Chapter 4

The men froze. The sleaze on their faces turned to shock.

Blood ran down her neck, over her collarbone, staining the torn collar of her shirt.

"Shit!" The bleached-haired guy swore. "What a crazy bitch!"

The bald man stepped back. He clearly hadn't expected the fragile-looking rich girl to pull something like this.

Vivian gripped the shard and pressed it in a little deeper. Pain shot through her, but she didn't let go. She used the wall to push herself upright, blood dripping steadily between her fingers.

"Get Patrick down here. Or I die right here." Her expression was calm, almost detached.

"You think you're scaring us?" The tall guy moved forward.

Vivian pressed harder. The shard sank in. Blood poured out, soaking half her neck.

"Come on, then." She stared at them, her eyes hollow and terrifying. "He already hates me anyway. Living like this is worse than dying. Might as well die here and make sure he never forgets me."

"Get the hell out!"

The iron door flew open. Patrick stood in the doorway, his face livid.

The three men bolted like their lives depended on it.

Vivian looked at him. Her lips trembled, but she didn't say anything. She just watched him. The man she'd loved for fifteen years. Tears slid down her face silently, mixing with the blood on her neck.

Patrick walked over slowly and stopped in front of her. He looked down at the bloody mess on her throat. His eyes held nothing but disgust and hatred. She could barely meet them.

"Wanna die?" He sneered and grabbed her chin, forcing her head up. "Vivian, you think dying will set you free?"

Her tears fell harder, but she bit her lip and stayed silent.

"When you killed Jenny, why didn't you think about dying then?" His fingers tightened, leaving bruises on her jaw. "Now you wanna play the martyr?"

"I didn't..." Her voice was weak, but she kept going. "Patrick, I didn't hurt her..."

"Enough!" He shoved her face away like she was filth. "Save it for Jenny. Tell her yourself."

He turned to leave.

"Patrick!" Vivian called after him. She pressed the shard deeper. Blood gushed faster. "Please. Just give me three days."

He stopped but didn't turn around.

"Just three days," her voice shook, but she forced the words out clearly. "Let me figure out what really happened. If I did it, you can do whatever you want to me. I won't complain."

Silence.

Vivian stared at his back in that tailored suit. The same back she'd watched in the dark so many nights. She remembered fifteen years ago. The boy who'd carried her five miles down a mountain road. He'd had the same broad shoulders, the same strong silhouette.

Back then, he used to turn around and smile at her. Ask if it hurt. Now he wouldn't even look at her.

"Patrick," her voice broke, barely audible. "Please."

She rarely begged him. In the year they'd been married, she'd humbled herself, tried to please him—but she'd never begged like this. Because she knew he didn't love her. And that made her feel like she didn't deserve to beg.

But now, she had no choice.

Patrick finally turned around.

His eyes were ice-cold, but his mouth curved into a cruel smile. "Investigate? With what? The evidence is right there. Witnesses, physical proof—what exactly do you think you're gonna find?"

"Give me a chance. Just three days. If I can't figure it out..." Vivian's voice shook.

"And if you can't?" He stepped closer, towering over her. "You'll accept whatever I do to you?"

She closed her eyes. Opened them again. "Yes. Whatever you want."

Patrick's pupils contracted.

He looked at the blood streaming down her neck, the dying desperation in her eyes. For just a second, something complicated flickered in his gaze. But it vanished so fast it might've been a trick of the light.

"You wanna die?" He suddenly grabbed her wrist—the one holding the shard. "Vivian, you think you deserve that?"

He yanked hard. The shard flew from her hand and clattered to the floor. The wound tore wider. Blood gushed out. Vivian gasped but bit down hard, refusing to scream.

"Jenny died horribly. What gives you the right to die?" His voice was a low snarl. "Even if you wanna die, you'll wait until I've made you pay back everything you owe her. Every. Last. Thing."

Vivian stared at him. At this face—familiar and yet so foreign. Her heart felt like someone was squeezing it, over and over.

"So," her voice was barely a whisper, "you'll let me investigate?"

Patrick let go and stepped back. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the blood off his fingers. The gesture was elegant. Brutal.

"Three days." His tone was glacial. "If you can't figure it out—"

He paused. His gaze landed on her face, dark and bottomless. "I'll show you what it means to wish you were dead."

He turned and left.

At the door, he stopped. "Someone get her to the hospital. Don't let her die."

The iron door shut. Footsteps faded.

Vivian leaned against the wall and slid to the ground. She pulled her knees to her chest, buried her face, and her shoulders shook violently.

The wound on her neck was still bleeding. She didn't feel it. The pain in her chest drowned everything else out.

She thought back to fifteen years ago. When that boy had saved her from traffickers, she'd been in the same position—arms around her knees, curled into a ball, sobbing uncontrollably.

Back then, he'd crouched in front of her and patted her back gently. "Don't be scared. I've got you."

She'd looked up. The sunset behind him turned him golden, like a little sun.

"What's your name?" she'd asked through her tears.

He'd smiled, showing two small canines. "I'm Patrick."

From that day on, she'd decided he was the one she'd marry. She'd kept that promise for fifteen years.

She'd shaped herself into what he wanted. She'd memorized every word he said, treasured every smile. She thought if she loved him enough, one day he'd see it.

But now—

Vivian lifted her head. She looked at the empty basement, at the dried blood on the floor. And she laughed. Laughed until tears streamed down her face.

"Patrick," she whispered. "How did you turn into this?"

Three days passed quickly.

Vivian brought Patrick to the surveillance room of a small residential complex across from the abandoned factory. It was the only camera she'd managed to find that might've captured what really happened.

She thought if Patrick could just see the truth, he'd finally believe her.

But the footage on the screen made her blood run cold.