Chapter 6

Lydia's POV

She crawled forward desperately on her knees and threw her arms around Moretti's perfectly pressed pants. Tears mixed with her makeup, smearing across her face. She looked utterly pathetic.

"Moretti! You can't do this to me!" Rose looked up at him, clinging to his leg. She launched into her best sob story. "We're childhood friends! We grew up together! I've been by your side for fifteen years! When your father died, I was there for you. The first time you took over the family and got shot, I stayed by your bedside all night! I gave you all my youth and all my love!"

She sobbed as if her heart was breaking. "I did all of this because I love you! I couldn't stand watching some stranger who just showed up today steal you away! What is Lydia? She's just a tool for a political marriage! She doesn't love you! Moretti, please, for the sake of the past fifteen years, forgive me this one time. I'll never do it again..."

Listening to her heartfelt confession, the rage inside me flared up like gasoline thrown on a fire.

Childhood friends? Fifteen years together?

In my past life, she used this exact line over and over again to play the victim in front of Moretti. Over and over, she provoked and humiliated my sister Freya.

Freya, that fool, always felt sorry for Rose. She kept backing down, again and again, until she had nowhere left to go. Until she was driven to her death.

This woman treated other people's kindness as weakness. She disguised her cruelty as devotion.

I stared coldly at Rose kneeling on the ground, sobbing. Then I shoved the terrified killer behind me aside.

The killer scrambled away, crawling to the side like he'd just been pardoned.

I walked toward Rose step by step, my heels clicking sharply against the cobblestones. In the silent night, each step sounded like a death knell.

Moretti raised an eyebrow slightly as I approached. He didn't stop me.

He seemed curious to see how his "strong-willed" fiancée would handle this mess.

"What... what are you doing?" Rose looked up at my cold gaze and instinctively let go of Moretti's leg. She shrank back.

"What am I doing?" I smiled faintly. The smile didn't reach my eyes.

The next second, I bent down and grabbed a fistful of her carefully styled blonde hair.

"Ahh—!" Rose let out a shrill scream. The pain in her scalp forced her head back.

I didn't give her a moment to breathe. I yanked hard, dragging her up from the ground like a broken rag doll.

"Lydia! Let go of me! You crazy woman! Moretti, help me!" Rose clawed at my wrist with both hands, desperately trying to pry my fingers open. Her nails scratched bloody lines across the back of my hand.

I didn't even frown. Compared to the despair of waiting to die in a hospital bed in my past life, compared to the agony of Freya's death from depression, this little pain was nothing.

I dragged her toward the rough stone wall nearby.

"You like playing the victim, don't you?" I leaned close to her ear, my voice low and cold, like a demon from hell. "You like putting on sob stories?"

Before she could answer, I grabbed her hair and slammed her head into the hard stone wall.

A dull thud echoed through the night.

"Ahh—!" Rose screamed in agony. Her forehead split open. Blood trickled down her pale face and dripped onto her expensive silk nightgown.

She was dazed. Her legs gave out. If I hadn't been holding her by the hair, she would've collapsed.

The bodyguards around us gasped. Even Butler Brady's eyes flashed with shock.

Who would've thought that a delicate heiress from a prominent family could be more ruthless and decisive than a mafia enforcer?

Moretti still stood in place, hands in his pockets.

He watched me with those deep eyes. There was no disgust in them. Instead, a strange, predatory fire burned within.

"That was for your pathetic lie just now." I looked coldly at her bloodied face. Then I yanked her head back and slapped her hard across the face.

I put all my strength into it. Half of Rose's face swelled up instantly. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth.

"And that slap is a warning. Don't disgust me with your cheap tears and your so-called childhood bond." I shook out my stinging hand, my gaze ice-cold. "Anything that belongs to me—even a dog—is not for you to mess with. And he's my fiancé."

Rose was seeing stars. Her ears rang.

She finally realized that the woman in front of her didn't care about high society etiquette. She was a complete lunatic.

"I was wrong... I was really wrong..." Rose finally felt genuine fear. Her whole body trembled violently. Tears, snot, and blood smeared across her face. She no longer looked pitiful—just ugly and pathetic.

"Since you love playing the victim so much," I grabbed her hair again and forced her to look into my eyes. I spoke slowly, enunciating every word. "I'll make you one. If you ever try these dirty tricks on me again, if you ever set foot in the Vance Mansion again, I'll show you what it really means to be 'pitiful.' Understand?"

"I understand... I understand!" Rose broke down completely. She clasped her hands together and begged desperately. "Please let me go! I'll never do it again! I'll go back to my family tomorrow! I'll never show my face again! Please stop hitting me..."

I let go of her like I was discarding a piece of reeking garbage.

Rose scrambled away, crawling and stumbling toward the exit. She didn't even bother picking up her expensive slippers.

Her sobs faded into the night, leaving only a few glaring drops of blood on the cobblestones.

I straightened up, smoothed out my slightly disheveled dress, and turned to face Moretti.

I expected him to be angry about my brutal behavior. After all, in this male-dominated mafia family, no woman dared to bypass the boss and dish out punishment herself.

But when I met his gaze, I froze.

There was no anger in Moretti's deep eyes. Instead, a disturbing fire flickered within them.

It was an intensely predatory look—like a beast sizing up its prey.

He strode toward me, his leather shoes clicking against the stone path. His tall frame loomed over me, casting me in his shadow. He lowered his head. His calloused fingertip gently brushed over the back of my hand, where Rose had scratched a faint red mark.

"You dirtied my garden."