As I said this, the wound on my freshly bandaged hand began to bleed again.

"Grace..." Asher looked at my hand, his face full of anguish.

I smiled and reassured him, "It’s not like it’s severed. Why are you crying? At most, I won’t be able to paint for a while. If she had cut any deeper, I might never be able to paint again."

Asher gently stroked my hand, crying, "No, no… that won’t happen."

Shortly after, he agreed to send Jasmine to a psychiatric hospital.

The day Jasmine was sent away, I was there to watch as they took her.

"Let me go! I’m not crazy! I’m not crazy!" she kept struggling and shouting.

But everyone knew she had gone mad.

Only I believed what she said—she wasn’t crazy.

Locking up a sane person in a psychiatric ward, that is the real torture.

I said I wouldn’t let any of them go. Not a single one.

I finally divorced Christopher.

After the divorce, I handed the company over to a professional manager and went abroad to relax by myself.

During those three years overseas, I visited many countries, met many people, and saw countless beautiful landscapes, but none of them made me want to stay.

So, three years later, I returned home.

I went to the orphanage I had been supporting for years and decided to adopt a child. She was just three years old and absolutely adorable.

But the adoption required a married couple.

I was stuck. Where was I going to find someone to marry on such short notice?

Just then, Asher approached me.

He handed me a brand-new business card and proudly listed off his many accomplishments.

But I wasn’t the least bit interested in his shiny resume.

Finally, he said, “I’m 6'1" and have an eight-pack. Does that work?”

I finally nodded.

We went together to visit the child I wanted to adopt.

She had her hair in two little pigtails and was running around, playing with the other kids.

“Why did you choose her?” Asher asked.

I said, “Don’t you think she looks a little like you?”

(The End)