On the screen, the flight information for four days later glowed faintly—a small, distant beacon of freedom. But now, that fragile light could no longer pierce through the numb, suffocating darkness inside her.
Three years ago, she had been framed, trampled, stripped of everything.
And now—was he planning to destroy the last thing she had left? Her dignity, her innocence?
She would never let that happen again!
...
The next morning, Helena forced her aching body out of bed.
Downstairs, Laica was sitting gracefully on the very sofa Helena had once handpicked for the house. Dressed head to toe in Chanel's latest collection, she sipped her coffee with practiced elegance—like the true mistress of the house.
The moment she saw Helena, Laica set down her cup and rose with a sugary smile. "Helena, you're awake? I heard something happened to you yesterday—I was so worried! I came to check on you personally."
Helena's gaze was icy. "I don't need your fake concern."
The smile on Laica's face faltered—but only for a second. Then, it curled into a smirk, sharp and taunting.
She reached into her designer bag, took out her phone, and turned the screen toward Helena.