Chapter 11

Emma didn’t bother explaining anything. Ethan had hated her for so long, it was carved into his bones. Speaking up would just make her look even more pathetic. But clearly, the man had no intention of letting her go that easily. “Hey! Ethan, what the hell are you doing?!” The thin layer of fabric wasn’t nearly enough to shield her—Ethan’s grip was rough and unrelenting, and Emma felt like she was just some rag doll tossed back onto the couch. “Cut the crap. If you hadn’t messed Clara up like that, do you think I’d come here looking for a fight?” “Are you done yet?!” Emma bit down so hard her lips went pale. She was completely drained, barely holding it together. Finally, she let out a long, exhausted sigh. Her body went slack as she muttered, “If this is what you want... just make it quick. I’m really tired.” “You asked for it, Emma!” Ethan came at her like a storm, wild and furious. His reckless move knocked over the glass lampshade next to the couch. Emma’s blurred vision barely registered the danger. Pure instinct kicked in—she reached out to shield his head. A sharp crack echoed as the glass edge tore into her barely-healed wrist. Pain exploded, and blood welled up fast. Her grip on Ethan’s shoulders weakened as her strength drained away. She endured it all, teeth gritted, in this cold hell with zero warmth. As her consciousness started to slip, she realized something—from beginning to end, the only name she'd ever kept in her head was his. “Come on! Scream for me!” Her blood slid down her pale wrist, trickling onto his neck, shoulders, and chest. The scent of iron filled the air, thick and suffocating. He could feel it—Emma had reacted. Her body, always too sensitive, had succumbed despite everything, emotions laid bare in every tremble. Ethan wanted her to admit it. To beg him in humiliation. To surrender and take the blame. And yet, more and more... he couldn't tell anymore. Did Emma even do anything wrong to begin with?"Ethan…" Emma’s voice trembled as tears silently overflowed from her eyes, dripping onto the couch beneath her. She whispered his name, her throat catching, voice hoarse with emotion. "If one day—just if—I’m no longer around... I just hope you never regret... what you did to me..." Ethan froze. It hit him like slamming on brakes in the middle of a nightmare—like something inside him suddenly went hollow. With nothing but a surge of irritation and a hollow kind of frustration, he hastily finished and pulled away. By the time he stepped back, Emma was already asleep. Tear streaks still clung to her cheeks, and the bandage on her hand was soaked through with blood, messily clinging to her skin. Ethan glanced at the shattered lampshade on the floor. That heavy glass thing… if she’d really swung it at him, he might’ve— Lighting a cigarette with a dull flick, he exhaled slowly, casually blowing smoke towards her sleeping face, like it was some kind of screwed-up joke. She didn’t stir. Lying there completely still. Like a corpse. He reached for the throw blanket and tossed it over her. As he did, his gaze landed on her right wrist—an older scar, faint but unmistakable, cut clean across. Even with time dulling it, the wound still spoke volumes. It had once bled, a lot. Such a dramatic trust-fund girl. Ethan’s thoughts were cold as ever. Probably just the type to freak out and want to die the second life doesn’t go her way. How could someone like her ever compare to Sophie? Strong, bright, and full of hope. But Ethan would probably never know— On Sophie’s death anniversary, he'd been blackout drunk, stumbling through the empty streets before dawn. Some punks had spotted his expensive clothes and tried to rob him. He'd clung to the cheap wristwatch Sophie gave him like it was his last lifeline—so much so that the thugs pulled a knife. It was Emma who’d followed him, Emma who threw her tiny body between him and the blade. Her sheer determination freaked them out enough to make them retreat before doing serious damage. She didn’t even weigh ninety pounds, yet somehow she dragged his half-unconscious body back to the hotel room and got him into bed. Those bloodstains? Not some twisted tale about her “seducing her way in.” That night had nothing to do with cheap drama. She’d just collapsed next to him—from exhaustion—after staying by his side all night. But Ethan would probably never piece that together. He thought the manipulative ones were always the gossip reporters with their shady lenses and rumors. Turns out—he was no different. Still convinced Emma was some scheming rich girl using every trick to get close. Never once stopped to ask—who was the broken mess crying in her arms the night before, looking like the world had crushed him?