Chapter 4

Amelia mustered the last bit of her strength to crawl over to the nightstand. With trembling hands, she fumbled for the antihistamines she kept around for emergencies and shoved them into her mouth. The medication eventually took effect. She collapsed back onto the floor, gasping for air. Tears mixed with sweat streaked across the red welts on her face, leaving her a mess. For the next few days, Matthew never came home. But from Sierra's Instagram updates, Amelia could see what he had done for her. He took Sierra to his private doctor, accompanied her to an art exhibition, bought her limited-edition jewelry, and so on. Soon, it was Sierra's birthday. Matthew knew Sierra loved painting, so, even though she lacked talent, he still spent a fortune organizing a solo exhibition for her. Before leaving for the event, Sierra deliberately came up to Amelia and said, "Ms. Caldwell, my exhibit opens today. You must come. I really appreciate how you've 'taken care' of me lately." Amelia expressionlessly pulled her hand away. "I'm not interested." Sierra immediately plastered a wounded expression on her face. Next to her, Matthew's face darkened, his tone curt. "Sierra was kind enough to invite you, so why are you being so difficult? Don't disappoint her!" Amelia didn't want to argue over something so insignificant, so ultimately, she quietly followed them to the gallery. Inside, Sierra's garish, juvenile paintings were meticulously framed and hung. As they turned a corner, they overheard two men who looked like art critics whispering, "Mr. Sterling sure is generous. How does this level of work even deserve a show?" "Ha! He's just spoiling his little lover. Didn't you see the woman next to him? He guards her like she's some delicate treasure. He pays her way more attention than his actual wife." When Sierra heard this, she immediately lowered her head, feeling aggrieved. With her eyes shimmering with tears, she asked, "Matt… did I embarrass you? Are my paintings really that bad?" Matthew quickly soothed her, his voice gentle. "Don't listen to their nonsense. Your paintings are wonderful." Then, he took out his phone and sent a quick text. Soon after, a large crowd suddenly poured into the gallery, swarming around Sierra's paintings and scrambling to buy them. They kept praising the art as "genius" and "full of soul". Only then did Sierra break out into a teary smile. Amelia watched it all coldly. She recognized those "collectors" and "admirers" as executives and employees from Sterling Group. This was nothing more than another performance Matthew had staged just to make Sierra happy. She suddenly recalled the time when she had first arrived at the Sterlings. She had fallen ill with a high fever, and all the maids happened to be away. She weakly crawled to Matthew's door, begging him to get her some medicine or call the family doctor. Matthew, who had only been ten years old then, only gave her a single, indifferent glance. Those beautiful yet vacant eyes showed not a ripple of emotion. Then, with a loud bang, the door was slammed in her face. The cold despair she had felt that very moment still lingered vividly in her memory. As it turned out, he wasn't heartless. His heart had simply never beaten for her, not even once. Just then, a shrill fire alarm blared somewhere inside the gallery, and thick smoke started billowing out. "Fire!" someone screamed. Panic erupted, and people surged toward the exits in terror. Sierra, pale with fright, threw herself into Matthew's arms with a shriek. He immediately pulled her close, shielding her with his body as he parted the crowd and swiftly moved them toward the emergency exit. In the rush, his elbow slammed into Amelia, who had been trying to steady herself. Caught off guard, she was knocked to the floor. Before she could scramble to her feet, a sickening crack sounded overhead, and a burning decorative beam crashed down. The heavy weight crushed her leg, sending a wave of unbearable pain surging through her. As her consciousness faded, she seemed to hear Sierra, who had already made it out into the safe zone, turn around and say, "Matt, I think Ms. Caldwell fell… Should we—" Then came Matthew's voice—cold, heartless, utterly detached—cutting through the chaos and reaching her fading awareness. "No. I've said it before. Whether she lives or dies is of no concern to me."