Chapter 4
The corridor was silent as death.
Damien pressed a hand to his throbbing abdomen and lowered himself into the chair like an old man.
Sylvia's last words echoed through his mind, refusing to fade.
In my next life, I will never love you again.
A strange, sharp ache bloomed in his chest. It felt like something was being ripped away from him — torn from the fabric of his existence.
It made him panic for no reason he could name.
But he hated her. He was supposed to hate her.
"Damien!"
Renee's voice rang from the end of the corridor.
He looked up. She was jogging toward him, slightly out of breath.
"How's Sylvia?"
Damien didn't answer. His gaze drifted to the operating room doors, his expression unreadable.
Renee sat beside him and reached for his hand. "Damien, don't worry too much. Sylvia will be fine."
"I'm not worried about her." Damien withdrew his hand. He stared at the floor, voice flat. "She hasn't finished paying her debt to Maggie. She doesn't get to die yet."
A flash of resentment darted through Renee's eyes, quickly concealed.
"You're right — Sylvia has done terrible things. But Damien, she's still your wife. If she actually dies…"
"She has no right to be my wife." Damien cut her off, his gaze cold as iron. "From the moment she hurt Maggie, she became nothing."
Renee lowered her head, secretly curling her lips into a smile.
But then she noticed the blood soaking through his shirt. Concern replaced her expression. "Damien, you're hurt! Sylvia really has lost her mind. Have you had the bullet removed?"
She realized almost immediately — there hadn't been time, and the ambulance wasn't equipped for that.
She called over a doctor and nurse.
"Damien, you need to get that taken care of now. You can't put this off."
Damien was silent.
Even now, with a bullet lodged in his gut, his mind kept circling back to Sylvia.
Renee was seething inside, but her face remained a mask of tender concern. "Don't worry about Sylvia. I'll keep watch for you."
Damien could have held out longer. But sitting here staring at a closed door wouldn't change anything. He pressed his bloodless lips together and finally nodded.
The moment his surgery was done, he came back.
Renee had been scrolling her phone. She jumped up to steady him. "Damien, what are you doing here? You should be resting."
"It's nothing. I need to watch her." He lowered himself into the chair, his expression dark as he stared at the operating room. "Even if she dies, she only dies by my hand."
Renee's brow twitched. She should have been pleased to hear it. But something felt off.
That nagging feeling peaked every time she caught Damien glancing at the operating room doors — his eyes betraying an unease he didn't even seem aware of.
The red light went dark late into the night.
The surgeon barely cleared the doors before Damien was on his feet, pressing a hand to his wound. "How is she?"
The doctor pulled down his mask. "She's out of immediate danger, but her injuries are severe. She'll need extended recovery."
"Additionally, we found numerous old wounds on her body. Several show signs of repeated infection. The situation is… concerning."
Damien's brow tightened. "What do you mean?"
The doctor chose his words carefully. "The patient… appears to have endured significant abuse."
"Her body has been in a prolonged state of depletion. Her immune system is severely compromised. This latest trauma has only compounded the damage."
"Our two primary concerns are infection — her healing capacity is far below normal — and long-term complications. Without proper rehabilitation, she may face permanent impairment to joint mobility, gait, and even organ function. There's a real risk of chronic systemic failure."
Damien knew exactly how this had happened.
He hadn't ordered the abuse directly. But he'd watched from a distance, eyes cold, and allowed it. Enabled it.
Every fifteenth of the month, when he went to see Sylvia, there were always new marks on her body.
He used to tell himself she deserved it. She'd destroyed Maggie's innocence. Left her in a vegetative state. Every wound was just punishment for a vicious woman.
But hearing the doctor lay it out now, something shifted in his chest — a feeling he couldn't quite name.
Heavy. Suffocating.
"Transfer her to a VIP suite. Hire the best private nurses." His voice was low, commanding. "Post guards around the clock in rotating shifts. If she wakes up and tries to hurt herself again — stop her. Until she's healed, no one gets in to see her. No one."
"Yes, Mr. Nguyen." The bodyguard dipped his head.
Renee stood nearby, listening. Her nails dug into her palms until they drew blood.
Damien's attitude toward Sylvia had changed.
All because that worthless woman tried to kill herself once — and suddenly everything shifted.
How could this be happening?
She had worked so hard to make Damien despise Sylvia. So hard to drag that woman into hell. She would not allow her a chance to climb back out.
Her eyes darted, calculating. A dark gleam flickered through them.
Three days later.
Sylvia woke from unconsciousness.
Before she opened her eyes, she heard two nurses chatting softly as they changed her bandages.
Their voices were low — but just loud enough to reach her.
"Did you hear? The Nguyen family's little boy cried all day again. Cried until his voice gave out."
"I know, right? The woman taking care of him has the worst temper. I heard her yelling at him in the room today."
"Poor thing. A congenital heart condition, and on top of that, stuck with a caretaker like her…"
"Apparently she's not even his real mother. She's the sister of one of Mr. Nguyen's friends. I don't know if Mr. Nguyen realizes how rough she is with the kid — always screaming at him, sometimes even hitting him…"
Sylvia's entire body began to tremble.
Her eyes flew open. Her voice came out raw and scraped. "The child you're talking about — what's his name?"
Both nurses startled.
"Oh — you're awake?"
Sylvia seized the nearest nurse's sleeve with every ounce of strength she had. "That child — is his name Milo?"
The nurse recoiled from the intensity in her eyes. She pried Sylvia's fingers loose. "We really don't know. Please, just rest. Don't get worked up — we'll call the doctor for you."
They gathered their supplies and hurried out.
But Sylvia's mind was already racing.
It was Renee. It had to be Renee.
Even while she'd been unconscious, she thought she'd heard a child crying — faintly, somewhere nearby.
Milo was alive. Her Milo wasn't dead.
And if he was crying like that, it meant Renee was hurting him.
She needed a phone. But she had nothing.
Sylvia forced herself upright. Every movement sent pain ripping through her body — each step like walking on the edge of a blade.
She didn't care.
She had to find Renee. Finding Renee meant finding Milo.
Sylvia braced herself against the wall, inching toward the door one agonizing step at a time.
She pulled it open. Bodyguards stood posted outside. Several pairs of eyes snapped toward her.
She opened her mouth to speak — and then she saw her.
Renee, walking past in the corridor.
Carrying children's clothes in her hands.
Sylvia's eyes went wide. "Renee!"
