On a lazy afternoon in Seawind Town, the sun cast its drowsy light on the faded sign of "Martha's Diner." The air was filled with the aroma of fish and chips, the slight bitterness of coffee, and the creaking sound of old wooden floors being trodden upon—a unique blend of serene, warm, working-class life. Wearing a stiff, pink waitress uniform that had been heavily starched, I weaved between greasy tables, mechanically clearing dishes, wiping tables, and refilling cheap black coffee for regulars.

Since that chaotic night, Sally truly left. He didn't say goodbye; he just disappeared as quietly as he had arrived. The fence in the yard gleamed with a fresh white under the sunlight, the porch steps no longer wobbled, and the windows no longer let in drafts. In this silent way, he repaired all the gaps in my life, and then, carrying the unrepayable guilt I owed him, he completely exited my world. Professor Finch also never reappeared. He was like a gust of wind, stirring up all the desires and shame within me, only to vanish without a trace, leaving me alone in the messy ruins to face an even more wretched version of myself.


I forced myself not to think about them, not to think about Damian, not to think about the secret growing inside me day by day. I immersed myself in heavy and numbing physical labor, from morning till night, until I was utterly exhausted, collapsing into bed and falling asleep instantly, with no room for dreams. Only then could I temporarily forget what a failure, how despicable I was.

When the door of the restaurant was pushed open, the little bell hanging on it rang with a crisp chime. I didn't look up, just habitually called out, "Welcome, please take a seat."

But this time, there was no response. The noisy chatter in the entire restaurant seemed to quiet down in an instant. An unusual silence made my nerves instinctively tense up. I lifted my head, following everyone's gaze.


And then, I saw her.

She stood at the entrance, her back against the harsh afternoon sunlight, like a sculpture that had stepped out of a fashion magazine, belonging to a world apart. She wore a crisp white Chanel dress, its hemline perfectly resting just above her knees, revealing her long and slender calves. On her feet were nude Christian Louboutin heels, their iconic red soles glaringly out of place in this humble restaurant, exuding an air of aggression. A luxurious platinum blonde mane was elegantly coiled into a chignon at the back of her head, not a strand out of place, accentuating her exquisite features, as if she were God's finest creation.


Victoria Sterling. Damian Blackwood's fiancée.

My heart stopped beating for a moment, and it felt as if all the blood rushed to my limbs in an instant, leaving my hands and feet cold and stiff. The plate in my hand fell to the ground with a loud clatter, and the sound of it shattering was particularly piercing in the quiet restaurant.

Why is she here? How did she find this place?

Victoria's sea-blue eyes, like the most precise radar, instantly locked onto my location in the crowd. There was no surprise on her face; instead, she curled her lips into an elegant and composed smile, as if we hadn’t unexpectedly reunited in this remote countryside, but had coincidentally met at a high-end restaurant on New York’s Fifth Avenue.

She strode forward, her red-soled high heels clicking, passing through the crowd of stunned fishermen and workers, heading straight toward me. The air seemed to thin and grow expensive wherever she walked. She stopped two steps away from me, her gaze sweeping over my cheap, grease-stained pink uniform before finally settling on my face, pale with terror.

"I just saw the menu at the door," she said with a smile, her voice sweet and crisp, like the finest champagne bubbles. "The specialty here is fish and chips? Sounds quite...local." Her tone carried an unmistakable air of upper-class superiority and disdain.

"How...how did you end up here?" My voice was dry and hoarse, barely forming a coherent sentence.

She seemed not to hear my question, walked past me directly, and sat down in an empty booth by the window. She took out a pack of silk tissues from her Hermès handbag and meticulously wiped the edges of the table and the seat, her movements so graceful that it didn't feel like she was in a cheap diner but rather performing some kind of sacred ritual.

"I'd like a glass of sparkling water, Perrier will do, with a slice of fresh lemon." Only after finishing all this did she lift her head again, her beautiful sea-blue eyes carrying a hint of an unequivocal command, "Then, have your boss come over."

Martha, the diner owner, a plump and kind-hearted middle-aged woman, had already been flustered by the scene. She hurried over, a sycophantic smile plastered on her face, "Miss, what can I do for you?"

"I need her," Victoria extended her slender finger adorned with a Cartier diamond ring, pointing at me with the demeanor of selecting a commodity, "to serve me. Only her." She enunciated each word deliberately, every syllable laced with an inescapable pressure.

Martha glanced at me hesitantly, then at Victoria, ultimately succumbing with a nod. In the face of wealth and power, the goodwill of an ordinary person is so fragile.

I took a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. I didn't know what she intended to do, but I knew I couldn't show even a hint of cowardice in front of her. I walked into the kitchen, poured myself a glass of ice water, and drank it in one gulp. The cold liquid slid down my esophagus, yet it couldn't quell the burning heat and panic within. I straightened my uniform, carried a glass of the Perrier she requested, and walked back out.

I gently placed the water glass in front of her, trying to make my movements appear steady and professional. "The Perrier you asked for."

Victoria didn’t touch the glass. She simply leaned back in her chair, studying me with that scrutinizing, icy gaze, her eyes reflecting the same curiosity as a zoo visitor observing monkeys through glass.

"Sit," she said.

"I’m a waiter here, I can’t…"

"I said sit," she interrupted, her smile fading. Though her voice remained soft, it carried an unmistakable chill.

I stiffly sat down on the opposite side of the booth. The small table between us might as well have been an insurmountable divide. The others in the restaurant had already discreetly stopped looking our way, but the tension in the air left everyone on edge.

Victoria slowly drew two items from her elegant leather bag.

A checkbook, and a photograph.

She pinched the photograph with two fingers and gently pushed it towards me, its back facing up. Then, she picked up the Montblanc pen, swiftly wrote a string of numbers on the check, signed her flamboyant name, tore it off, and similarly pushed it towards me.

"One million," she said softly, her red lips curving into a perfect yet emotionless smile, "dollars."

My gaze fell on the long string of zeros on the check, and my mind went blank. One million dollars. To me at this moment, this amount was nothing short of astronomical.

"What does this mean?" I forced myself to speak, my throat dry as if it were about to catch fire.

"It's very simple, Isabella." She slowly flipped the photograph over.

The photograph was of me.

It was me standing in my dilapidated little courtyard, wearing loose maternity pants, my head lowered, gently caressing my high and rounded belly. The sunlight fell on my profile, and the corner of my mouth carried a smile, one that even I hadn’t noticed—a mother’s smile.

This photo was like a red-hot dagger, instantly piercing through all my disguises. My breath halted, and the blood in my body seemed to freeze in an instant. She knew. She knew everything.

“Take this money,” Victoria’s voice was as soft as a devil’s whisper, yet every word was laced with venom, stabbing fiercely into my heart, “go to a better clinic, and get rid of the little trouble in your belly. Then, take the remaining money, go to any corner Damian will never find, buy a house, change your identity, and start your new life.”

She paused, leaning slightly forward, her sea-blue eyes filled with a cold, cruel smile.

"Otherwise," she said, "I can't guarantee that you, and the little one inside you who shouldn't exist, will safely see the sun tomorrow."

"You..." I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. A bone-chilling cold rose from the base of my spine, instantly spreading through my entire body. It felt as if I had been thrown into the icy depths of the ocean, surrounded by endless, suffocating darkness and pressure.

I always thought that what I escaped was merely Damian's suffocating control, my own shame and guilt. Until this moment, looking at Victoria's exquisite yet venomous face, I truly realized for the first time just how terrifying and dangerous the world I fled truly was. In their eyes, I and the child in my womb were not lives at all, but mere trash that could be casually priced and easily "disposed of."

"Do you think you can become the mistress of the Blackwood family with this child?" Victoria's mockery grew more intense. "Don’t dream, little sparrow. Damian might be momentarily intrigued by your cheap stubbornness, but his wife, the future matriarch of the Blackwood family, can only be me, Victoria Sterling."

Her gaze fell upon my flat abdomen, and the look in her eyes was as if she were staring at something utterly repulsive.

"And the heir to the Blackwood family can only come from my womb. What's in your belly... at best, is nothing more than an illegitimate bastard."

The word "bastard" felt like a sharp slap across my face. A mix of humiliation, anger, and fear erupted within me like a volcano. I could endure her insults toward me—calling me cheap, delusional—but I could not tolerate her demeaning my child.

This child, perhaps conceived in disgrace, perhaps a testament to the shame of my life, was still a part of me, my only blood-related kin.

A surge of courage I hadn’t known I possessed struggled to rise from the depths of my heart, which was filled with fear and self-loathing.

I raised my head and met her icy gaze. My hands trembled violently under the table, but I forced myself to straighten my back. I extended my hand, pinched that flimsy check with two fingers, and slowly, inch by inch, pushed it back toward her.

"I don't want your money." My voice was soft but exceptionally clear, even I was surprised by my composure at that moment, "And please, leave here right now."

For the first time, a crack appeared in Victoria's smile. She seemed not to have expected that, under such threats and humiliation, I would still dare to refuse. Her eyes narrowed dangerously, sparking with offended fury.

"Are you sure?" she asked, her voice now carrying an undisguised threat, "Do you think that by refusing, you can keep it? Isabella, I'm only giving you a choice. A dignified, least painful choice. Don't force me to use a less dignified way."

"I said, please leave." I repeated it, using all my strength to keep my voice from sounding like I was crying.

Victoria stared at me for a few seconds, and then, she suddenly laughed. The laughter was crisp and sweet, but it sent chills down my spine.

"Very well," she said, standing up, putting her sunglasses back on, and slipping the check and photo back into her bag. "You have guts. I'm starting to like you a little. However, I must remind you, little sparrow. Guts are worthless in the face of absolute power. I hope you can still sleep tonight."

After she finished speaking, she turned and walked away. The sound of her high heels hitting the ground felt like each step was crushing my heart.

It wasn’t until the white Maserati disappeared at the end of the town that my tense body finally collapsed like a puddle of mud. I rushed into the storage room behind the restaurant, locked the door, leaned against it, and slowly slid down onto the cold concrete floor.

An immense, delayed fear washed over me like a tidal wave. I hugged my knees, my body trembling uncontrollably. My teeth chattered, making a "clattering" sound. Victoria's beautiful face and every vicious word she said replayed in my mind.

"I can’t guarantee your safety…"

"Don’t force me to use less... dignified methods…"

"To clear away some trash…"

This wasn’t an empty threat. I had no doubt she would do it. She would crush me and the child in my belly as easily as stepping on an ant.

What should I do? Who can I turn to for help?

Call the police? With what evidence? A few verbal threats from a rich girl? The police would only see it as a petty rivalry between women.

My mind was in chaos, like a ball of yarn played with by a cat. Names flashed through my head one by one.

Sally? No, he's just an ordinary boat repairman—kind and strong, but what could he do against the world Victoria Sterling represents? I can't drag him into this; I can't harm him. I already owe him too much.

Professor Finch? That elegant, inscrutable man. Perhaps he has the ability to protect me, and he seems to belong to the same class as Damian. But why should I turn to him for help? Between us, it was merely a transaction built on art and desire, each taking what we needed. He is infatuated with my "talent," with the version of me as an "artwork." If I reveal my current distress and fear to him, would he still find me "beautiful"? Or would he simply see me as a nuisance?

What about... Damian?

The moment this name surfaced, I immediately dismissed it. Seek help from him? The very source of all my suffering? The man who treated me as his possession and trampled my dignity with money? No, I would rather die than return to his side, begging for his mercy. Moreover, Victoria is his fiancée. Would he, for my sake, for a child he might not even want, stand against the entire Sterling family?

I buried my face deeply into my knees and cried in despair. Silent, suppressed sobs made my entire body convulse.

For the first time, I felt utterly isolated and helpless. Like a refugee abandoned by the whole world, I floated on an endless, icy ocean surrounded by menacing sharks, unable to find even a single piece of driftwood to cling to.

I thought escaping New York would allow me to start a new life. I was wrong. I had merely fled from one cage into a more vast and perilous hunting ground. And now, the hunter had raised his gun, the bullet already in the chamber.

Instinctively, I used both hands to tightly shield my abdomen. Inside, a small life was growing, oblivious to the world. I could feel its occasional, subtle movements, like a tiny fish blowing bubbles. It was the only existence in this world connected to me by blood.

I can't let anything happen to him. I must protect him.

But, what do I have to protect him with?