I watched the shock ripple across his face, and a flicker of dark satisfaction curled through me. Without another word, I turned and walked away, leaving only ice in my wake.
"You don't deserve to know."
The moment I stepped out of the Simmons Group building, the cold wind hit me like a slap. Only then did I notice the angry red marks circling my wrist where he'd gripped me.
My phone buzzed. A WeChat message from my foster mother, Queenie Fox:
Surgery fee paid. Don't worry.
Nine words. Just nine words—and my vision blurred with tears.
Aunt Queenie had been against me keeping Denise from the start. She'd never helped raise her, never so much as babysat. I hadn't dared tell her about Denise's illness. Asking for money? Unthinkable.
And yet here she was. The woman who pinched every penny, who'd never warmed to my daughter—she'd come through when it mattered most.
The truth was, I'd always known. Beneath Queenie's sharp tongue and cutting remarks, there was love. Rough-edged and reluctant, but real.
When I returned to the hospital, she was waiting outside Denise's room.
She thrust a thermos into my hands. "Chicken soup. Drink it while it's hot." Her tone was gruff, matter-of-fact. "Denise just got out of surgery. She's going to need you strong."
I clutched the warm container, my nose stinging. "Aunt Queenie, about the fifty thousand..."
"Not now." She cut me off, her voice harsh but her meaning soft. "Focus on Denise. The surgery went well—she can start the specialized treatment soon."
I was about to slip into the room when a nurse from Maureen's ward appeared.
"Miss Mason?" The nurse's voice was carefully neutral. "Miss Maureen Mason is requesting another blood transfusion tomorrow. She says she's feeling unwell."
My fingers tightened around the thermos until my knuckles went white.
Maureen knew. She knew I'd just given 400cc yesterday. This wasn't a request—it was a death sentence wrapped in silk.
But I couldn't refuse. Denise needed specialized medication post-surgery, and I didn't have a single dollar toward it.
The next morning, just as I was preparing for the transfusion, word came from Maureen's people: come to the Mason estate instead.
When I arrived, the housekeeper led me toward the main house. I'd barely crossed the threshold when I spotted him.
Denys Simmons. Standing at the entrance like a storm about to break.
His expression was thunderous. The moment he saw me, he closed the distance in three strides, blocking my path.
"Five years ago." His voice was low, dangerous. "You're going to explain everything. Now."
I met his gaze without flinching. "If Mr. Simmons has time to spare, perhaps spend it on your fiancée. I'm here to give her blood."
I had no intention of entertaining him. He'd made his contempt clear; I had no desire to be tangled up in his world any longer than necessary.
Before he could respond, a honeyed voice floated from inside.
"Denys, darling, don't be so hard on her." Maureen appeared in the doorway, all wounded innocence. "She's being so kind, coming all this way to help me."
The implication dripped from every syllable—as if I were some desperate creature, groveling for her approval.
I didn't bother correcting her.
I walked past them both and extended my wrist to the family physician. "Make it quick. I have a child to get back to."
The doctor had just raised the needle when Maureen suddenly lurched to her feet.
"Oh!" She let out a theatrical gasp, stumbling—no, lunging—straight toward me.
Instinct took over. I sidestepped.
She adjusted mid-fall, throwing herself toward the coffee table instead. Her elbow cracked against the sharp corner, and she crumpled with a wail, tears streaming instantly.
"Sister!" Her voice was pure wounded betrayal. "Why did you push me?!"
Denys was already moving, his long strides eating up the distance. I stepped back reflexively, certain he was coming for me—
And then my collar pulled loose.
The top button gave way, revealing the dark red birthmark just below my collarbone.
The room went deathly still.
I watched the color drain from Denys's face. His eyes locked onto that mark like it was a ghost rising from the grave. Every muscle in his body went rigid.
"It's you." The words came out fractured, disbelieving. "It's really you."
He seized my wrist—not grabbing this time, but gripping, like I might dissolve if he let go. His fingers dug in hard enough to bruise, but his eyes—his eyes were wild with something I couldn't name. Shock. Recognition. And beneath it all, a desperate, almost feverish hope.
"Five years ago. That woman—" His voice cracked. "It was you."
I tried to wrench free, but his hold was iron. Maureen scrambled up, ready to throw herself between us—
Denys shifted.
One smooth movement, and he was shielding me. His back became a wall between us.
Maureen stumbled forward, grasping at empty air, and hit the floor.
"Denys!" Her mask slipped, revealing something ugly beneath. "What are you doing? She's nobody—a bastard child! How could you humiliate me for her?"
