Chapter 5

On the screen, a woman stood with her back to the camera. The white dress, the hairstyle, the silhouette—identical to Vivian's.

The woman was directing several men. Then came footage of Jennifer tied up, backlit so her face was unclear. The "Vivian" on screen walked up to her, tore at her clothes, and slashed her arm with something sharp.

At the end, "Vivian" turned around and smiled—smug, satisfied. That profile looked just like Vivian's face.

Vivian's blood turned to ice.

"That's impossible..." she whispered, stumbling back. "It can't be..."

"Impossible?" Patrick's voice cut through from behind her, sharp as a blade. "Look at that face. If it's not you, then who is it?"

Vivian spun around. Patrick stood in the doorway. Next to him were several men—the same ones Jennifer had hired that day.

"That's her, Mr. Sterling," the bleached-haired guy pointed at Vivian. "She's the one who hired us. Told us to rape that girl Jennifer..."

"You're lying!" Vivian lunged at him. "I don't even know you! It was Jennifer—"

"Enough." Patrick pocketed his phone, his gaze frozen over. "Vivian, I gave you a chance. And this is what you came up with?"

"No, Patrick, listen to me—" Vivian grabbed his sleeve. "It's a setup. Jennifer planned this herself! You know we look alike. She pretended to be me..."

A sharp slap.

Vivian's head snapped to the side. Her cheek burned. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth.

She turned back slowly. Patrick's eyes were bloodshot, his jaw clenched tight. He stared at her and spoke each word like a knife. "You know what? Jenny's funeral is today."

Vivian's heart clenched.

He stepped closer. With every step forward, Vivian took one back. "She was your own sister. The fall destroyed her face. There wasn't even a full body left. And now she's lying in a coffin."

His eyes reddened. He fought to keep the tears from falling. "The last thing she said was not to blame you."

Vivian backed into the wall. Nowhere left to go.

Patrick stood over her, looking down. In his eyes—hatred, pain, and a fragility she'd never seen before.

"Vivian," he reached out and gripped her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Do you have any humanity left? Even now, you're still slandering your dead sister?"

She looked at him. Tears fell silently.

She wanted to say, it really wasn't me. She wanted to say, I've loved you for fifteen years—don't you know what kind of person I am?

But she couldn't say anything. Because all she saw in his eyes was hate.

"Patrick," her voice was so soft it nearly broke. "I'd give my life to prove I'm innocent. Would you believe me then?"

He sneered. "Your life? What's that worth?"

He let go and stepped back, then turned. "Come with me."

Patrick brought her to the cemetery.

The rain was coming down hard. Like the world needed an ark.

Vivian knelt in front of Jennifer's grave. Her knees sank into the mud. Cold rain streamed down her hair, blurring her vision.

On the headstone, Jennifer's photo smiled sweetly. It was from when she was eighteen—white dress, long hair, gentle eyes.

Vivian stared at the photo. She remembered when they were little. Her sister would follow behind her, calling out softly, "Vivi." They'd go to school together, sleep together, share all their secrets.

When did it change? After she married Patrick? Or earlier? She didn't know.

All she knew was that she was kneeling here now, accused of murder. Would Jennifer's soul feel even a shred of guilt?

"Apologize."

Patrick's voice came from behind her, colder than the rain.

Vivian didn't move. She just knelt there, staring at the photo. Rain and tears ran into her mouth, bitter and salty.

"I said apologize."

A hand grabbed her hair and shoved her head down hard.

Her forehead slammed into the stone steps in front of the grave. A dull thud. Pain exploded through her skull. Vivian groaned, her vision going black.

Warm liquid ran down her temple, thinned by the rain, staining the steps red.

Vivian braced herself on the ground, trying to lift her head. The hand slammed her down again. The second time.

Her forehead struck the same wound. Pain shot through her entire body. She bit down hard, refusing to cry out. Blood poured out, blurring her vision. She couldn't see the photo anymore. Just a sea of red.

The third and final bow. Her forehead, already torn open, was bashed against the stone again. The flesh was a mangled mess. Rain hammered down on it like needles.

She tried to struggle. She couldn't break free. Patrick was too strong, and her body too weak.

"Stop pretending. Jenny was in a thousand times more pain when she died. Vivian, what you owe her—you'll never be able to pay it back."

Vivian closed her eyes. Blood from her forehead pooled on the ground in front of the grave. Everything started to blur.

She remembered fifteen years ago. That boy carrying her down the mountain path, every step careful, afraid of jostling her. She'd rested on his back, breathing in the scent of sunshine on his skin, thinking—this is the one. For life.

She remembered ten years ago. She'd snuck off to watch him play basketball, watched him soaked in sweat on the court while she sat in the stands, heart racing. He'd waved at the crowd after scoring. She thought he was waving at her. She couldn't sleep that night.

She remembered five years ago. When she heard the Sterling heir was coming back to the country, she was so excited she couldn't sleep for weeks. She spent a whole year preparing, just so she could be her best self when she finally saw him again.

She couldn't hold on anymore. Her vision went dark. Her body went limp.

As she fell, she saw Patrick standing in the rain. Water streamed down his cold, sharp features. She couldn't see his expression.

She wanted to reach for him. Wanted to hold on. But she had no strength left. Her hand dropped, sinking into the mud.

Before she lost consciousness, she heard a voice—like it was coming from deep in her memory. "Don't be scared. I've got you."

Her lips curved faintly. Then she passed out.

Patrick stood in the rain, staring at the woman lying in a pool of blood.

The wound on her forehead was still bleeding, mixing with the rain, staining the mud beneath her. Her face was deathly pale.

He should feel satisfied. Vindicated.

So why did his chest feel like something was crushing it, squeezing the air from his lungs?

"Mr. Sterling," a bodyguard ran over with an umbrella. "She's passed out. Should we take her to the hospital?"

Patrick closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were empty.

"Take her." He turned and walked down the hill. "Don't let her die too easy. She hasn't finished paying back what she owes Jenny."

Behind him, the rain poured harder.