Chapter 2

I got home late that night after visiting someone.

The moment I stepped inside, scalding water flew toward me, mixed with steam and the sharp sting of betrayal.

Reflexes honed by years of enduring boiling showers saved me. I twisted my body, raising my arm just in time to block most of it.

Still, the pain hit instantly.

A scream tore from my throat as a patch of angry red bloomed across my forearm. Silas stood there like nothing had happened, no remorse in his cold, pristine eyes.

"Where the hell were you?"

My arm throbbed, soaked through, and still burning. I gritted my teeth. "I went to see Grandma."

His expression shifted slightly, softening for a brief second—but just as quickly hardened again. "Next time, tell me first. Now go water the flower with your blood. It’s wilting."

My entire body stiffened.

"I’m not—"

Before I could finish, he grabbed my hand and jabbed a silver needle beneath my fingernail.

“Ahh!”

The sharp pain ripped through me as he twisted it, reopening an old wound I’d had since childhood.

Blood welled up and dripped onto the soil of a bone-white mandala flower resting in its porcelain pot by the window.

It looked beautiful—eerie, almost unholy—blooming under the dim light like the infamous lilies of death.

And Silas…In that moment, he looked less like a husband and more like something pulled straight from hell.

I wanted to run. I needed to. But I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t stop the tears from falling.

He saw them and frowned like they were inconvenient.

“What are you crying for? You’ve always been happy to care for it.”

I laughed bitterly. My throat felt raw, and my heart?! Completely shredded.

I’d heard his brother’s voice just the night before—sneering, laughing, admitting that this flower was a token from Mira.

The same flower Silas once said was a wedding gift from him to me.

Every night, I bled for it. I starved for it.

He said my blood wasn’t clean enough unless I followed a strict vegetarian diet—to purify the impurities.

And for what? A picture to impress the woman he really loved.

I wiped the tears away and stared at him through the haze of pain.

“Mandala flowers only bloom at midnight,” I said, my voice like ice. “But only when watered with sincerity. It’s bloomed dozens of times, Silas. So tell me—where was your sincerity?”

He faltered, the mask on his face cracking just a little. His eyes flicked to my soaking clothes, my trembling body.

Then his gaze shifted—calculating, suspicious.

"Is that it? Is that what you’re after?" he said slowly. "You think bleeding for a flower is going to win my heart?"

He scoffed, turned away, and walked off like none of it mattered.

I looked down at my fingers, the wounds still weeping pus and blood from old infections that never healed properly. I covered my face with both hands.

Exhausted. Humiliated. Done.

I dragged my aching body to the bathroom, peeled off my drenched clothes, and turned the faucet on.

But before I could even reach for a towel—he barged in.

"Jovie Ryland," he said, breath heavy, voice low, dark eyes pinned to my bare skin. "You want me that badly? I’ll give you what you’ve been begging for."

Panic sliced through me like glass. I backed away, trembling.

“Please,” I whispered. “Please get out.”

His smile was cruel. “Stop pretending. You want a man to touch you so badly, don’t you? You’ve been throwing yourself at me for years.”

“No—Silas, don’t!”

He ignored me, grabbing my wrist, dragging me through the hall to the bedroom. My heart pounded, my skin burning—not from desire, but from terror.

Then I saw it.

The red light.

The tiny surveillance light blinking in the corner of the ceiling. I remembered what I’d seen the night before—the sickening laughter, the vile plan, the public auction.

A wave of nausea crashed over me.

“Don’t do this,” I whispered, trembling.

Something in my voice must’ve cut through the fog in his mind, because his face shifted. Just slightly.

The lust drained from his eyes and turned into something even uglier.

Disgust. Mockery.

He shoved me backward onto the bed and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

“Reflect on yourself,” he spat before locking it from the outside.

Silence.

Crushing, suffocating silence.

I turned on the light, and what I saw made my stomach turn.

No clothes. Not a single thing to cover myself with. Even the curtains had been removed.

I curled up on the cold mattress, arms wrapped around my legs, naked and sobbing, while thunder crashed outside the windows.

The next morning, the nanny opened the door. Her expression fell when she saw me.

“Oh, Miss…” she murmured with pity. “Why do you do this to yourself?”

Even she thought I was clinging to him. Like I brought this on myself.

I didn’t answer.

I just drank the ginger tea she offered and quietly opened the home surveillance app on my phone.

I had a gut feeling last night was more than just cruelty.

And what I saw on that screen?

It shattered what was left of me.