My eyelid twitched violently. It was the token we exchanged when we got engaged: a keepsake from my late mother—a heart-shaped pendant. Clint had given me his mother's wedding gift, a pair of bangles, the very ones I was wearing now.

"Take off the bangles," he said. "Our engagement is void."

I looked up at him. His eyes, once warm, were now cold, as if covered in frost. So, when he said he wanted to marry, it wasn't because he wanted to marry me. Five years together couldn't compare to the fleeting thrill a new lover brought. I thought I would collapse, be overcome with sadness, but I didn't shed a single tear. I calmly took off the bangles and handed them back to him.

Clint raised an eyebrow, a little surprised, but he still took them, turned, and left without a second glance.

News of Clint breaking off our engagement spread quickly. The bearing I had anticipated never came. Instead, I lost contact with my siblings all at once again. I knew this was my father's usual way of venting his anger. He and my stepmother started searching the city for a suitable husband. They wanted to marry me off to someone to maintain the wealth of the Brown family.

But ugly rumors began to circulate. They said that over the years, I had done whatever it took to please Clint; that I was used up, unfit for marriage, and could no longer bear children. No man in New York would want someone like me. My father grew more irritable, and my days became harder to endure.

Two months after Clint and I broke off the engagement, another explosive rumor emerged: Clint was engaged again—this time to Rachel. For her, he even went against his parents' wishes. The gossip mongers made sure the news reached me. I knew what they wanted to see—they were just bored, longing for the drama I used to bring.

"Frida, I think Clint still has feelings for you," someone messaged. "You're having a hard time, right? Why not beg him? Clint's a softie—you might win him back if you cry or pretend to harm yourself." Another message: "Rachel can't compare to you, Frida. You're so much more beautiful."

I didn't reply to any of the messages. Instead, I focused wholeheartedly on preparing for a marriage proposal of my own. A week ago, I knelt for an entire night. Finally, my father agreed to let me take my newly adult sister's place and marry into Washington's Koch family.

I'd heard about Andre, the eldest son of the Kochs. He was known for his ruthless nature but also wielded immense power—a king without a crown in Washington. It was said that his temper was violent, fueled by his physical disability. But I wasn't afraid. To escape the Brown family and give my siblings their freedom, I would gladly pay the price. Besides, there was no place left for me in New York. Washington might hold a sliver of hope.

Before the wedding, I arranged a meal with my closest friend. During a trip to the restroom, I unexpectedly ran into Rachel. She looked nothing like the timid girl I'd first met. With perfectly applied makeup, a classic Dior black dress hugging her figure, and a slender cigarette between her lips, she exuded sophistication and charm.

"Miss Frida, I suppose you've heard by now," Rachel said, smiling provocatively. "Clint and I are getting engaged."

Looking at her, I thought back to the shy, innocent girl I'd first seen. For some reason, a wave of melancholy washed over me.

"Yes, I've heard," I replied.

Rachel's smile deepened. "Frida, are you jealous? I heard you lost three children for him. All those years, you stooped so low to keep him. Didn't work out, did it?"

She leaned casually against the windowsill, her eyes brimming with disdain. I looked at her coolly. "Miss Rachel, as you said, you only heard rumors. Girls shouldn't spread baseless rumors about one another."

Rachel let out a derisive laugh. "It's not a rumor if it's all over New York."

I didn't want to waste any more words on her and turned to leave. But Rachel's voice turned sharp and mocking. "Frida, not all girls are the same. Your lack of self-respect—didn't your mother ever teach you better?"

My steps froze at the mention of "mother." The word sent a surge of heat rushing to my head. Without thinking, I turned and slapped her.

"Miss Frida…" Rachel was stunned for a moment, then covered her face, tears streaming down as she began to cry. "I know Clint and I getting engaged must upset you, but you can't just hit me… I understand you're hurt, but love can't be forced. Clint doesn't like women as indecent as you. That's not my fault…"

She sobbed pitifully, but every word felt like a dagger to my heart. "I know your mother died young, and no one taught you manners. Miss Frida, I won't hold this against you."

Grinding my teeth, I raised my hand to slap her again, but Clint caught my arm in a firm grip.

"Frida, apologize to Rachel," he demanded.

"I won't," I said, standing straight, pale-faced, with lips ashen. But my eyes burned bright, fierce, and unyielding.

Clint seemed surprised. Over the years, he'd seen many Fridas: the obedient and gentle me; the rapt and attentive me; the hysterical, tearful me. I'd laughed, cried, and played coy in front of him. But I had never been as calm and detached as I was now.

Pushing Rachel aside, Clint approached me, his face emotionless. "Frida, this is the last time I'll say this. Apologize to Rachel."

I looked him straight in the eye and suddenly laughed—a laugh full of finality and defiance. "Clint, I've told you already. I won't apologize. I'd rather die than apologize."

The crisp sound of a slap echoed through the empty hallway. Clint froze for a moment, stunned by what had just happened. Rachel, clutching her cheek, stared at me, equally incredulous. I, however, slowly raised my hand to cover the burning half of my face, my eyes gradually filling with tears.

"Frida," Clint took a step forward instinctively, then immediately stepped back. His hand, which had been raised as if to comfort me, fell back to his side. His expression hardened. "Frida, you brought this on yourself," he said coldly. "If you'd apologized earlier, I wouldn't have hit you."

Clint's voice was low and hoarse. "You know I don't hit women. In all the years we were together, I never laid a finger on you. But today, you shouldn't have laid a hand on Rachel. I like her. This isn't her fault. Frida, stop causing trouble and preserve what little dignity you have left."

Clint wasn't one to speak much, but today, he seemed to have a lot to say. Yet I didn't hear a single word. My eyes, red and brimming with tears, couldn't stop spilling. I tried desperately to hold them back, but they kept falling, uncontrollably, in large, hot drops. Clint's fists clenched tightly, his brows furrowed.

Rachel approached him, her voice soft. "Clint, let's go. It's not worth it."

Clint took her hand, but his gaze remained fixed on my face. "Frida, stop bothering Rachel. And don't appear in front of us again. This is my final warning."