"Dad, what are you doing? She agreed to it herself," Elvira said smugly, clutching Harold's arm. "And didn't you say any Louis daughter would do? Janet is the second daughter of the Louis family, isn't she?"
Had she known that the man Janet would end up marrying was like poison—dangerous, addicting, and impossible to control—she never would have pushed Janet into the Elwin family.
"If you dare take another step," Anila warned, eyes sharp as daggers, "I'll have my father revoke every single share you hold in Louis Corp. I mean what I say, Harold."
She knew he'd finally caved. In this house, no one defied her.
Janet paused halfway up the stairs.
She turned to see Harold, head lowered, silent in defeat.
Whatever last flicker of hope she had left… died right then.
She closed her bedroom door quietly and let her weakened body sink to the carpeted floor. She didn't cry.
She couldn't remember how.
Tears had long dried up the moment Elvira carved those cruel, bloody reminders onto her skin. Janet had learned to live without mercy… or softness.
No guests.
No ceremony.
Not even a name for the groom.
But for the first time in her life, Janet was certain of one thing—she had to shed this identity.
Even if it meant jumping straight into another hell.
Two nights later, a stretch Rolls-Royce pulled up outside the Louis estate. It didn't come with flowers, nor an entourage—only two silent bodyguards, sent to retrieve the bride.
Janet didn't bring anything with her when she left.
Just like when she arrived at the Louis household ten years ago—she came with nothing, and now, she left with nothing.
It was as if she had never existed at all.
From an upstairs window, Harold watched helplessly as his daughter walked alone toward the car.
No one came to see her off—not a single soul.
Anila had made that perfectly clear: no goodbyes, no second thoughts.
And this time, the Elwin family had gone all in. They were offering an island development project worth over a billion to marry the Louis family's second daughter.
For Anila, it was a win-win.
Ten years ago, she couldn't get rid of the girl.
But today?
Inside the cold, silent villa, the balloons clumsily taped to the walls offered a strange, almost mocking sense of celebration. When Charles found out the woman Philip was marrying today was named Janet, he was stunned beyond words.
Could it really be her?
Or was it just someone with the same name?
The reason he hadn't gone to receive the bride himself… was because deep down, he still clung to a foolish hope.
A hope that the woman marrying Philip wasn't her.
In the North Wing manor, connected to the main estate and now decorated with festive flair, the air was still stiflingly sealed.
In a shadowed, soundproof room sat a man in a wheelchair, his thick black hair slightly disheveled. His hands rested limply on the chair's arms, and his face was cloaked in darkness. At the faintest creak from the door, his low voice cut through the silence like a blade.
"Who's there?"
"It's me, young master Philip," came the respectful voice of an old servant. "Everything has been arranged just as you instructed."
Philip's tone gave nothing away—neither joy nor anger. "She's here?"
"Yes, sir. The car has arrived. The lord said she'll be brought directly to your room."
"Leave me."
As the door clicked shut again, a flicker of cold calculation flashed in the man's shadowed eyes. He could hear it now—those familiar footsteps.
He was here.
Charles leaned against the intricately carved wooden door, listening intently.
The thought of the man who had spent the last six years in that room, confined to a wheelchair, only reignited the hatred in his eyes. Hatred for August.
The pain Philip endured, the humiliation, the broken future—it was all August's doing.
Charles had vowed: for the mother he lost and the brother who suffered, he would make August pay.
Slowly.
Ruthlessly.
"Come in."
The voice from inside was hoarse, yet oddly in sync with his presence—as if the man within knew it was him.
Charles straightened, concealing the rage on his face before pushing the door open and stepping inside.
Darkness. Dampness. Cold.
It was just as oppressive as always.
"Charles…"
The wheelchair turned slightly, revealing a man whose features were completely unlike Charles's—striking in their own right. His eyes, a brilliant sapphire blue, shimmered with a mixture of melancholy and detachment.
He didn't have the delicate features of the East, but the aristocratic sharpness of a mixed lineage.
There was a trace of Derrick in his brow line—clear, familiar—but no resemblance whatsoever to Charles.
And yet, they were brothers by blood.
The man in the wheelchair, the one cloaked in shadow and silence, was none other than Charles's older brother: Philip Elwin.
"Congratulations, Philip."
Charles's handsome face was half-hidden in shadow, a sliver of moonlight piercing through the blinds, casting a silver glow on his tall, lean frame—making him seem even more striking, almost unreal.
Standing before Philip, Charles's expression bore a sincere smile of blessing.
But in those sapphire-blue eyes of his brother, he could see none of the joy a groom should possess.
Instead, there was a veil of sorrow hanging at the corners of his eyes.
"Tonight… I need a favor," Philip said quietly, lifting his right hand. His fingers were long and pale. His face, half-turned in shadow, was unreadable.
For six years, he had not been close to a woman. And now, Derrick had arranged one for him—a woman he didn't want, could never want.
And the man in front of him—the one who had silently sacrificed so much—was his younger brother.
Someone he owed too much to.
He knew, as long as he remained unmarried, Charles would never consider his own future.
Meanwhile, Janet had been led to a warm, softly lit room.
It was unfamiliar, yet not unwelcoming.
A dim lamp glowed in the corner. The floor was covered with a thick white cashmere rug. The furniture bore the delicate carvings of vintage European design. Everything had clearly been arranged with great care.
Janet stood there, feeling the stirrings of fear.
She had spent ten long years in the hell that was the Louis family estate.
Now, in this strange new place—about to meet the man who would become her husband—she felt a mix of anxiety and uncertainty.
But the next moment, she steeled herself.
This was her choice.
She had made it herself.
No matter what awaited her here—it couldn't possibly be worse than the pit of fire that was the Louis family.
Tonight, she had been carefully dressed.
A white floor-length gown hugged her figure, leaving her smooth shoulders and delicate collarbones bare.
She knew this dress had been laid out by Harold.
She hadn't refused.
Not this time.
After all, it was her biological father who had shoved her into this marriage.
Her features were refined, yet her face remained far too pale—almost transparent against her slender frame.
Her eyes, naturally clear and pure, seemed overly bright and almost startling.
Her lips, painted a gentle peach-pink, gave her an added air of vulnerability.
Just as Janet stood uncertainly by the bed, a soft sound came from the door.
Startled, her wide eyes darted toward the source of the noise.
It was the same middle-aged man who had brought her into the room earlier—now returning with a glass of milk in his hand.
He smiled kindly at her.
"Madam Janet, the young master will be here shortly. Please don't be nervous."
Madam Janet.
That unfamiliar title felt strange on her ears.
Even when she had been the so-called second daughter of the Louis family, not a single servant had ever addressed her so respectfully.