I screamed his name and rushed forward. With every fiber of my being, I slapped him across the face.
Never—not even in my worst nightmares—had I imagined he could go this far for Verona.
Swallowing my tears, I turned to leave. But before I could take a step, he grabbed me roughly by the arm.
His expression was devoid of warmth, his voice sharp and cold as steel.
“Hey. You haven’t signed the letter of understanding. You’re not going anywhere.”
“Fine,” I replied, my voice trembling. There was no strength left in me to even expect anything from him.
Five minutes later, a new copy of the letter was brought in.
Outside the hospital, my mom still lay on the concrete, and the medical staff trying to save her were being held back by Jericho’s bodyguards.
I didn’t even look at him anymore. My gaze was hollow as I picked up the pen and signed my name—stroke by stroke—on that cursed paper.
“Now,” I said quietly, “can I go?”
When I looked at him, my eyes were as cold as his.
His brows knitted together. His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to say something.
But Verona tugged at his sleeve, tears welling up in her eyes.
“Jericho,” she whimpered, “my wound… It really hurts.”