Chapter 8

The tenderness in Claire's eyes vanished instantly, replaced by naked panic as the video continued: “Two hundred thousand for you, and rape the girl in the changing room.”

Eugene's face darkened dangerously, veins bulging against his skin. Claire lunged for the phone, smashing it against the floor before clutching his hands, her eyes brimming with perfect tears.

“This is all his,” she stammered, her voice trembling with practiced vulnerability. “Victoria must have fabricated this out of jealousy. She can’t stand your love for me. Eugene, darling, you know me?”

Crystalline tears splashed onto his hands like acid—how many times had these same tears manipulated him? How often had he compromised his soul, even mutilating the woman he truly loved, for this theatrical display of suffering?

His fingers brushed her cheeks with deceptive gentleness. “Hush now, precious. We wouldn’t want to damage those… valuable eyes.”

In a flash, his hands locked around her throat. Raw hatred blazed in his eyes. “How dare you hurt Victoria!”

Claire clawed at his grip, her perfectly manicured nails drawing blood as she choked out her final weapon: “My death… won’t earn… Victoria’s forgiveness…”

He released her instantly, looking down at her crumpled form with cold disgust. “Then you’ll be my sacrifice to her. Your corneas, your womb—everything you stole will be returned.”

Claire crawled at his feet, begging, but he turned away. Her desperate pleas transformed into hysterical laughter.

“You fool!” she spat. “You’re the one who took her eyes, her womb. You think sacrificing me will earn forgiveness? The Montgomerys will destroy you. We’ll share a special level of hell!”

He paused, but didn’t turn back, walking out into the garden where roses perfumed the air. His loving voice echoed in his memory: “When the roses bloom, I’ll become your bride.”

Silent tears traced down his cheeks. “I’m sorry, Victoria. I was wrong.”

One phone call later, he was on the next flight to Boston. After being turned away ten times by the Montgomery estate’s staff, he finally collapsed at the gates, a week without food or sleep taking its toll.

I watched him fall from a distance, my eyes cold as winter. “Take him to the hospital.”

When consciousness returned, our eyes met across the sterile hospital room—his desperate, mine arctic.

06.12 What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Stronger 61.7% None. Your eyes. Hope and dread warred in his voice, disappointment cutting our dialogue like a blade through silk. “To see me whole again?”