Burned Our Love and Signed Myself Away

The day I was released from prison, I watched my husband bring Brenda into our home.

Seven years.

I had taken the fall for him and served his sentence. In the prison hospital, I nearly bled to death giving birth to our child. And now, my own son was nestled in Brenda's arms, calling her Mommy in his sweet little voice.

I stood in the autumn wind, wearing the same faded coat I had gone to prison in, my entire body numb with cold.

Logan Vance pulled a plane ticket from the inner pocket of his tailored suit and handed it to me as if he were dismissing a beggar.

"Everything's been arranged for you overseas. Take the ticket and leave. Don't come back and disrupt the peaceful life we've built here."

I accepted the ticket. Its sharp edge sliced my fingertip.

"Does he know who I am?" I asked.

Logan's face darkened.

"Chloe, don't make a scene."

The front door slammed shut in my face.

I tore the ticket in half, checked into a motel, and burned my son's first lock of hair together with my wedding ring until both turned to ashes.

Then I signed a body donation agreement.

The contract stated that after my death, my husband, my child, and even my parents would have no legal right to claim a single handful of my ashes.

Logan Vance...

We're even now.

I owe you nothing anymore.

Chloe's POV

On the day I was released from prison, I stood across the street and watched my husband welcome Brenda into our home.

Not only that, but my own biological son was cuddled up in Brenda's arms, sweetly calling her "Mommy."

I was still wearing the same worn-out coat I had on when I went to prison seven years ago.

The autumn wind swept past, and the pilled, faded hem of my coat clung coldly to my legs, carrying a musty smell that no amount of washing could ever remove.

Inside the living room, the curtains were only half-drawn.

The lights were on, blindingly bright.

Logan sat on the sofa in a perfectly tailored suit, his tie flawlessly knotted.

Brenda sat right beside him.

The delicate diamond bracelet on her wrist sparkled under the lights. She was sitting in the exact spot that used to be mine.

On the coffee table, my old photos were gone. In their place was a brand-new family portrait.

In the photo, Brenda held Logan's arm, smiling as if she were his real wife.

Just then, the sound of cheerful footsteps came from the hallway.

A little boy ran out like a happy little bird, throwing himself straight into Brenda's arms. "Mommy, I want some chocolate cake!"

My fingernails dug violently into the hem of my coat, my knuckles turning white from the strain.

That was my baby.

The baby I had given birth to on a cold, iron bed in the prison hospital, nearly bleeding to death.

But before I could even get a proper look at my newborn son, Logan's family had violently torn him away from me.

Back then, I only got to hold my baby for ten minutes.

Seven years had passed. My baby could run and jump now, but he was burying his face in Brenda's lap, calling another woman "Mommy."

Click.

The front door of the mansion opened.

Logan stepped out. The moment his eyes landed on me, I saw his brows furrow in pure disgust.

His cold gaze swept over my miserable, shabby clothes. His eyes lingered on my bare wrist for half a second before quickly looking away.

He reached into his suit jacket, pulled out a one-way plane ticket, and coldly thrust it in front of my face.

"I've set everything up for you over there. Once you land, start a new life."

I didn't take it. I just stared down at the destination printed on the ticket.

"Don't go inside," Logan said, his voice dropped low, carrying an commanding tone. "Mason is doing great. Brenda takes amazing care of him. You just got out of prison. Don't ruin the peace we have in this house."

He forced the ticket into my hand. The sharp paper edge cut into my finger, a stinging pain.

After handing over the ticket, Logan's hand remained suspended in the air.

I calmly folded the ticket and slipped it into my pocket.

Seven years ago, I had accepted another piece of paper from the Vance family with the same submissive obedience.

Back then, Logan was facing charges of embezzlement and wire fraud.

The entire Vance Group was on the brink of collapse.

Logan's mother, Mrs. Vance, had called me into her study. She slammed a stack of false confession documents in front of me and said coldly, "Logan cannot go to jail. Our family only let you marry him because your face resembles his late first love. The Vance family gave you status and luxury. Now, it's time to pay us back."

Even though I was married to Logan, I was never allowed a seat at the main family dinner table. Logan's mother despised me.

Even the maids looked down on me.

Yet, for Logan's sake, I was foolish enough to take the fall. I went to prison for him.

On the day of my sentencing, the officers escorted me into the police cruiser.

Through the tinted window, I looked back. Logan was standing at the back of the crowd, his black overcoat buttoned tightly, his face deathly pale.

Back then, I was still stupidly making excuses for him, thinking he was just as heartbroken and helpless as I was.

In my second month of prison, I found out I was pregnant.

My baby was born in the dingy prison ward. There was nothing but cold metal and sterile walls.

When Mason let out his first cry, I struggled to pull him to my chest, ripping the IV out of my arm and leaving a trail of blood.

But that very afternoon, the Vance family's lawyers forced me to sign a termination of visitation rights agreement, taking my baby away.

I held him for only ten minutes.

Three months before my release, dragging my terminally ill body, I begged a guard for a pen and wrote a letter. I pleaded with Logan to bring Mason to see me just once.

That letter was still tucked under the thin mattress of my prison cell.

And now, my Mason was sitting on the plush carpet of our old home, eating oranges peeled by Brenda, calling her "Mommy" again and again.

I lifted my head, my eyes burning red.

"Does he even know who I am?"

Logan's face instantly darkened. "Chloe, stop throwing a tantrum. Mason is doing perfectly fine."

"I asked you," I took a step closer, my voice raw and raspy, "Does he have any idea who actually gave birth to him?!"

"Logan, the phone keeps ringing. Come inside and grab it. Mason is asking for you, too."

Brenda's sweet, gentle voice drifted out from the house.

Logan glanced back, his tone turning incredibly harsh and ruthless. "All your shares and assets were liquidated years ago. This house has nothing to do with you anymore. The Vance family owes you nothing. Take the ticket and leave. Don't ever come back."

He turned around coldly and slammed the heavy oak door.

Thud.

The door shut right in my face, completely blocking out the warm, golden light of the house, leaving me in pitch darkness.

I let out a self-deprecating laugh.

Battling the freezing wind, I walked numbly along the estate's brick wall toward the main road.

The phone in my pocket vibrated. It was a missed call from a research laboratory.

I called back. A man with a highly professional, robotic voice answered immediately. "Hello, Miss Vance. We have received your authorization form. Once you sign the final papers, it will take effect immediately. We will take full control according to the agreement."

"Alright. Thank you."

The moment I hung up, a sharp, agonizing pain erupted in my lower abdomen, radiating up to my pelvis.

My vision went black. Losing all strength, I collapsed against the brick wall and slid to the ground, cold sweat breaking out across my forehead.

With trembling hands, I unzipped my bag. The pill bottle rolled into my palm.

I couldn't even wait to find water. I twisted the cap off, grabbed a handful of pills, threw them into my mouth, and swallowed them dry.

The chalky tablets scraped down my dry throat, leaving a bitter taste exploding on the back of my tongue.

Chloe's POV

With shaking fingers, I pulled the plane ticket out of my pocket.

Printed on it was the foreign city Logan had chosen for me.

He had arranged a tiny apartment and a meager monthly allowance there, his most "respectable" way of throwing away his ex-wife.

The corner of my mouth twitched into a bitter smile. I gripped the paper.

Rip.

I tore the ticket to shreds.

I didn't need his charity.

Without looking back, I grabbed my suitcase and left.

I found a cheap, run-down motel on the edge of the city.

I dragged my heavy suitcase up the creaky stairs, opened it, and pulled out a yellowed envelope hidden deep in the inner lining.

The edges of the envelope were frayed. Over the last seven years, I had lost count of how many times I had opened it in the dark.

My fingers trembled as I poured out the three items inside.

The first was my wedding ring.

On the inside of the gold band, our wedding date was clumsily engraved.

On our wedding day, Logan had slipped it onto my finger himself. The crowd applauded, though his mother sat in the front row looking absolutely furious.

Back then, I was naive enough to believe that if I just loved him unconditionally, we would eventually build a beautiful life together.

Now I saw it for what it was, a pathetic, one-sided joke.

The second item was a tiny lock of baby hair.

On the day Mason was born, while the Vance family was busy signing the discharge papers outside, a kind nurse had secretly snipped this lock of hair and pressed it into my sweaty palm.

It was the only piece of Mason I had left.

The hair was so fine and soft. I had kept it hidden in prison for seven long years, protecting it like it was my very life.

The last item was a photograph taken at the visitor's booth.

In the photo, I was wearing a baggy prison uniform, my face pale and my smile forced.

I had just been brought back from the prison ward after giving birth. My C-section incision hadn't even healed, and my legs were shaking so hard I could barely stand.

Logan's mother stood next to me, holding the baby as far away from me as possible with an expression of pure disgust, cursing at me under her breath.

But back then, just getting a glimpse of my baby made me feel like all the suffering was worth it.

I closed my eyes, letting out a soft, mocking laugh.

Without a second thought, I threw the wedding ring and the lock of baby hair into a cold metal trash can.

I clicked my lighter three times before a weak blue flame flickered to life.

I dropped the flame into the can. The moment the fire touched it, the soft baby hair shriveled into a black speck.

A pungent, burnt smell immediately filled the cramped, dark motel room.

I crouched on the floor, hugging my knees, staring blankly at the dancing orange flames.

For seven years, during those countless sleepless nights in my cell, that lock of hair was the only thing that kept me sane.

Whenever the prison lights went out, I would press a damp towel over my face to muffle my tears, while clutching that tiny bit of my son's warmth in my palm.

I had told myself over and over: Logan is waiting for me. My baby needs his mother. I took the fall for Logan, so the Vance family will always keep a place for me.

But today, that door had been slammed in my face.

As the fire engulfed the ring, the bright gold metal turned black, and the engraved wedding date was swallowed by the ashes.

Looking at the ruins, I decided to keep the damaged photograph.

I didn't throw it into the fire.

Mason still owed me a "Mommy." The Vance family still owed me an apology.

I would keep this photo until the day I couldn't hold on anymore, until the day I was finally free.

The metal can gradually grew cold.

What once represented love and blood was now nothing but a pile of black soot.

I picked up the can and dumped the ashes into the trash. When I wiped the bottom of the can with a tissue, a layer of stubborn black soot stained my fingers.

My phone vibrated on the table.

A flight confirmation message popped up on the screen.

Passenger Name: Chloe Vance.

Destination: Erlangen, Germany.

Departure Time: October 15, 2030.

The ticket Logan gave me was designed to exile me so his mistress could take my place as his wife.

But the ticket I bought for myself was a one-way trip to my final destination.

During my third year in prison, I happened to find a medical journal in the prison library. At the very end of an article, the address of a highly advanced neurological research lab in Erlangen was listed.

That was also the year I was diagnosed with terminal cancer. The brain injury I suffered years ago when I fell off a cliff to save Logan had finally deteriorated to its absolute limit.

I suffered from agonizing, daily headaches and occasional temporary blindness.

I knew I didn't have much time left.

I had copied that address into my diary, filling an entire page with it.

I turned off the bathroom faucet. The black soot swirled down the drain. My hands were clean, but my heart was completely hollow.

The envelope on the table was still open, revealing a corner of the visitor's booth photo.

The peeling white walls of the prison booth looked exceptionally cold under the dim motel light.

I pulled out a piece of tissue, carefully wrapped the photo, and tucked it deep inside my suitcase.

Outside the window, I could hear the noisy footsteps of other motel guests, mixed with the cheap television static from next door.

I turned off the light and lay down on the narrow, rock-hard bed.

I packed my pill bottle into the purse I would carry tomorrow.

Before falling asleep, I checked in for my flight on my phone.

The next morning, I landed at the airport in Erlangen, Germany.

I dragged my heavy suitcase out of the terminal. The damp, freezing wind rushed in through the exit, causing my stomach to cramp violently.

I pulled the yellowed diary page from my pocket, the address written in faded pencil.

The handwriting had become blurry from years of rubbing.

I clutched the paper tightly, like it was my only lifeline.

The road in front of the motel in the old district was extremely narrow. At the front desk, a stack of yellowed registration forms sat under a glass counter.

The owner eyed me suspiciously from head to toe before sliding a key across the counter.

"End of the hall, second floor. Hot water is only available before 10 PM."

I bent over and began filling out the registration form.

In the emergency contact box, I wrote down Vanessa's name and phone number.

Chloe's POV

At 2:00 PM sharp, I walked into the laboratory.

The facility was quiet, sterile, and smelled heavily of disinfectant. After verifying my ID, the receptionist led me into a cold, windowless conference room.

A thick stack of documents was laid out in front of me with a dull thud.

"Miss Vance, today is your final in-person consultation. We need to confirm your absolute consent one last time."

The coordinator flipped to the most critical clause, reading it aloud clearly:

"Once signed, this agreement is legally binding and completely irrevocable. Upon your passing, your body will be under the sole custody of this laboratory for irreversible medical and neurological research. Your husband, children, parents, or any direct relatives will have no legal right to claim your body, nor will they have the right to revoke this agreement."

The papers on the table felt as cold as metal.

I looked at the text. A soft, relaxed smile actually appeared on my pale face.

"So," I spoke softly, my voice hoarse but incredibly firm, "after I die, they won't even be able to get a single grain of my ashes. Is that correct?"

The coordinator looked at me with a complicated expression, then nodded. "Yes. All your physical remains will have absolutely nothing to do with your family."

"Perfect."

Without a single moment of hesitation, I grabbed the pen.

The tip of the pen swept across the signature line, leaving a sharp, decisive stroke.

Along with the scratching sound of the pen, I closed my eyes. I had finally severed the very last tie binding me to the Vance family.

By the time I walked out of the building, the sky had already turned dark.

On my way back to the motel, the streetlights flickered on, casting a warm glow through the windows of local shops, reflecting the happy laughter of ordinary families.

I paused, watching the warm scenes through the glass for a moment. Then, as if nothing had happened, I looked away and kept walking into the dark alley.

The creaky wooden stairs of the motel groaned under my feet.

I held onto the peeling banister as I walked back to my room. I pushed open the bathroom door and plunged my hands into the cold water. Suddenly, a rush of copper sweetness welled up in my throat.

A massive amount of dark red blood splattered violently across the stained sink.

I doubled over in agony, my hands gripping the edge of the porcelain sink so hard my nails made a screeching sound.

Every violent cough felt like dozens of rusty knives hacking away at my chest and abdomen.

Another wave of blood splattered directly onto the mirror.

The cold water kept running, washing the blood down the drain in a swirling, pink vortex.

My body was completely giving out.

I tried to reach for my pills, but my legs gave way. My back hit the wall hard, and I slid down onto the freezing, wet tile floor.

My pain medication was in my bag right next to the bed.

I struggled to reach out, my fingers clawing at the empty air, but I couldn't even reach the bathroom threshold.

The faucet was still running, and the water began to overflow onto the floor, seeping through the crack beneath the door.

Night fell completely.

I heard the motel owner's heavy footsteps coming up the stairs to collect deposits. He stopped outside my door, pounding on the wood. "Miss Vance? Miss Vance, are you in there?"

He knocked three times. But other than the sound of rushing water, there was no response.

I heard his voice, but I couldn't make a sound.

Suddenly, I heard the owner let out a terrified scream.

"Oh my God! Someone's dead! Call the police!"

His frantic footsteps scrambled back down the stairs.

He would probably call the emergency contact on my form, Vanessa.

In the corner of the dark bathroom, I slumped against the wall, surrounded by a pool of diluted blood.

I looked up at the flickering bulb on the ceiling, my vision slowly fading. Before slipping into complete darkness, only one thought remained in my mind:

Logan... we are finally even.

By the time Vanessa rushed to the motel, I was slumped against the wall. The blood on my lips had dried, and my face was terrifyingly pale.

"Chloe!"

Vanessa knelt down, slapping my cheeks gently, but I had absolutely no energy left to respond. I saw her pull out her phone, her voice shaking with panic as she called for an ambulance, repeating the motel address twice before I finally blacked out.

The emergency room lights stayed bright past midnight. I heard the doctor walk out into the hallway with my lab results, his tone grave.

"The patient is in the terminal stage of cancer. Multiple organs are already showing signs of failure. She has been pushing her body to the limit with heavy medication."

Vanessa stood in the hallway. "Is there any way to treat her?"

The doctor replied, "We are stabilizing her now, but she needs to be moved to an ICU. Her family needs to get here as soon as possible."

"She has no family."

As soon as Vanessa said that, I heard her dial a number. Someone answered quickly. Half an hour later, a lawyer arrived at the hospital, his suit jacket still carrying the chill of the night wind.

"The authorization agreement has already taken effect." The lawyer handed the legal documents to the doctor, then turned to Vanessa. "She signed the donor agreement in advance. Our partner hospital is ready to receive her. Her former family has no legal right to make decisions for her."

Vanessa's fingers trembled as she stared at the papers.

"When did she sign this?"

"She signed it remotely while she was still in prison. We finalized the in-person verification today."

Vanessa turned her head to look at me through the glass.

I lay on the bed with an oxygen mask strapped to my face. My wrists were so thin that the IV tape looked ridiculously wide. Vanessa walked into the room and pulled up a chair. She opened her phone and looked at the message I had sent her on the day I got out of prison.

It was just one sentence:

Vanessa, I'm leaving.

She turned off the screen and placed the phone on the nightstand. The lawyer walked in to inform her that the transfer paperwork was complete. They would move me to the research facility first thing in the morning.

Logan's POV

I sat in the back of my car. My assistant sent over Chloe's bank records from the past few months.

The screen was completely blank. No withdrawals, no purchases, and no check-in record for the flight I had booked for her.

She had torn up the ticket.

I stared at the screen for a long time, then dialed another number to track down the apartment Chloe lived in before her arrest.

The next afternoon, I stood in front of that apartment. A stranger opened the door, holding a young child in his arms.

"Who are you looking for?"

I gave him the address.

The man shrugged. "This place was sold years ago. The transaction went through a law firm." I pressed for details about where the money went. The man dug up an old folder and placed a transfer receipt on the shoe cabinet.

The recipient's account name was Logan Vance.

The date was exactly one week before Chloe went to prison.

I pulled out my phone and accessed my old, deactivated bank account. Sure enough, the transaction was sitting in my history. The amount matched the receipt perfectly.

She had sold her only apartment and transferred every single penny to me.

A week before going to jail, she was still desperately trying to cover my company's financial deficit.

When I walked out of the building, the sun was already setting. The streetlights flickered on, casting a dim light on the cracked steps. I stood by the curb, clutching the photo of the transfer receipt.

The cold night wind blew past. My phone lit up multiple times with incoming calls from my mother, but I let them ring out.

By the time the first street sweeper drove past the block at dawn, I was still standing outside her old apartment.

As daylight broke, I finally got back into my car.

I sat in the driver's seat, my fingers stiff from the cold. The record of that bank transfer remained open on my screen. The date burned into my eyes, refusing to fade.

A notification from my assistant popped up.

It was a screenshot of several trending local gossip articles.

"Billionaire's Ex-Wife Steps Out of Prison and Straight into Another Man's Bed."

"The Woman Who Took the Fall for Her Husband Was Already Dirty."

"Cheating on the Day of Her Release: How the Vance Family Was Scammed for Years."

None of the articles used real names, but the details, taking the fall for a husband, the marital home, cheating on the release day, all pointed directly to Chloe.

My assistant added, "The posts were all published last night. The initial accounts sharing them look like paid bots."

I shut off the screen. I started the engine, but instead of setting the navigation back to the office, I drove aimlessly down the streets surrounding her old apartment.

Half an hour later, Brenda appeared by my car door.

She was holding a stack of printed photos, standing outside my window. Her makeup was flawless, but her eyes were filled with anxiety.

"Logan, stop looking for her."

I rolled down the window.

Brenda thrust the photos through the gap. They were cropped photos of Chloe standing next to various men, taken from highly misleading angles.

One showed her in a hospital hallway being supported by a man, with a scandalous caption. Another was taken outside a motel, showing her walking in while a man stood closely behind her.

"I didn't want to show you these," Brenda bit her lip. "She was already cheating on you before she went to prison. She never planned on coming back to you. She took your money to fund her affairs, and now people online are starting to dig up her past."

I looked down, refusing to touch the photos.

Brenda's voice grew frantic.

"If you keep digging, it's going to ruin you, and it's going to ruin Mason! If she makes a scene, what will happen to the Vance Group? What will happen to Mason's future?"

I reached out and shoved the photos back into her arms.

The papers hit Brenda's chest, scattering all over the car floor.

Brenda froze.

"Logan?"

"Who gave you these?"

Her lips trembled, but she couldn't find her words.

I pushed the car door open and stepped out. I bent down and picked up the top photo from the floor mat, my thumb pressing against Chloe's face.

She had gotten so thin. Her cheeks were hollow, and even in a blurry photo, she looked incredibly sick.

And people were using these photos to spread disgusting rumors.

I threw the photo back at Brenda.

"Don't ever bring this garbage to me again."

Brenda's face drained of color.

By the time I returned to the Vance Group headquarters, the PR department was already waiting in the conference room.

Media inquiries were piling up in our inbox. The online narrative had escalated from a scandalous personal life to Chloe conspiring with outsiders to steal Vance family assets.

In the comment section, someone had leaked Chloe's old identity details, including the address of her pre-marriage apartment.

The head of PR asked, "Mr. Vance, should we issue a statement to distance ourselves from her?"

"No response for now," I placed my phone on the table. "Find the source. Trace the initial accounts that posted the rumors. One by one."

The PR head nodded and hurried out.

Immediately, my mother's call came through.

I picked up, and her voice instantly boomed through the speaker.

"I saw the news online. I told you years ago that a girl like Chloe would eventually cheat on you!"

I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my temples.

My mother continued, "The Sinclair Group has already agreed to the merger. Victoria Sinclair is waiting to finalize the marriage paperwork with you. Get the divorce papers signed with Chloe within the week. Stop dragging this out."

I remained silent.

"Don't let Chloe embarrass us any further. She's a convict, and now she's involved in this disgusting scandal. Do you want the Vance family to become a laughingstock? If you don't sign those papers, I will come to your office myself."

I heard the sound of papers rustling on her end.

Her final words were icy cold.

"Don't make me lose face in front of our business partners again."

The line went dead.

I sat in the empty conference room. The bright daylight streamed in through the glass windows.

A new message from my assistant popped up on my phone: "We found the law firm. Mr. Davis, the attorney who handled the apartment sale back then, is still practicing."

Logan's POV

I drove to the law office that very afternoon.

The firm was located on the seventh floor of an old commercial building. The hallway was narrow, and the walls were lined with faded licenses.

After verifying my identity, the receptionist, Mia, led me into a small meeting room next to the archive room.

Mr. Davis was waiting for me. His hair was mostly gray, and his eyes locked onto mine the moment I walked in.

"Mr. Vance, the files from back then are still in our database."

Mr. Davis pulled a folder from the cabinet. The label was faded, but Chloe's handwritten signature on the bottom right corner was perfectly clear under the clear tape. The handwriting was thin but steady.

He placed the folder on the table.

Mr. Davis pulled out the apartment transfer agreement first, flipping to the signature page.

"She signed this herself. Her fingerprint is right here."

A red ink fingerprint was pressed firmly onto the paper. My throat tightened as I stared at it.

Then, Mr. Davis pulled out another document.

"She requested we keep this one on file as well."

The cover read: Deed of Gift. I opened it. The text was incredibly short: I hereby donate all proceeds from the sale of my apartment to my husband, Logan Vance, to help him overcome his current financial difficulties.

The date was exactly one week before she went to prison.

When she signed this, she already knew she was going to take the fall and go to jail for me.

My fingers pressed against the paper, trembling for a long time before I could let go.

Mr. Davis waited patiently, reaching out to pack up the files. I brushed his hand away and kept flipping through the folder.

At the very back of the folder, there were a few appended documents. When I reached the final page, my fingers brushed against a photocopy of a newer document. It was kept separately at the back, with a bold header:

Irrevocable Personal Authorization and Release Form.

I looked up.

"What is this?"

Mr. Davis glanced at it.

"A copy for our records. The original is kept at the research laboratory."

"What laboratory?"

"An independent neurological research facility she contacted while she was in prison."

I looked down at the document.

The first section was identity verification.

The second section stated that upon her death, her body would be under the sole custody of the laboratory for irreversible medical and neurological research.

The third section was a limitation of relative rights, with a bolded sentence at the bottom:

No relatives, including spouse, parents, or children, shall have any right to claim the body or make any post-mortem decisions.

My eyes locked onto that sentence.

At that moment, the hum of the air conditioner in the room seemed to vanish.

While she was still in prison, she had completely excluded me from her death. She had given me her apartment, given me seven years of her life, and given me a child. But in the end, she didn't even want to leave a single cell of her body to the Vance family.

I picked up the copy, the paper shaking slightly in my hand.

"Give me the name and address of the laboratory."

Mr. Davis checked his database index, frowning as he scanned the screen.

"The specific name is in another transfer document in our main archives. I can't access it today."

"When can you get it?"

"Tomorrow morning, at the earliest."

Clutching the copy of the deed of gift and the authorization form, I walked out of the law firm.

I sat in the back of my car, placing the two documents on the passenger seat. Outside, the sky was gradually darkening as people rushed in and out of the office building.

I pulled out my phone and messaged my assistant: "Search for all independent laboratories in the country specializing in neurological or brain science research."

My assistant replied almost instantly: "There are three main facilities."

I set my phone down, my gaze falling back on the passenger seat. The bold header of the authorization form peeked out, the paper fluttering slightly in the draft from the window.

By the time I returned to the Vance estate, the night was pitch black.

When I pushed the front door open, the shoe rack looked empty. Chloe's old light-colored slippers were no longer in their usual spot. The bottom shelf of the cabinet had been wiped clean by the maids, looking cold and sterile.

The corner of the sofa by the window was empty too.

Before she went to prison, she used to sit there every night waiting for me to come home, a book resting on her lap.

The moment she heard the door, she would look up and smile.

Later, that corner was replaced with decorative pillows, designer vases, and a light-colored cashmere blanket that Brenda liked.

I walked upstairs and pushed open the guest room door.

Inside the closet, there were only a few empty hangers.

The drawers were completely cleared out, leaving only a faint, dusty ring on the vanity table. That was where her perfume bottle used to sit.

The bottle was slender. She rarely used it, only spraying a little when the Vance family hosted formal dinners. The scent was so light that it would vanish the moment she turned around.

I had never once asked when these things were thrown away.

I stood in the center of the silent room, the ceiling light casting a harsh glare over me. Chloe had lived in this house for seven years, yet the last traces of her existence couldn't even secure the space of a single perfume bottle.

I turned and walked into my study.

The bookshelf lined the wall. On the very bottom shelf, there were a few old leather-bound books. I knelt down, sliding my fingers across the spines. When my fingers brushed against a book with a cracked cover, I felt a slight bulge.

I pulled the book out and opened it.

Tucked inside were several folded sheets of paper. The edges were yellowed and frayed. When I unfolded the first page, I saw tight, delicate handwriting filling the paper.

It was Chloe's handwriting.

The entry was dated during her second year in prison.

She wrote about giving birth to Mason in the prison ward. There were only nurses and guards by her bedside. When the baby let out his first cry, someone wrapped him in a blanket. She reached out to hold him, but the guard told her that the Vance family's representative had already arrived to take the baby.

She begged them for just ten minutes.

The handwriting on the paper grew heavy here, the pen almost ripping through the page.

I just wanted to hold him for ten minutes.

I stared at the words, my fingers gripping the edge of the paper.

The second page talked about the ocean.

Chloe wrote that the coastal town she lived in as a child had a beautiful beach with fine sand that wouldn't hurt a child's bare feet.

She hoped that once she got out of prison, she could take Mason there and let him run around all afternoon. She had even drawn a clumsy little sand shovel in the margin.

The third page was about her diagnosis.

Terminal cancer. The doctor told her she didn't have much time left and urged her to contact her family. She had crossed out that line, writing underneath: No need to trouble them.

The last page had only a few short lines.

I don't want to drag this body back and forth between the prison and the Vance family anymore.

If I can still walk on the day of my release, I just want to see him one last time.

Just one look before I die.

The date was three months before her release.

My thumb pressed against the date, crushing the paper into new creases.

Logan's POV

On the day she stood outside my villa, wearing those threadbare clothes and looking deathly pale, I had shoved a plane ticket into her hand and told her not to ruin my life.

She had fought through her terminal illness just to see me one last time, and I had told her to get lost.

My body slouched back. My head hit the doorframe with a dull thud that echoed through the quiet study. The pages of her diary scattered across the carpet.

A wave of intense nausea surged up my throat.

I scrambled out of the study, stumbled into the bathroom at the end of the hallway, and bent over the toilet, vomiting violently. My stomach was empty, so I only threw up bitter bile, the acid burning my throat.

I gripped the edge of the sink. In the mirror, my eyes were bloodshot, my collar was torn open, and the veins on the back of my hands were bulging.

Where was I when Chloe was begging on the delivery table for ten minutes?

Where was I when Mason was taken away?

And where was I when she wrote that her only wish before dying was to see me one last time?

I slid down onto the cold tile floor, the chill seeping into my back. Tears spilled over, hot and heavy, tracking down my face. I pressed the back of my hand against my mouth to muffle my sobs, the metallic taste of blood mixing with the sour bile.

The scattered pages of her diary still lay on the study carpet. The last page was facing up, the date clear under the soft light.

The next morning, my mother and father stormed into the villa.

Before the maids could even stop them, my mother marched into the living room. Her gaze swept over the open books on the sofa and the unwashed glass on the table, her face contorting with undisguised disgust.

"Look at you! What is wrong with you?"

I sat on the sofa, my shirt wrinkled and my eyes heavily bloodshot.

My mother snatched a set of divorce papers from her designer bag and slammed them onto the coffee table.

"Victoria Sinclair's family is waiting to finalize the marriage paperwork. They've given us plenty of respect. Are you really going to ruin this family over a convict like Chloe?"

My father stood behind her, his face grim.

"The company needs this merger, Logan."

I looked up at them, my eyes shifting to the phone in my mother's hand. The screen was lit up with urgent messages from the Sinclair family.

My mother pushed the papers closer to me.

"Sign it! She's been to prison, and now she's wrapped up in this cheap cheating scandal. Do you want the Vance family to lose all credibility? If you don't sign, I will make the announcement myself."

I suddenly stood up.

I snatched my mother's phone from her hand and threw it violently onto the hardwood floor. The sound of the screen shattering instantly silenced the room.

My mother shrieked.

"Logan! Are you insane?"

"The merger is off."

"What did you say?"

"I am not marrying Victoria Sinclair," I stood before her, my voice incredibly raspy. "And I am not signing these divorce papers."

My mother's face turned pale with fury.

"You're rebelling against your own family for Chloe? What is she to you?"

I stared at her.

"Who was the one who went to prison for me?"

My mother bit her lip.

"She did that voluntarily."

"On the day she went to prison. On the day she gave birth in that cell. On the day her baby was snatched away. Did you ever mention her name even once?"

My mother froze.

My father stepped forward.

"Logan, that happened years ago. Bringing it up now serves no purpose."

I pulled out my phone and dialed my assistant's number.

"Freeze all accounts under my parents' names that are funded by my company. Cancel their black cards, repossess the luxury vehicles, and lock down the estate properties. Do it today."

My mother's eyes widened, and she lunged forward to grab my phone.

"How dare you!"

I stepped aside.

The assistant confirmed the order on the other end of the line, and I hung up, slipping the phone back into my pocket.

"If you want to merge with the Sinclairs so badly, fund it yourselves."

My mother's voice shrieked to a high pitch.

"I am your mother. You're doing this to me for a convict?"

The security guards stood at the entrance. The moment I said, "Escort them out," they stepped forward immediately.

My mother clutched the crumpled divorce papers, crying and cursing as she was ushered out.

My father's face was dark as night. He glared at me one last time before leaving.

Once the front door closed, the living room fell silent again. Only the shattered glass of the phone remained on the floor.