
For a moment, something flickered in his expression—remorse, maybe. But then his gaze dropped to the faint bruise on Irene's waist, and all traces of softness vanished.
"That doesn't give you the right to hurt Irene!" he snapped. "The dog didn't know any better—but you should have!"
He raised a hand in signal. "Seems I've spoiled you too much. Today, you'll remember what our organization's rules are."
Each word struck her like the crack of a whip before the lash even fell.
A chill spread through her bones.
Before her child's ashes, Anastasia was forced to her knees. The whip—a barbed one—came down across her back with brutal precision.
Crack!
The first strike split her skin; blood blossomed instantly.
And through the haze of pain, memories surfaced.
The first time Julius had confessed to her, ears flushed red as he promised, "For the rest of my life, I'll love no one but you."
Crack!
The second lash.
She remembered three years ago—when she was six months pregnant— she risked everything to save him.
She had been captured and tied in a basement, tortured through a night and day. Her child had been beaten out of her womb, leaving only blood.
Later, Julius had personally beaten those men into pulp and buried them under their child's grave, whispering over the flowers, "I'll never forget our baby. One day, he'll come back to us."
But now—her baby's clothes hung on Irene's dog.
His ashes had been smashed and scattered.
Through her blurred vision, Anastasia saw Julius—the man who once swore eternal love—now gently wiping tears from Irene's cheeks.
He lifted Irene into his arms, turning away as his polished shoes crushed the ashes and her dripping blood into the floor—leaving a trail of dark, mocking footprints.
Her grief and agony were nothing but a farce.
The vows he had once sworn were a lie—a lie only she had believed.
When the punishment finally ended, a metallic taste flooded her mouth.
She coughed up a mouthful of blood and collapsed into unconsciousness.
