Damian Blackwood—the notorious workaholic—hadn't stepped foot in his office for weeks. Instead, he haunted my hospital room twenty-four seven.

He'd learned to make vegetable soup—a man who once couldn't tell kale from spinach. It used to be my favorite. He poured it from a thermos with the reverence of someone handling liquid gold.


"Lori, please try some…"

"How about you fuck off?" I didn't bother opening my eyes, my voice dripping contempt.

His Adam's apple bobbed frantically. He forced a smile that looked more painful than tears. "The doctor says warm liquids would help. Please, Lori, just a little…"


I took the bowl from his hands.

As hope flickered in his eyes, I upended the scalding soup over his head with surgical precision.


The thick broth cascaded down his perfect hair, streaming across his forehead and soaking his bespoke suit. His skin flushed angry red where the hot liquid made contact.

His jaw clenched, veins bulging on the backs of his hands.

But he didn't flinch.

He just rasped, his voice barely audible: "Do whatever you want to me, Lori. But please eat something. How will you recover if you don't eat?"

"I'm not getting better. I'm dying. Are you too stupid to understand that?"

The hospital had already given me my death sentence yesterday. A week, tops.

He was just deluding himself.

"Don't say that!" Damian erupted, his composure shattering. "Lori, I'm begging you!"

His knees hit the floor with a dull thud. "Lori," he choked out, "can you really not forgive me? Not even a little?"

My fingers froze mid-scroll. A thought crystallized in my mind.

I understood now. He and that bitch Sienna would go on living their perfect lives. I refused to die alone.

So I spoke in that honeyed tone he hadn't heard in years:

"If you want forgiveness, you'll need to prove you mean it, won't you?"

"Sienna sent me those bedroom photos—that's how I learned you were still seeing her behind my back. And at your birthday party? She's the one who beat me until my head was covered in blood. God, it hurt so much."

Damian froze. Understanding dawned instantly, and something cold and merciless flickered in his eyes. He seized my hand. "I get it now, Lori. She'll pay for this…"

That's Damian in a nutshell.

When he loves you, you're his entire universe.

When he doesn't, you're just an ant beneath his shoe.

That afternoon, I switched on the TV to find the Golden Globes red carpet in full swing.

Sienna's name dominated every entertainment headline.

"Sienna Ross: Frontrunner for Best Actress"

"Sienna: 'Damian Blackwood is my rock and inspiration'"

On screen, she glided down the carpet in a blood-red gown, her makeup flawless, her smile practiced—already poised like a winner about to claim her prize.

With Damian pulling strings behind the scenes, that award was practically engraved with her name already.

Behind her, a montage of her career highlights played on the massive screen. Then suddenly—blackout.

Unmistakable snorting sounds filled the venue. The screen flickered back to life—showing Sienna in a dressing room, lines of cocaine on her vanity, viciously mocking her Black competitor with racial slurs.

That woman was Sienna.

The audience erupted. Whispers turned to shouts as hundreds of disgusted eyes locked onto her.

Her smug smile vanished, replaced by naked terror. She screamed, lunging toward the screen as if she could somehow cover it with her hands.

Her once-adoring fans stormed in from outside, transforming the elegant ceremony into chaos.

"Fraud! Get the hell out of Hollywood!"

"Racist bitch! Cancel her!"

They pelted her with drinks, phones, anything they could grab. Some yanked her hair while others shoved her to the ground. Her crimson gown soon bore an even darker stain spreading across her abdomen.

She was miscarrying.

Police sirens cut through the chaos. Officers cuffed her: "Sienna Ross, you're under arrest for aggravated assault. Let's go."

Sienna thrashed against their grip. Before they forced her into the cruiser, realization dawned on her face. Staring directly into the sea of cameras, she shrieked: "It was you! You orchestrated this, didn't you, Aurora! You manipulated Damian! This is all your fucking fault!"

The broadcast cut off. Within minutes, every search term related to my name disappeared from the internet—as if I'd never existed.

Such familiar tactics—rewriting reality with a snap of his fingers. Only Damian wielded that kind of power.

The miscarriage, the destroyed career, the jail cell waiting for her. All orchestrated by him.

When Damian visited that night, a shadow of satisfaction lingered in his eyes. He pressed his cheek against my hand like an overgrown dog seeking approval.

"Lori, I made Sienna pay…"

"She'll never come between us again. Can you forgive me now?"

I stroked his face with feigned tenderness.

"Not even close," I whispered. "Damian, you've barely scratched the surface."