The second before the car exploded, I dragged Kendrick out, but my own back was torn open, blasted into a bloody mess.
Kendrick trembled as he cradled my blood-soaked body in his arms. That day, he wept for a long time before finally whispering in a hoarse voice, “Cassidy, will you be with me?”
Of course, I agreed, not only because of the faint affection I held in my heart, but also because he was the heir of the Beckham family.
He needed someone to help him forget the past and walk out of heartbreak, and I needed someone to lead me out of the abyss of the Hansen family.
So our relationship began.
After brushing so close to death, Kendrick grew steadier.
Our love was not as wild as his with Ophelia, but calm, steady, and quietly joyful.
He wished to start a business, and I stood beside him. He dreamed of founding a company, and I agreed without hesitation.
As a boyfriend, Kendrick was impeccable; as a business partner, flawless.
Ten years had passed. We had built our own company and had enough wealth to live comfortably for the rest of our lives.
One ordinary afternoon, Kendrick proposed as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Cassidy, let’s get married.”
I agreed.
And thus came today’s farce.
The sound of a lighter broke through my thoughts. Kendrick, who had long since quit smoking, had somehow produced one.
A small flame flickered at his fingertips. In the dim glow, I could not see his expression clearly, only the smoke curling into rings as he exhaled.
Just as I was about to speak, he cupped the back of my head and kissed me deeply. Only when my breath was nearly gone did he finally let me go.
He pressed his forehead against the tip of my nose.
Gently yet firmly, he whispered, “Cassidy, being able to be with you in this life is my greatest blessing. From now on, let’s live well together and ignore that pack of bastards in the Hansen family.”
My heart eased in an instant. I nodded, but before I could reply, the shrill ring of my phone cut through the moment.
Caller ID: Ophelia.
Kendrick frowned, tapped his finger, and blocked the number. The car started, carrying us back to the villa where we lived.
That night, Kendrick was unusually clingy. Even in his sleep, he clutched my hand tightly, unwilling to let go for even a breath.
At dawn, the pillow beside me lay empty. In the quiet room, only the harsh sound of knocking echoed endlessly.
Sleepily, I went to open the door, only to see my mother standing there, her face dark with displeasure.
The moment her eyes landed on me, she snatched my platinum handbag and struck it against my head.
“You little slut! What did you say to Ophelia that made her cry in her room all night? You’ve already stolen Kendrick, isn’t that enough? Why must you drive your sister to death? How can your heart be so cruel! If you don’t apologize to Ophelia today, then from this moment on, I will no longer recognize you as my daughter!”
I had heard words like these far too many times since childhood.
The year I was born, my parents were busy building their empire, leaving me in the countryside. By the time their careers had flourished, Ophelia was already by their side.
To them, she was their daughter.
And I was nothing more than a shadow of an unbearable past they never wished to mention.
In that family, if Ophelia shed tears, it was always my fault.
