Amelie felt as though every ounce of strength had been drained from her body. She collapsed onto the bed, limbs heavy and unresponsive, her muscles trembling as if she had been crushed beneath an invisible weight.
For a long moment, she lay frozen, staring blankly at the ceiling, until the dam she had been holding back finally gave way. Tears spilled freely, hot and relentless, streaking her pale cheeks as if trying to wash away the memory of the night before.
…
By the time she left the hotel, Amelie was dressed like a fugitive—her wide-brimmed hat pulled low over her face, a mask concealing the rest. Every step she took was careful, tentative, as if the world itself might recognize her and expose her shame.
The frigid morning wind bit through her high-collared coat, rushing into the nape of her neck, yet it could not erase the traces of the night etched into her skin. The bruises and marks she had tried to hide beneath her clothes throbbed with every movement, a constant, painful reminder.
At a quiet corner pharmacy, she purchased a box of emergency contraception. The clerk's gaze lingered a little too long, curiosity and subtle judgment flickering across his features. Even beneath the cover of makeup, the faint hickeys on her neck betrayed her story.
Amelie didn't dare ask for water. She could not wait, could not risk another second in that sterile, judgmental light. Outside, on the cold pavement, she tore open the package with shaking hands and forced the pill down her throat, stiff and dry.
The bitterness clawed its way down her throat, leaving a sour, acrid taste and a sudden wave of nausea that curled her stomach.
"Ugh…"
She gagged once, twice, a few times, yet nothing came up—only the gnawing, inescapable shame that clung to her like a second skin, sinking into her chest and settling there.
Before she could even catch her breath, the phone in her bag buzzed sharply.
The screen lit up: "Head Butler."
Panic seized her chest like ice. She hesitated for a heartbeat before answering.
"Hello, Miss Amelie, you haven't forgotten tonight's family dinner, have you?" came the butler's calm, kind voice. "The old master has specifically requested that everyone return tonight. Are you still at school? Shall I send a car to pick you up?"
Amelie drew a deep, trembling breath, forcing her voice into a steady, ordinary tone. "No, thank you. I'll return on my own."
"Very well. Oh, and I have good news—sir has returned as well. He will be attending tonight too."
Her grip on the phone tightened violently, knuckles turning white, heart hammering against her ribcage.
Sir. That was how every servant in the Hayden household referred to the man who held absolute authority—Christopher Hayden.
She had to see him again?
After the chaos of last night. After taking the pill. With her legs still trembling, every nerve raw from memory. And now, tonight, she was expected to sit at the same table as him, dine under the same roof, and pretend nothing had happened?
Amelie could already picture him—the way Christopher would look at her, half-smile curling at the corner of his lips, the kind of smile that seemed to savor her discomfort as if watching a private performance.
—
"Miss Amelie? Are you listening?"
"I… I understand," she whispered, voice barely audible, brittle as glass.
She ended the call and stood on the crowded K City street, her eyes tracing the endless parade of cars, lights, and pedestrians. Yet despite the bustle, a cold that cut through to her bones made her shiver. Winter in K City was merciless.
She knew she couldn't avoid going back. The Haydens had a way of finding anyone and everyone. As long as she carried the Ford name, as long as she still relied on the Hayden family for tuition, for rent, for survival, she was trapped—a bird in a gilded cage, wings clipped, unable to fly.
…
Evening fell over the Hayden estate, an enormous mansion nestled in the very heart of K City. It rose like a slumbering leviathan, dark and immovable, casting long shadows that swallowed the cobblestone paths in gloom. The cold air seemed heavier here, thicker with the weight of centuries of power and wealth.
Amelie wore a high-necked, floor-length dress, deliberately concealing every mark on her body. She lingered at the entrance for what felt like an eternity, heart hammering so violently it threatened to break her ribs. Ten minutes passed before she could summon the courage to move, before she forced her legs to carry her forward.
Then, without warning, twin beams of light seared across her back. Her shadow stretched long and thin on the pavement, trembling with isolation, like a flickering wisp in the night.
The low, guttural growl of an engine rolled through the air like a predator in the dark. Even without turning around, Amelie knew the car.
K City A·88888.
—
The black Maybach—the car that symbolized absolute authority and untouchable power within the capital's elite circles.
Her legs felt as though filled with molten lead. She could not take another step. She froze, rigid and vulnerable, as the sleek, dark vehicle glided forward and came to a precise stop at her side.
The window was not completely closed.
The black-tinted glass slowly descended a third of the way, leaving a narrow gap into which Amelie's breath fogged faintly in the cold night air.
Inside, darkness reigned. Yet she could feel it—a gaze from the shadows, penetrating, coiling around her like a venomous snake, cold and viscous.
By the faint glow of the streetlight, she caught a glimpse of a wrist resting casually against the window edge.
Strong, powerful. Wrapped with a string of deep-black, lustrous agarwood prayer beads.
And beyond the beads, a pair of eyes. Cold. Calculating. Desire smoldering behind darkened lenses.
From less than half a meter away, Christopher Hayden's low, velvety voice slithered into her ears, mixing with the crisp night air, a summons from the depths of hell itself:
"What a coincidence, Amelie."