

Not a Love for Faint Hearts
Everyone in Asterhaven knew—Maxwell Porter hated Zoey Bradford. Hated how she clung so desperately to their marriage. Hated how she refused to set him free. He asked for a divorce. Ninety-nine times. But the hundredth time, when he thought she'd turn him down like always, her voice cut through the air, cold as ice that had been frozen for a thousand years. "Fine. Let's get divorced." A tale of love turned to hatred, of revenge, and the devastating consequences when pride and love collide in a marriage built on secrets and betrayal.Chapter 1 Chapter 1
"She actually agreed? Congrats, Maxwell. You're finally free!" One of the guys laughed. Inside the private room, Maxwell's friends were still joking, disbelief written all over their faces. Even Maxwell himself froze for a second when he had heard it. For just a moment, something flickered in his deep, ocean-dark eyes—surprise. But more than anything… relief. He raised his arm and waved it carelessly. "Drinks are on me tonight." The whole room erupted in cheers. Except for Zoey Bradford. Her stubborn silhouette faded into the chaotic swirl of neon light. For reasons he couldn't quite explain, Maxwell glanced back at her one more time. "How long do you think it'll take before she comes crawling back?" someone asked. "A week? Two?" Maxwell said with a sneer, "I'd say seven days.""Seven days from now, I'll marry Nancy. Get ready for my wedding party." The room exploded in excitement. Zoey had already left the private room. The sunlight outside was harsh, blinding. Only then did she finally let out the breath she'd been holding. She forced herself not to cry. Her chest felt hollow, her limbs numb, as she quietly took a cab home. Her phone kept buzzing. Videos of Maxwell's proposal were everywhere on social media. She didn't want to look. She told herself not to. But her thumb betrayed her. She tapped on it anyway. On the screen, Nancy Westbrook stood there in an outrageously expensive couture dress, her cheeks flushed pink, eyes wide with surprise and delight. Of course, Zoey knew Nancy. Nancy was the girl who had stayed by Maxwell's side the longest, the girl he bought a luxury apartment for, the girl who now wore a one-of-a-kind Langue blue diamond ring. Maxwell had once complained that Nancy was always throwing little tantrums. Every time he wanted to do something, she would lift her chin, her face tight with childish defiance. "Maxwell, I won't be anyone's mistress!" And so, Maxwell started asking Zoey for a divorce. Back then, she and Maxwell had built their business from the ground up. But just as success was within reach, he used their marriage to destroy it completely. She hated him for it. Hated him so much, the only thing she could do was cling to the marriage like a lifeline. The first time he asked for a divorce was the day she nearly died giving birth. She was hemorrhaging. He stood by her hospital bed, cold and detached. "Sign the divorce papers, and I'll sign the consent form for your surgery." The second time was the day she got into a car accident. "Agree to the divorce, and I'll call an ambulance." His voice cold as ice. ... The ninety-ninth time was when she'd been kidnapped. Shot. A bullet lodged in her heart. He called her from his phone. His voice, as cold as ever. "Agree to the divorce, and I'll pay the ransom." And now, the hundredth time… She was just tired. Completely, utterly tired. She hadn't wanted to give in. But the doctor had told her that her heart wouldn't hold out much longer. Seven days, maybe. After that... death. She walked into the dim, silent villa. Despair seeped into every corner. Even then, the tears wouldn't come. Because she remembered—she was the one who had chased after Maxwell first. Back then, Maxwell was the crown prince of Asterhaven's elite. Distant. Unreachable. But as a child, she had always clung to him. He never liked it. Never warmed to her. Her presence only ever seemed to annoy him. And yet… It was that same cold, detached boy who had charged into a burning building, over and over, to drag her out of the flames. He had pulled her back from the brink of death with his own hands. Her parents had died in that fire. Afterward, she didn't speak for a long time. It was Maxwell who sat patiently beside her, helping her learn to talk again. And whenever anyone mocked her broken speech, he didn't hesitate—he would beat them until they were on the floor, three ribs snapped. At night, when the darkness terrified her, he'd stay awake telling her stories. They'd stay up all night long, talking. He never left her alone in the dark. She had truly believed… she was loved. So when he knelt down and offered her the simplest, plainest little ring, she didn't hesitate. She said yes. But after the wedding... by the time she realized what was happening, her family's business was already stripped bare, hollowed out beyond repair. And when she burst into his office, demanding to know why... All she saw was Maxwell, holding Nancy in his arms, kissing her deeply. Her mind went blank. Rage and shock hit her like a thunderclap. "You saw that?" Maxwell asked, calm as ever. "Divorce me. Nancy deserves a proper title." In that moment, it felt like ten thousand arrows pierced her heart. She went mad. She lunged at him, screaming, demanding why. But the ice in his eyes froze her to the core. "You really thought I loved you?" His voice was so cold it hurt. "Zoey, when your mother drove mine to her death… do you think she felt this same kind of despair?" That was the moment she understood. He hated her. He had hated her for ten full years. And so, like a cornered dog, she fought. Fought with everything she had left, clinging to the one thing she still owned—their marriage. She refused to bow her head. But now… she was dying. Even thinking about it made her feel pathetic. Pride was Zoey's armor. She'd rather choke on blood than let anyone see her stumble. Even death wouldn't be granted the satisfaction of her surrender. She wouldn't let Maxwell collect her corpse. She didn't know how long she'd been asleep when she jolted awake. In the dream, Maxwell had held her gently. Red roses covered every surface, blooming endlessly. His eyes were full of warmth and tenderness as he said, "Zoey, let's be husband and wife… forever." But when she opened her eyes, there was only darkness. Her phone buzzed with a new post from Maxwell's feed. A flash of crimson. A crumpled bedsheet. The caption read: [Finally… with the love of my life.]
Chapter 2 Chapter 2
The next day, she took all the money she had left and bought herself a burial plot. The contact person for the cemetery? Maxwell. Staring at the phone number she had memorized so perfectly, she suddenly felt pathetic. Zoey let out a bitter laugh, shut her eyes, and without another word, she blocked Maxwell. With her own funeral arrangements settled, she went back to the villa. But the moment she arrived at the gate, she froze. Her personal belongings—her clothes, her books, her memories—were all scattered on the ground like garbage. Before she could even react, a sticky-sweet voice pierced right through her chest. "Maxwell… are you sure everything here belongs to me now?" Maxwell chuckled lazily, then kissed the woman on the lips. "It's all yours. You're the lady of this house now." Neither of them noticed Zoey standing frozen at the door. Her body felt stiff, her limbs numb, like she'd been plunged into ice. She dug her nails hard into her palms, trying to ground herself, to look less pathetic. But before she knew it, she was already charging forward. On the ground, photos of her and Maxwell—every single one—had been ripped to shreds, fragments scattered like snow. But what stabbed her heart the most... was the sight of her parents' urns, tossed into dirty, stagnant water, stained and filthy. "Who did this?!" Zoey's fists clenched so tight her nails nearly pierced her skin. Rage flared, burning through her. Nancy yelped, startled. She darted behind Maxwell, her voice trembling with manufactured fear. "Maxwell… she's so scary. She won't… hit me, right?" Maxwell's expression didn't even flicker. He simply tightened his arm protectively around Nancy, his voice cool, edged with irritation. "I did it. Got a problem? This is my house. You've already signed the divorce papers. If you don't like it, get out." A sharp pain stabbed through Zoey's chest. But when she looked up, her face was calm. "The divorce isn't finalized yet. This is still my house." She glanced at the woman clinging to his arm. "And her? What's she supposed to be? Should I call the cops?" Her words struck like a match. Fury flashed in Maxwell's eyes. His brow furrowed, and the disgust in his gaze nearly spilled over. "Zoey, what happened to that famous pride of yours? Where's that dignity you're always flaunting?" His laugh was cold, bone-deep. Zoey didn't respond. She bent down, picked up her parents' urns, and without a word, turned and headed upstairs. Then, right in front of Maxwell, she grabbed all of Nancy's luggage and threw it down the stairs with brutal force. Nancy's eyes went bloodshot in an instant. She shrieked, crying and wailing, threatening to leave. Zoey slammed her bedroom door shut, locking everything—and everyone—outside. She was exhausted. So exhausted. She closed her eyes, tears slipping down silently. This house… this was the last thing her parents had left her before they died. And Maxwell knew it. He knew exactly why she'd never wanted to leave. Because this was her home. But now… her hands trembled weakly. Even the last bit of strength in her seemed to dissolve. She was nearing her limit. She could feel it, down to her bones. Dragging herself up, she began pulling out everything from the past ten years—the memories, the relics of a marriage she once believed in. The red dress he gave her for her birthday? Turned out it was just a freebie from buying Nancy a custom couture gown. And the wedding ring… the one she'd cherished for ten years… the one that had always felt a little too loose. She finally looked closer. Inside the band—tiny, almost invisible—were engraved initials. Not hers. NW. Nancy Westbrook. Her breath caught. Her vision blurred. It felt like a thousand needles piercing straight into her heart. How stupid could she have been? How could it take her ten years to finally see it? Maxwell never loved her. Never. Her body couldn't take much more. Her heart, barely holding on, seemed moments from giving out. While Maxwell was out, she quietly dragged everything—the clothes, the gifts, the memories—into the garden and burned it all. She had barely closed her eyes to rest when her phone suddenly rang. Then she heard his voice. Cold as ice. "Zoey, Callie's in trouble. You need to get here. Now." Her mind snapped awake. She bolted out the door, panic gripping her throat, her heart pounding as fast as her feet could carry her. Callie Bradford. The child she'd adopted after nearly dying from childbirth. The child with leukemia. After Maxwell had completely severed ties with her, she had no choice but to send Callie to the orphanage. But every week without fail, she went to visit. Callie was always so obedient. No matter how much pain she was in, she'd gently hold Zoey's hand and whisper, "Mama, it doesn't hurt." Zoey could never have her own child again. Callie was her family. Her flesh and blood in every way that mattered. She stepped on the gas, pushing her car to its limits. By the time she screeched to a stop and shoved open the orphanage door... A shrill burst of laughter echoed across the crowd. "Hahahaha! Maxwell, you were right. Look at her. Just like a dog. One word from you and she comes running." It was Nancy. Her eyes were bright with malicious delight. Zoey scanned the faces around her—smirks, sneers, ridicule. In that instant, everything clicked. She understood. She turned to leave. But Nancy lunged, grabbed her wrist, and yanked her back. Zoey struggled, tried to break free. But before she could, Nancy shoved her. Her body tipped, weightless for a second, then crashed into the lake. Filthy water surged into her mouth, her nose, her lungs. Her limbs flailed like a drowning frog. Above the water, Nancy stood, triumphant, her smile gleaming with vicious satisfaction. "And you dare call me a mistress? Who the heck do you think you are?" Zoey drifted in that lake for an hour. An hour that felt like eternity. And when she finally crawled out, trembling, soaked, freezing—the first thing she did was stumble toward Nancy. Her entire body shook. Her fingers curled into a fist. Then, with every last ounce of strength left in her… She slapped Nancy.
Chapter 3 Chapter 3
When Zoey opened her eyes again, all she could see was the blinding white ceiling of a hospital room. The sharp smell of disinfectant flooded her senses. She scrambled up in panic, but the stinging shooting across her face and body forced her still. "Miss!" Dr. Willow rushed over, grabbing her hand just as she was about to tear at the skin on her face. "Don't move! You just underwent skin graft surgery. Right now... It's still fragile." Skin graft...? Zoey froze. She stumbled toward the sink, staring at the mirror. Her face—what was left of it—was covered in open wounds of all sizes. Fresh blood seeped from raw, mangled skin. The sheer sight of it made her eyes shut tight in despair. Dr. Willow's voice was still behind her, firm but helpless. "Miss, you shouldn't move. I know... I know it looks bad. But if you take care of it properly, there's still hope. It might heal..." Tears slipped down her cheeks, soaking into the raw wounds and making them burn worse. "But I... I don't have a future." A shadow fell over the doorway. Maxwell stood there. His gaze was dark and bottomless. "This... is what you owe Nancy." His voice was cold and detached. "That slap you gave her left a gash on her face. Her skin is delicate... she's disfigured now. You're compensating for it. And the fight earlier today... yeah, it was her fault first. But she's been punished already." Zoey laughed. She laughed so hard it hurt. Her face split open again, and blood oozed out. "Punishment?" Maxwell frowned slightly, as if her question annoyed him. "She's terrified of pain. You think skin graft surgery doesn't hurt enough?" Zoey had always known he was biased—blatantly biased. But hearing it said out loud still sent tremors through her body, breaking something in her completely. "So, Maxwell... my face. Thirty-something wounds. Torn flesh. Grafts. All of this... this is equivalent to her feeling pain? This is what you call punishment?" The air around him turned icy, but his expression remained frozen, as if carved from a block of ice thousands of years old. "Zoey... what exactly are you still struggling for? Just be obedient. Admit you were wrong. It'll be easier for both of us." Her fingernails dug deep into her palms until she felt warm blood. Her hands trembled as she grabbed her phone and opened the emergency dial. Maxwell watched her lazily, completely unfazed. "Didn't you say it yourself earlier? We're still legally married. That surgery... the consent form? I signed it. So go ahead. Call the police if you want." His lips curved into something colder than a smile. "See if there's a single cop in this city who'll dare touch this case." With that, he turned, not even bothering to look back. The door closed. She sat there, staring at the blurry numbers on the screen—911. Her hand trembled. Her vision blurred as she thought bitterly, 'I hate him. God, why did I ever love him...' She didn't bother with further treatment. She went straight home. When she stepped inside, Nancy was already there. Nancy was casually sitting in the living room, posing for selfies, fixing the lighting, choosing the right angle to show off her best side for her social media post. Zoey ignored her completely. She didn't have the energy. She just wanted to get upstairs, find the deed to the house. This house—her parents' last inheritance—she was selling it. No matter what, she wouldn't let it fall into Maxwell's hands. But the second Nancy saw Zoey, she yelled, "Stop right there." Zoey didn't respond. In the next second, her wrist was yanked hard. Her body, too weak to fight back, stumbled forward, dragged until she was face-to-face with Nancy. Zoey noticed the thin, nearly invisible scar on Nancy's face. Nancy raised her chin, smug. "Look at this necklace Maxwell got me. There's only one like it in the entire world." Pride glowed on her face. If it weren't for Maxwell's blind indulgence, Zoey knew, Nancy would never have the guts to act like this. Zoey didn't answer. Head down, she forced herself to breathe, to conserve what little strength she had left. She needed to get upstairs. But Nancy wouldn't let her go. She grabbed Zoey's chin, forcing her to look up. "What's with this act, Zoey? You're furious, aren't you?" Her voice dripped with venom. "The man you've loved for so long... never loved you. Not even once." Zoey lifted her eyes slowly. A laugh slipped from her lips as if she'd just heard the most absurd joke in the world. "And you?" she said, voice sharp as a blade. "A mistress who wrecked someone else's marriage. You really think marrying him means you'll be safe? You're not scared... that one day, another mistress will take your place? Pathetic." The words sliced deeper than any knife. Nancy's fragile pride shattered instantly. Her face twisted with rage. "You... You wait, Zoey." Her voice trembled. "I'm going to take the thing you care about most!" Zoey thought she meant Maxwell. But that night... the villa went up in flames. Smoke billowed. Fire roared. Someone yanked her roughly from the ground. Firefighters shielded her as they pulled her away from the collapsing house. The moment her feet touched solid ground, she froze. "No... No, no, no..." Her scream broke into a sob. She lunged, trying to rush back in to grab her parents' urns. But strong arms held her back. The fire swallowed everything. Nancy was already out. Maxwell was holding her tightly, his arms wrapped around her like she was some fragile porcelain doll. Nancy's face was still twisted in defiance. "I'm not wrong!" she shrieked. "I didn't do anything wrong! She called me a mistress! She hurt me! This is what she deserves!" For the first time, Maxwell didn't defend Nancy. His face was cold, his voice even colder. "Shut up." But Zoey heard nothing. Nothing at all. All she could see was the fire. The fire that burned away the last piece of her home, the last piece of her life. Her scream tore through the night. Then, everything inside her gave out. She coughed up blood and collapsed.
Chapter 4 Chapter 4
Zoey's consciousness drifted in and out, slipping like sand through her fingers. It was the second day since Zoey had woken up, yet her voice was still broken. Not a single word crossed her lips. Across from her, Nancy twisted her hands, her eyes red as if the whole world had wronged her. "I... I'm sorry," she stammered, voice trembling. "But... but you started it. You bullied me first." Maxwell stood quietly behind her, speaking for her without hesitation. "Nancy was... immature. It's her fault this time." Zoey didn't react. She barely even breathed. "She's young and reckless. It's normal for her to make mistakes," he continued. "I'll include the house as compensation in the divorce agreement." Zoey sat motionless on the hospital bed. Without warning, she hurled everything within reach. Her voice rasped out in a hoarse, broken whisper, not even sounding human anymore. "Get out. All of you. Get out!" Maxwell didn't argue. His first instinct was to shield Nancy behind him. After that, he stayed by Zoey's side the entire day. Even when her throws left bruises on his face, even when her curses tore into him like knives, he stayed. Just like he used to, sitting by her side, helping her practice pronunciation. But Zoey knew better. Maxwell was a man who couldn't stand owing anyone anything. This—this was him paying off his debt. His guilt. For Nancy. He held her IV bag to keep it warm. He tucked sugar cubes behind bitter pills. His care was so meticulous, so gentle, that for a terrifying moment… Zoey almost let herself believe that he had fallen in love with her again. But that illusion shattered later that same night. Her throat burned with pain, forcing her out of bed to find water. The room was dark, and instinctively, she followed the dim glow spilling from the hallway until the sound of laughter and conversation stopped her cold. Voices. Familiar ones. Maxwell's friends were over, loud and rowdy. She heard Maxwell's voice, quieter but firm. "Keep it down. Don't wake her." His friends chuckled knowingly. Nancy pouted, her voice full of playful complaint. "Maxwell... you've been with her all day. When are you gonna spend time with me?" Maxwell didn't answer. He only reached out and pinched her cheek, a soft, indulgent gesture that sent his friends into a chorus of teasing. They were playing Truth or Dare. The bottle spun on the table, landing in front of Maxwell. Grinning, one of the guys finally asked the question everyone had been holding back. "Bro, seriously... back then, you could've pulled off your revenge plan without teaching her to speak, right? Why go through all that trouble?" Maxwell's expression didn't change. His eyes stayed gentle when he looked at Nancy. "Because..." His smirked. "If she couldn't speak... she wouldn't be able to moan in bed. Where's the fun in that?" The room exploded. Cheers. Laughter. Slaps on the table. And not one of them noticed the trembling figure standing just behind the door. Zoey pressed both hands over her mouth, trying to choke back the sob rising in her throat. She refused to let herself cry. Not here. Not like this. She already knew he didn't love her. She knew. So why... why did it still hurt so much? Her heart felt like it had been hollowed out. The ache was suffocating. All those memories—those moments she once believed were real—turned into blades, slicing her open from the inside out. She stumbled back to her bed. Turned out... she really was the fool. From the beginning, Maxwell had come into her life for revenge. Nothing more. She sat there the entire night, motionless, hands clenched, back straight, staring into nothing. When Maxwell walked in the next morning, her ghostly pale face made him falter—just for a second. She stared hatefully at the guy who no longer resembled the boy she once loved. Her voice broke the silence, brittle but steady, full of loathing. "Maxwell, you don't need to do any of this for me. You disgust me." His hand stilled mid-reach. The words hit sharper than any slap. Her speech caught him completely off guard. Before he could even say a word, she spoke again. Her tone wasn't angry. It wasn't emotional. It just sounded... final. "Four days from now… we're getting divorced. And you're coming with me to see Callie and sign the adoption papers for her." Her lips pulled into a cold, bitter smile. "Any kid stuck with a father like you… it's pathetic."
Chapter 5 Chapter 5
Maxwell's gaze darkened as it lingered on Zoey, but in the end, he nodded. He agreed. But he had one condition. Nancy was moving into the villa—the same one he had bought for Zoey when they first got married. That afternoon, Nancy arrived. Rain poured outside. Her feet didn't even touch the ground as Maxwell carried her tightly in his arms. Her cheeks flushed pink as she whispered, half embarrassed, half playful, "You idiot... why didn't you tell me there were so many people here? Put me down..." Maxwell's expression didn't shift. Only the corner of his lips tugged upward, a trace of indulgence mixed with warning. "Call me that again... and I'll cut out your tongue." Zoey froze. He'd said the exact same words to her once. Back when they were newly married. Maxwell only ever said things like that to the person he loved. In that moment, Zoey realized—he really did love Nancy. Her heart had long since gone numb. But her hands stayed busy, moving instinctively. Callie, ever since being brought to the orphanage, had become quieter, more withdrawn. Every time Zoey went to see her, Callie tugged her hand and called her Mama, it felt like something inside her was being crushed. But she was dying. Soon, she wouldn't be able to protect Callie. All she could do was save money, buy Callie some clothes, and try to find a good family. She had suffered her entire life. She refused to let her child suffer too. Maxwell kept telling her to wait. "Wait until Nancy moves in. I'll take you," he said. So she waited. "Wait until Nancy settles down," he said again. So she waited through another long night. And then—"Wait until Nancy finishes unpacking," he added. But Zoey knew exactly what her body was telling her. She didn't have time left. She couldn't wait anymore. So she snapped at him. The coldness in her eyes made him tremble. At last, he agreed to take her. But what she saw... wasn't Callie. It was an unmarked tombstone. Maxwell stood behind her, his voice eerily calm—rational in the most inhuman way. "She had leukemia. No donor. She wouldn't have survived. Zoey... don't be stupid." But she remembered—so clearly—that day when she miscarried. He was the one who adopted Callie. He'd held Callie in his arms and said, "This baby is ours now." Her blood turned to ice. All she could do was stare helplessly at the nameless grave. Again and again. Her knees gave out, and she sat there for a long, long time, completely hollow. Zoey couldn't remember how she got home. But once she was back... she didn't speak. Not a word. Not a sound. She simply sat, calm and mechanical, slowly finishing the scarf she had left half-knitted. Maxwell stood by silently, watching her. At six o'clock sharp, he appeared at the door with a bowl of plain porridge. "Eat something," he said. "Your body can't take this." But Zoey didn't even blink. She just kept knitting. Kept going. Thread by thread. Stitch by stitch. All the way until midnight. Maxwell finally lost his patience. He shut his eyes tight, frustrated beyond words, and when his hand accidentally brushed against hers—he flinched. Ice. Her skin was ice-cold. "I'm getting you medicine," he snapped. "If you're gonna die, don't die here. What a curse." Face dark with anger, he stormed out. It was only after the door slammed that Zoey slowly lifted her head. The moonlight outside seemed too bright. Her vision blurred. She shut her eyes like someone drowning, gasping for air. And then—agony. Pain shot from her scalp. She opened her eyes, dazed, only to see Nancy, who had appeared out of nowhere, yanking her hair viciously. Her voice, sharp and shrill, was laced with pettiness and cruelty. "What are you playing at now, huh? Still pretending to be weak?" Nancy sneered. "Zoey, it's just a dead kid. What's with the act?!" Her voice pierced Zoey's ears like needles. Zoey instinctively shut her eyes. "I hate this pathetic look on you!" Nancy's grip tightened. Her words grew more venomous. "That kid deserved to die! Even if she hadn't, if I became her stepmother, I'd make sure she suffered. I'd bring her nothing but pain. Zoey... what could you have done about it?" She forced Zoey to look her in the eye. And what Zoey saw there... was pure malice. It made her stomach twist. Her heart convulsed in her chest, trembling from pain, from rage, from disbelief. Zoey's eyes turned bloodshot. Like a cornered snake, her gaze locked onto Nancy. But Nancy only laughed. To her, it was pathetic. She raised her hand. A slap landed hard across Zoey's face. "You dare slap me?" she sneered. "I've been way too nice to you. Even if I told Maxwell to cut off that kid's medication, what can you do?" Something inside Zoey snapped. A tidal wave of hatred surged up. She had never hated like this before—not even close. She hated herself for being weak. Hated herself for being blind. Hated herself for... ever loving Maxwell. Her hands scrambled blindly across the floor. Searching. Desperate. Until her fingers closed around something cold and sharp. The knitting needle. Zoey's breath hitched. And then, without hesitation, she lunged at Nancy.
Chapter 6 Chapter 6
But Zoey was still too slow. The needle missed. Maxwell's face was like stone as he watched Zoey unravel. He turned his back on her, inspecting Nancy inside and out, checking her over four, five times until he was sure she was unharmed. Only then did he look back at Zoey, his eyes growing colder, sharper, deadlier. "Zoey… are you out of your mind?!" Zoey stared straight into his face, her voice squeezed out from between clenched teeth, her eyes bloodshot. "She deserved it. She went after Callie!" Maxwell scooped Nancy into his arms, shielding her. "She just casually mentioned it. The one who stopped Callie's meds... was me. So why don't you try killing me?!" Zoey stood there for a second, stunned... and then laughed. A laugh that sounded like broken glass, wet with tears. 'She casually mentioned it... and you stopped the meds. She casually mentioned it... and my child is dead. And somehow... she's innocent. Maxwell—how much do you love her? How far does it go?' Zoey thought hatefully. Zoey surged forward, straight into his face, hatred burning so hot in her eyes it could set the world on fire. "I hate her. I hate her, Maxwell. You better pray I never see her again in this lifetime. Because if I do... I'll kill her. Every time I see her, I'll kill her." Maxwell's stare darkened, his lips pressed into a line so tight it was barely visible. He glanced down at Nancy, still sobbing in his arms. Without another word, he turned and walked away. The massive villa fell silent. And then his voice echoed back. Low. Icy. "Zoey... you're just like that mother of yours. Vicious. Rotten. If anything happens to Nancy... you die with her." In the twenty-six years they'd known each other, the ten years they'd been married, Maxwell had never once mentioned her mother. Not even during their worst fights. But now, for Nancy... he insulted her mother and struck her where it hurt the most. Zoey collapsed to the floor, curling in on herself as small as she could. Her entire world caved in, shattered into dust. Tears fell, one after another. Her voice, when it finally came, was thin, hollow, and full of despair. "Why?" she whispered. "Maxwell... was it not enough? Was it not enough that I was willing to die for Nancy? Why did you have to take my child too? I gave you everything... everything I had, for that child. You knew that. So why... why were you still so cruel?" She choked out every word, syllable by syllable, but Maxwell didn't even pause. The only reply was a bodyguard's ice-cold voice. "Mr. Porter said... you attempted to harm Ms. Westbrook. She was traumatized. Per family rules, you're to reflect on it in the freezer." The moment the words dropped, two bodyguards lunged. They dragged her—kicking, clawing—straight toward the industrial cold storage. Zoey clung to the half-knitted scarf in her arms, the yarn twisting and fraying. Her eyes were vacant and bloodshot. The cold hit her like knives, slicing through skin, muscle, straight to bone. Her whole body trembled violently, her breath fogging up instantly, turning to frost in the air. Minute after minute passed. Her heartbeat slowed... softer... quieter... until finally— Her body gave out. Darkness swallowed her whole. When she opened her eyes again, Zoey was lying in a hospital bed. The first thing she saw was Maxwell's bloodshot eyes, full of rage. He grabbed her by the collar, dragged her halfway up from the bed, and through clenched teeth growled, "Zoey... Don't even dream of dying that easily. I want you to suffer for the rest of your life." Zoey lowered her head. A small broken laugh escaped her lips. He didn't need to worry so much. She was already going to die anyway.
Chapter 7 Chapter 7
It wasn't until the next day that Zoey finally understood what Maxwell meant. But before she could react, a group of bodyguards shoved her into the blood transfusion room. A needle as thick as a thumb jabbed into her bruised, swollen arm. Even Dr. Willow, the one drawing her blood, couldn't help but wince. His voice trembled as he tried to intervene. "Mr. Porter... Ms. Bradford just barely made it through surgery. If we take more blood now... I'm afraid—" Maxwell's gaze was ice, fixed on Zoey's frail silhouette. His voice, sharp and merciless, cut through the air. "Don't worry about anything else. As long as Nancy and the baby are fine... nothing else matters." That's when Zoey realized Nancy was pregnant. And even though her blood type was the most common—Type A—Maxwell insisted that Zoey be the one to give her blood. As the first full bag filled, Zoey's eyelids grew heavier. Every word exchanged between them pricked into her chest like needles. 'Maxwell... You'd really trade my life for hers, wouldn't you?' Zoey thought bitterly. Her body slumped weaker and weaker, darkness swallowing her vision. Only then did Maxwell glance at Dr. Willow, his voice unnervingly casual. "Keep the painkillers going. Don't let her pass out just yet." Zoey's head drooped. Even breathing felt impossible. Dr. Willow stormed back into the room, his tone firmer. "Mr. Porter. You cannot take any more blood. Not this time." But Zoey stretched out her arm herself. Her eyes were hollow, her voice empty. "If I give more... can I leave after?" Something flickered—just briefly—in Maxwell's eyes. But his grip was still firm as he shoved her arm toward Dr. Willow. "Draw it. Once we're done... we'll go finalize the divorce." Zoey didn't respond. Her mouth tasted of blood. Her body hung limp, like a puppet whose strings had long been cut. She didn't know how long it lasted. Only that when it was finally over, she collapsed against the table. Maxwell let out a cold snort. "Get her up. We're going to the courthouse." The bodyguards hoisted her like dead weight. Blood trickled from the corners of her mouth as she was dragged out. At the courthouse, she used the very last of her strength to scribble her name onto the divorce papers. The moment the divorce certificates were handed over, she tried to leave. But Maxwell yanked her wrist back, the sneer on his lips as cruel as ever. "Leave? What for?" His eyes narrowed, full of mockery. "Nancy's still weak. You're staying... as our backup blood supply." Zoey didn't fight. She couldn't. Her body wouldn't let her. ...... At the wedding ceremony, Maxwell stood at the altar, gently holding Nancy's hand. His smile was radiant. Zoey hid in the shadows of the second-floor balcony, her consciousness flickering like a dying flame. The pain. God—the pain was endless. Her whole body convulsed as a mouthful of blood surged up and spilled out. Her legs trembled. Her tears fell silently, without even realizing it. 'No, I can't... I won't... I can't die here. Not like this,' she thought. Her hand reached blindly for the staircase railing, but before her fingers could close around it, Maxwell grabbed her. Yanked her back. "Nancy fainted. Get over here. Now. She needs blood." Zoey tried to speak, but her swollen gums throbbed. Her mouth filled with blood, warm and bitter. She couldn't even form the words—I'm dying. 'Just... not here. Please, not here,' she kept praying. But everything went dark again. And as the needle stabbed into the purple, bruised skin of her arm, the only sound that reached her was Maxwell's cold voice. "Even if she dies... at least she'll have atoned for Nancy's child." Zoey stopped struggling. She lay there quietly as her blood drained away, bag after bag. Outside, laughter floated from the wedding banquet. Glasses clinking. Guests celebrating. Her mind drifted—somewhere far away. She saw a different day. Their wedding day. Maxwell was drunk back then—his face flushed, his steps unsteady—but even drunk, his hand instinctively reached for hers. The voices blended together. She closed her eyes, exhausted. And in the static of memory, she thought she heard him say, "Zoey... I'll never betray you." Except it wasn't her name this time. It was— "Nancy... I'll never betray you." A white light exploded. And Zoey died. Right there. On the transfusion table.
Chapter 8 Chapter 8
A sharp, sudden ache twisted in Maxwell's chest. He leaned back against the chair, a little drunk now. And just like that, he thought of Zoey, the woman who never knew how to give up. She had always been gentle, yet unwavering. Even when they fought—every time—she never raised her voice. She just... bore it. Quietly. He could still see her—from the way she begged in the beginning, to when her composure finally broke and she shattered completely... and then, somehow, pulled herself together, gritting her teeth to keep standing. He toyed with her. Over and over. There was a time he even disappeared for a full month, ignoring every call, every message. And yet, when he finally walked through the door... she still handed him a cup of coffee. He never understood. What the hell was she holding on to? He treated her like garbage. Pushed her away. Drove her to the edge. Lied about having a child with Nancy just to make her leave. And yet... Maxwell knew. All of it... was because he loved her. His hands trembled uncontrollably. He couldn't stop it—the way his mind drifted back to her. The way his heart still reacted to her name. To her face. To everything. Dr. Willow had told him Zoey stayed in the same place after the transfusion. She had nowhere else to go. Knowing that should've brought relief. It didn't. His chest felt like someone had shoved a fist right through it. Just then, Nancy came out from the kitchen with a glass of milk. "Maxwell," she said sweetly, tilting her head with a playful smile, "here, have some milk. Helps with sleep." Her face was bright, radiant, full of the same spoiled charm... the same charm Zoey once had. That's right. She looked like Zoey. Her eyes. Her lips. Her temper. Even the way she carried herself. That was why he agreed to this wedding. Sure, Nancy was obedient and well-behaved. But more than anything, she looked like Zoey. His arm slipped around her waist, pulling her into his lap. His heart sank lower and lower. 'There's not just one Zoey in this world,' he told himself. 'Just one insignificant Zoey. I can quit her. I swear I can.' Nancy's cheeks flushed. Her heart raced as she leaned into his chest, thrilled beyond words. Ever since their deal began, this was the first time he had initiated any intimacy. Maybe... maybe tonight they could take things further. She bit her lip, her voice soft and syrupy. "Maxwell..." Her arms wrapped tightly around his waist. Her hands fumbled with the cuff of his shirt, fingers working nervously. She tipped her face up, offering her lips, waiting— But Maxwell barely glanced at her. His eyes darkened, shadows coiling behind them like a storm about to break. He couldn't do it. Not with anyone who wasn't Zoey. His voice turned frigid. "Nancy... did you forget our deal?" Her lips trembled. Frustration flickered in her eyes. "But Maxwell... we're married." He stood, buttoning his shirt with a smile that was nothing but sharp edges. "You know damn well it's fake. You play the part, I give you resources. If it weren't for your father's gambling debts, you wouldn't be sitting here at all." His words were precise. Ruthless. Mechanical. Like a verdict being read out in court. And with that... he walked away. No hesitation. No backward glance. Nancy stood frozen. Her fingers dug into her palms, leaving crescent-shaped marks. Her eyes reddened, filling with something venomous. Because now she knew—no matter how perfect the imitation... she would never take Zoey's place in his heart. … Maxwell lay on the couch. His mind kept spinning, stuck on that last cruel conversation with Zoey. He couldn't sleep. At some point, he got up and lit a cigarette. The smoke filled the room, thick and suffocating. But it did nothing to quiet the storm inside him. In the end... he gave in. He pulled out his phone and dialed her number. The dial tone rang. Once. Twice. Three times. No answer. The line cut. All that remained was the hollow echo of silence. His chest tightened. His breath felt shallow. Finally, he called Dr. Willow. "Find Zoey. If she's fine... don't bother calling me back." Dr. Willow hesitated. He'd done this a dozen times before—tracking Zoey down whenever Maxwell pretended not to care. But this time... he couldn't hold back. "But Mr. Porter... you said after the divorce, I wasn't to report anything about Ms. Bradford anymore." Maxwell closed his eyes. Smoke curled past his lips. "Find her. Once you do... get everything arranged. A clean break. Send her abroad. And after that... make sure she never comes back. From this moment on... she's dead to me."
Chapter 9 Chapter 9
Dr. Willow stared at the phone screen as the line went dead, letting out a long, quiet sigh. 'Mr. Porter is impossibly stubborn,' he thought to himself. 'Yet, even now, worried out of his mind, and he still can't bring himself to admit it.' Dr. Willow had followed Maxwell for more than twenty years. He had watched as Maxwell's attitude toward Zoey shifted again and again—yet the one thing that never changed was his feelings for her. He still remembered when Maxwell was just a boy. The day Maxwell learned the truth—that Zoey's mother was the woman who drove his mother to her death—he didn't speak for an entire week. Dr. Willow could still picture Maxwell sitting by the window, head leaning against the glass, staring quietly at the balcony across the street. He could see Zoey there, twirling around in her little white dress, as though any second now she would skip down, grab his hand, and say— "Maxwell, let's go play." Maxwell sat there for hours. Just... watching. By the time Dr. Willow realized how long it had been, Maxwell was already crying. Silent, empty tears that had been falling for God knows how long. That was the first time Dr. Willow had ever seen that look on his face—grief so deep it was almost hollow. "Dr. Willow... I can't stop loving her," Maxwell had whispered back then. Dr. Willow had watched him carry that tangled knot of hatred and love all the way into marrying Zoey. The beginning... wasn't all bad. For a brief moment, there was happiness. But Maxwell poured every ounce of his resentment—not at Zoey herself—but into her family, into everything tied to her past. He orchestrated everything. Manipulated every piece. And yet, everything he built... was just a fortress to protect her. But eventually, Zoey discovered the truth about the money. About where it all really came from. She showed up, clutching that financial report in her hands, sobbing as the papers shook in her grip. Her tears hit his arm like tiny, scalding drops of acid. Maxwell nearly broke. Nearly. But in the end... he forced himself to turn his back on her. He forced himself to spit out the words he knew would destroy them both. "I hate you. I hate you so much, I want you dead." Zoey begged him through her tears. She didn't believe it. Nobody could believe that a man who loved her this deeply could possibly mean those words. But she kept trying. Kept looking for him. Kept coming back, over and over, until hope turned to despair. Until one day... she locked herself in her room and swallowed bottle after bottle of sleeping pills. That was the first time Maxwell ever came to Dr. Willow looking like that. Desperate. Terrified. He held Zoey in his arms like she was the last fragile thing in the world. "I don't love her anymore," he said, voice shaking. "Just... please, save her. Please... Tell me how to make her live." Dr. Willow had sighed then. "Sometimes... hate lasts longer than love." And so, the two of them spent the next ten years locked in this endless war of love and hate. Ten years of cutting each other open, over and over. Dr. Willow let out another breath, heavier this time. His feet carried him back to the wedding hall... and the moment he stepped inside, something cold, heavy, and suffocating wrapped around him. A chill crawled down his spine. The wedding decorations were still up. Streamers. Balloons. Flowers. All bright. All colorful. And in the middle of it all... was Zoey. Her face was bone white. At first, he thought she'd simply fainted. He rushed forward instinctively— —and then her body collapsed. Just crumpled, like something hollow finally giving out. She was dead. Not just dead. The way she died was... unspeakably cruel. Blood stained every part of her face—flowed from her nose, her mouth, even from beneath her eyelids. And worst of all... her lips. Even in death, blood kept oozing from her mouth. Dr. Willow stumbled back two full steps. His hands trembled. His heart hammered in his chest. One thought. Just one, overpowering thought filled his mind, 'Zoey... is dead?' The stench of death hit him hard. His stomach lurched. He had to fight not to throw up. When he finally managed to move, he bent down—trying, somehow, to lift her. But her body... her body was covered in bruises, in bite marks, in defensive wounds that spoke of how long and hard she fought to survive. Her face... drained of all life. Her skin... ghostly, waxy, stretched too tight. His first instinct wasn't to call the hospital. It was to call the funeral home. Because the only thing echoing in his head—growing louder, sharper, heavier by the second—was this, 'Maxwell... is going to lose his mind.'
