Chapter 3

I deleted every photo of us in my phone.

When I got home to pack, a leather journal slipped out of Vincent's safe.

On the dark green cover was the first-version game logo I designed after three straight all-nighters.

Vincent had it stamped onto the cover, and inside were all my design sketches from these years.

When I flipped to page seven, I froze.

Next to a photo of me coding in glasses, there was a sticky note:

[Today she yelled that the planner was a porcupine, but the revised plan she made is ten times stronger. How can someone be such an adorable genius?]

My breath felt like it got strangled.

Back then, every time I pulled an all-nighter drawing drafts, Vincent would stay up with me, massage my shoulders, cook for me.

One sentence from me, he'd run out at midnight to buy me cake.

When I was on my period, he'd massage my belly.

He'd tuck my frozen, pale hands into his palms and murmur, "Don't tough it out. You need to learn to rely on me."

I believed him.

But now I understood - that wasn't love.

I flipped to the last page. My fingers went stiff.

Inside was a flight ticket stub from last year, the trip I bought right before Valentine's Day.

I remembered how excited I was, like a kid.

I wanted to fly to Italy with him, introduce him to my dad, hand my last remaining family to him.

Beside the stub, in the blank space, his handwriting crawled across the paper:

[If I could choose again, I'd still pretend to lose the boarding pass and trick her into spending the night at the airport helping me revise a plan. Because I promised Sienna. Prank 72.]

The raindrops were pattering against the bay window.

And I finally, completely understood:

All my love had been built on self-deception.

Maybe, in certain moments, he softened. Maybe he even drowned in it.

But the person he loved most would always be Sienna.

And I was just a tool he used to "get revenge."

My hands shook as I pulled out my phone and booked a surgery for terminating pregnancy.

Late at night, lying in bed, I heard the lock click softly.

Vincent came home, carrying cold air with him.

I kept my eyes closed and pretended to be asleep.

For a long time, there was no sound, like he stood by the bed, hesitating.

I thought bitterly: I didn't cooperate with this prank. He probably lost face in front of Sienna and those guys. Was he about to come back and take it out on me?

The next second, the mattress dipped. Strong arms wrapped around me from behind, pulling my whole body into his chest.

Vincent rested his forehead against my neck. His warm breath trembled with near-joy:

"We have a baby."

I stayed silent. He didn't know I'd already chosen not to keep this child.

Vincent didn't notice my stiffness. He held me tighter and spoke in a low voice:

"Once we get married, I'll take you to live at the Jones family's estate."

"The baby will be as smart as you..."

He sounded so sincere but my heart wouldn't warm.

"I'm tired. Let's sleep," I finally forced out.

He obeyed instantly, only murmuring in the dark, "Tomorrow we'll go to Sienna's birthday party."

Then he fell asleep quickly.

I didn't sleep at all.

Vincent staged an amnesia con.

I paid with three years of my real heart.

So I would design a fake death, and make him regret it for the rest of his life.

The next day's birthday party was at the private club they always used—the entrance looked like a normal bar, but inside was the Jones’ territory.

The suite was thick with smoke. His "brothers" surrounded me and pushed the biggest slice of cake in front of me, smiling with flirtatious malice:

"Donna, Vincent says he loves watching you eat sweets."

Vincent looked away like he didn't hear.

The moment the cake hit my tongue, bitterness rose in my throat. Nausea surged.

Before I could even put the fork down, Sienna pressed a hand over my wrist, leaned in with a syrupy smile, and said in a voice so sweet it was sticky:

"Claire, it's my birthday. Don't embarrass me. I thought... you just find me disgusting?"

As she spoke, she shoved the half-eaten cake toward my mouth.

A sharp cramp tore through my lower abdomen, like someone twisted a knife inside me.

The cheering and joking exploded in the room. They were treating me like another "humiliation level," waiting for me to lose control.

I swallowed that bite down by force.

The next second, I ran into the restroom and vomited until my world spun.

Outside the door, satisfied laughter burst out, like they were celebrating a victory.

"Your stomach bug still not better?" Vincent handed me a cup of water.

I couldn't answer his fake tenderness.

The pain was a thousand needles drilling into my bones.

When I lowered my head, my pupils shrank—blood was winding down the inside of my thigh, shocking in the white light.

I grabbed Vincent's arm, my voice shaking:

"Take me to the hospital..."