Yvonne picked up the money, clutching her violin as she staggered toward the private room’s door. Her steps felt weightless, as though gravity itself couldn’t quite decide whether to hold her down or let her drift away.

Samuel didn’t so much as glance in her direction. Instead, he tilted his head back and downed a glass of champagne in one cold, unbroken motion. His voice, equally glacial, drifted toward her, sharp and cutting. "And one more thing, Ms. Carrington—that silver ring around your neck. It’s an eyesore."

Yvonne froze, her back stiffened against the doorframe, her posture betraying her unwillingness to turn and face him. Instinctively, her fingers rose to her neck, brushing against the silver ring strung on a delicate chain. It was a simple piece, barely worth anything, but six years ago, it had been part of a matching set Samuel had bought for them. Cheap silver, yet priceless to her. She had treasured it ever since, clinging to its frail symbolism.

"I’ve grown used to wearing it," she replied, her voice tight and deliberate. "This ring—when you gave it to me six years ago—it became mine. And since it’s mine, whether I wear it or bury it is none of Mr. Blackwell’s concern, wouldn’t you agree?"

But it wasn’t just a ring. It was a piece of the Samuel from six years ago—the Samuel who treated her like she was the rarest gem in his world, who would have held her in the palm of his hand and swore never to let go.

Holding on to this tiny fragment of their shared past was her own stubborn way of keeping that Samuel alive. A small, selfish hope for a sliver of beauty amid the wreckage, even if the memories tore her apart night after night.

Still, she couldn’t let it go. Couldn’t let him go.

Her defiance struck a nerve.

"Get out," Samuel growled.

Without a word, Yvonne left.

Behind her, the sound of shattering glass ricocheted through the room like a gunshot. Samuel’s hand gripped the champagne flute so tightly that it fractured into shards against his palm, the golden liquid turning violent as it mixed with the red trickling from his hand, drop after bitter drop spattering on the floor.

Gabriel and Jasper flinched, their idiot-proof camaraderie eclipsed for a moment by the sheer force of Samuel’s fury. Neither had expected Yvonne’s brief presence to unleash such a storm within him.

"Samuel," Jasper began tentatively, as if picking his way through a minefield, "this is on me. I handled tonight poorly—didn’t think it through."

In the dim light, Samuel’s gaze dropped to his bleeding palm before lifting to meet Jasper’s. His eyes were hard, rimmed with a crimson that seemed to burn darker than blood itself. "This? This is your idea of a surprise?" he sneered, the words like shards of ice. "Pathetic."

"I’m sorry. I miscalculated." Jasper’s tone was obedient, deferential, though it grated against his pride. Samuel may have been a comrade in arms at their core, but lines were drawn in blood; an unspoken hierarchy placed Samuel firmly above them all. The weight of those years had only turned him into more of an enigma—an untouchable enigma who could snap at a moment’s notice. Jasper had long since learned to tread carefully.

"Next time, don’t overstep." Samuel’s voice carried authority like a whip. "Especially with matters involving Yvonne."

Jasper nodded. There was nothing else to do. Whatever Yvonne was to Samuel, it was between them—and no one else had the footing to interfere.

Once Samuel stalked out of the room, Gabriel leaned against Jasper, shaking his head with something between disbelief and exasperation. "Jas, what the hell were you thinking? You’re usually too sharp for something this dumb."

"I thought—six years is a long time," Jasper said, almost defensively. "I figured Samuel had let it go by now. Back then, they were—well, everyone at Aurelia University thought they’d write their own fairy tale. A perfect match, golden boy and his queen. I just thought maybe, just maybe, Samuel could stop drowning himself in hate. These six years… not only has he drifted further and further from Yvonne, but from us too."

Gabriel smirked, his usual irreverence softening his features. "Samuel’s always been like this, though. Warm on the inside, sure, but ice-cold on the outside. Doesn’t talk much. Broods a ton. Classic loner syndrome." He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Still, something doesn’t add up. Why the hell is Yvonne here singing for her supper in a place like this?"

"A month ago," Jasper said measuredly, "Samuel made a call to Aurelia Broadcasting. Got her fired, no cause given. That was her career shot in the dark, Gabriel. You remember her back in the day, don’t you? Miss Department Beauty Queen of Broadcasting and Hosting. She was sure to go places. He stripped that from her just like that. Don’t you think he went too far?"

"Hah! Look at you, getting sentimental. Don’t start telling me you’re bewitched by her too, Jas. Maybe she’s one of those femme fatales the old stories warn you about. Mess with her, and you’ve got prison bars with your name on them."

Jasper shrugged on his jacket, brushing away Gabriel’s teasing. "It’s not like that. I’d never covet a brother’s woman."

"Yeah, well, spare me your sob story for Yvonne. Don’t let yourself forget—Samuel only had to sit through all that hell in prison because of her. Every scar he’s got now? That’s her doing!" Gabriel’s voice turned sharp, almost accusing.

Jasper met his gaze steadily and nodded. "I know."

The worst of those scars, the one that haunted them all, was the blade that had plunged so viciously into Samuel’s chest. One inch closer to the heart, and he wouldn’t have survived. He had come that close to death.

And that wound… it was Yvonne who had cut it deepest, though she hadn’t wielded the blade herself.

...

Yvonne stumbled home in a haze, unsure of how she even got there.

On the way back, she doubled over more than once, retching until the waves of nausea gave her a fragile respite. Passing by a pharmacy, she grabbed anti-hangover pills and some antihistamines, swallowing them on the spot. By the time she made it to her apartment, the rash on her body had started to subside, though the sharp tang of alcohol clung stubbornly to her, defying every effort to mask it.

The lights were still on inside. She dropped her bag, switched into her house slippers, and waited for Iris to come barreling toward her as she always did. But tonight, the apartment was still.

"Iris?"

No answer. Was she asleep already?

Yvonne stepped into the bedroom—and froze. Iris was curled up on the bed, her small face pallid as candle wax, her mouth slack as she labored for breath.

Yvonne's heart seized. She rushed to the bed in wide, frantic strides. "Iris! What’s wrong?"

"Mom… I feel awful… my chest hurts…" Iris’s voice was faint, each word a struggle.

Her frailty struck like a knife through Yvonne’s chest. “I’m taking you to the hospital right now! Hold on, Iris! Hold on for Mommy!”

She snatched her phone and dialed for an ambulance, then hoisted Iris onto her back without waiting, bolting out the door.

Outside, the nighttime sky had cracked open into a torrential downpour. Rain lashed her face and soaked through her clothes as she ran, desperation lending speed to her steps. The ambulance wasn’t in sight yet, and Yvonne couldn’t bear to stand still. Carrying Iris, she sprinted into the street, her drenched arms flailing to hail any passing car.

"Help! Stop! Please stop! My daughter’s unconscious—she needs a hospital!" Voices pitched high and torn with fear, she pounded on car windows, her screams growing wilder as water sluiced off her hair and into her eyes.

From her back, Iris whimpered through her pain, her words soft but harrowing: "Mom… am I going to die? It hurts so much…"

Yvonne’s tears mingled freely with the rain. "No! No, sweetheart, you’re not going anywhere. Just hold on a little longer, Iris. Don’t close your eyes! Stay awake for Mommy! Iris, please… Please—hear me!"

Silence. Iris gave no reply, her body limp against Yvonne’s back.

Panic roared in Yvonne like a terrible tide as she stumbled forward, one hand propping up her daughter, the other thrust into the downpour trying to flag down anything, any horned or light-beamed salvation that rushed by.

"Stop! Stop! There’s a child—she’s unconscious! Please, I’m begging you!"

But the inundation of rain turned the road into a shimmering river, and no car dared to brake for a sodden, howling figure with wild eyes and a child clinging to her like a broken wing.

Until a sleek black Maybach sliced through the curtain of rain. Its license plate flashed for a brief, cruel instant—JING A99999—before its tires churned up a wave of filthy water, drenching her utterly.

Instinctively, Yvonne raised an arm to shield Iris. The mud caked her shoes and streaked her legs. It seeped into her everywhere, her skin, her resolve—and yet she didn’t stop.

The luxurious car roared past. Inside, the driver glanced briefly into the rearview mirror, catching sight of the soaked mother and the child strapped onto her back.

"Mr. Blackwell," the driver—Ethan Cross—spoke with uncharacteristic urgency, his tone edged with faint unease. "That woman back there... she’s carrying her kid in this storm. The child doesn’t look well. Should we give them a lift?"

In the backseat, the man called Samuel Blackwell sat impassive, his cold features set in marble. The fingertips resting on the armrest didn’t so much as twitch.

"Compassion is a weakness," he said, his voice like daggers carved from stone. "A fool’s indulgence."

He said no more, and the driver wisely pressed no further. Six years ago, a younger Samuel might have opened his heart just that much, might have felt compelled to act—but those years were ashes now, and Samuel Blackwell had emerged from them a man forged with hate, a man who had no room left for the frailties of kindness.

The Maybach sped onward into the abyss of rain, leaving mother and child behind.

As Yvonne staggered beyond the periphery of headlights and rejections, salvation finally announced itself in the bone-rattling wail of sirens. The ambulance had arrived. Her knees trembled as she all but collapsed into the arms of the paramedics, her child slipping into the waiting safety of the stretcher.

Miles ahead, through the glint of water on cold black glass, Samuel Blackwell furrowed his brow. His jaw tightened. For just one brief, uncertain moment, as the rain battered endlessly against the car windows, he turned his head to glance backward.

But the ambulance was already gone, its red-and-white lights swallowed whole by the turbulent night.

A trick of the storm, he told himself. How could that possibly have been Yvonne?

Samuel’s gaze fell to the silver ring twisting on his finger, a token marred by time, but one he could never rid himself of. The storm outside and the tempest within him merged into one as he stared at that loop of tarnished silver, his thoughts pulling him further and further from calm.

The white tail of the ambulance and the black prow of the Maybach diverged in opposite directions, one to the north and one to the south, borne farther from each other by terrains of distance and decisions.

Much like Samuel now, and the Samuel of six years ago—moving irrevocably apart, severed by the hand of fate.