Cecilia Ye stared at Vivian Belle, who looked utterly confident in her inevitable victory.

She wanted to retort—that Fu Zhiyé would choose her. But deep down, she knew all too well: Fu Zhiyé would always choose Vivian Belle.

She shook her head. "This is childish, Vivian Belle. I won't play these games with you."

Vivian Belle threw her head back and laughed, her whole body trembling. It took several moments before she could rein herself in. "You're scared, Cecilia Ye. You're afraid, aren't you?"

Cecilia Ye turned away, unable to meet her gaze. Yes—she was guilty. She was afraid.

Vivian Belle gave Cecilia Ye a long, lingering look before speaking, almost to herself: "It doesn't matter. Whether you play along or not, I've lost all patience. Once you two divorce, I’ll let the whole world know that I’m the one Fu Zhiyé was always meant to marry. You? You’re nothing but a thief."

With a sudden flourish, she flung her crystal wine glass to the floor. It shattered with a piercing ring, glittering shards scattering everywhere.

Standing there, Vivian Belle bent down, picked up the largest shard, and pressed it to her neck. Instantly, bright red blood welled up.

Cecilia Ye gasped, horrified. "Vivian Belle, what are you doing?!"

Ignoring the blood streaming down her neck, Vivian Belle staggered toward the window. Twenty-eight floors up, the window could only open halfway.

She reached out and pushed it as far as it would go. An icy blast of wind rushed into the room.

Cecilia Ye shivered. Only then did she notice the snow falling heavily outside—more intense even than the night at the hot springs.

"Have you lost your mind, Vivian Belle? Does this really amuse you? Hurting yourself over and over—are you chasing love, or just pity?" Cecilia Ye murmured. She simply couldn’t understand Vivian Belle’s endless self-destruction.

"Go. Go get A-Ye (Zhiyé). He’s the only one I want to talk to now."

With a feverish look on her face, Vivian Belle stretched her free hand out into the snow, letting the wind whip her face bright red.

Cecilia Ye’s gown was still damp. She thought of all the reporters and guests waiting below and shrank back, apprehension flooding her heart.

Tears stung her eyes. She knew there was no way out; today, she was doomed.

Vivian Belle’s web had been spun—there was nowhere left to run.

Yet if Vivian Belle really died here today, Fu Zhiyé would never forgive her. Not for the rest of his life.

Cecilia Ye turned to go—only to nearly collide headlong with someone. It was a waiter sent up by Fu Zhiyé to fetch her.

The waiter glanced over Cecilia Ye’s shoulder and, catching sight of Vivian Belle in the lounge, let out a piercing scream, dropping his tray to the floor with a crash.

Frozen for a moment, he then bolted downstairs, shouting for help.

Cecilia Ye’s head swam. Well, she no longer needed to call for Fu Zhiyé; she knew he would be there soon enough.

As she watched the fleeing waiter, Vivian Belle curled her lips into a cruel smile. The show was about to begin.

The waiter’s shouts drew a crowd. Fu Zhiyé, thinking Cecilia Ye was in danger, rushed upstairs, tailed by guests and reporters eager for the scoop.

He spotted Cecilia Ye standing dazed and disheveled by the door, her beautiful dress dirty and sodden.

He hurried forward to ask her what happened, but Cecilia Ye shrank away, face blank, pointing weakly toward the room. "Vivian Belle is waiting for you inside."

Seeing her ashen face, a pang twisted in Fu Zhiyé’s heart. But then his gaze landed on Vivian Belle inside the room, and his expression turned icy.

Vivian Belle was slumped against the window, blood streaming down her neck, crimson spatters staining her hand and white dress.

A collective gasp went up from the onlookers, and in an instant, the doorway was jammed with people trying to see.

Cecilia Ye was swept into the room, her strength draining away. She could only brace herself against the wall, arms instinctively shielding her stomach, forced to watch the two figures before her.

Camera flashes glittered everywhere; gossip and conjecture buzzed like hornets in her ears.

“What’s happening in there? Is someone trying to commit suicide?”

“That’s Vivian Belle! Could it be she can’t stand losing President Foster, so she…”

…

Fu Zhiyé's brow furrowed. He took a step forward, but Vivian Belle clutched the glass tighter and cried, "Don’t come any closer!"

Her expression softened as she gazed at him, voice trembling and fragile. "A-Ye, I’m sorry. I can’t wait any longer. I just want so badly to marry you…"

"You promised me—you said back then that Cecilia Ye was just a contract marriage. You told me that when I returned, you’d marry me. Why haven’t you? I’ve waited so long, but you’re still not divorced. Is it because you don’t love me anymore? Have you forgotten your promise?"

Fu Zhiyé forced his tone to firmness, cutting her off: "Yuzhi, please—stop this."

"A-Ye, why won’t you answer me? If you’ve forgotten your promise, then who in this world can I even trust? Cecilia Ye is nothing but a thief—she stole you when I was gone…"

She paused, then shook her head as tears slid down her cheeks. "Forget it, I shouldn’t speak ill of her. Otherwise, you’ll just feel sorry for her again. My body—you know it’s nothing like Cecilia Ye’s. Maybe it’s natural you don’t want to marry me anymore."

Fu Zhiyé’s cold mask wavered. The wound on Vivian Belle’s neck was bleeding heavily now—her mood seemed ready to snap.

He took a deep breath, struggling to placate her: "I haven’t forgotten. I just need some time. I will marry you."

In that moment, beneath the urgency and tension, Fu Zhiyé caught himself thinking—strangely—of how sad Cecilia must be.

But he couldn’t let anything happen to Vivian Belle.

“Did you hear that? President Foster admitted it!”

“Oh my god, what an exclusive! The beloved wife is actually just a stand-in. Vivian Belle’s the real one!”

“No wonder she suddenly showed up at the company… that Cecilia Ye, tsk tsk. She looked so gentle and pretty, too.”

…

The speculation swelled like a tide, threatening to drown Cecilia Ye.

A dull ache throbbed in her belly; cold sweat beaded on her forehead. She gripped her dress tightly at the waist, unsure where she found the strength to keep watching.

She watched as Fu Zhiyé poured his heart out, as the two professed their love before the world.

She sensed her own heart break, little by little, like a dead branch slowly rotting and splintering apart.

She finally understood—her grandfather had wanted her at this annual banquet so that everyone would see that she was Fu Zhiyé’s wife. Thinking of her grandfather’s hopes, a wave of sourness washed through her chest.

I’m sorry, Grandpa Rivers. It seems I’ve let you down once again…