Rose Harrison drifted in and out of consciousness. The chaotic energy of the operating room—the frantic shouting of surgeons, the rhythmic, metallic pulse of heart monitors—faded into a dull hum. Her mind had retreated, clawing its way back to the jagged, suffocating silence of the past.

"So, you're the woman in Maximus Anderson's life?" Rose stood trembling, staring at Delilah Kelly, whose clothes were in a state of chaotic disarray. The betrayal stung like a lash across her skin.

"Fate has a twisted sense of humor," Delilah sneered, hooking her arm possessively through Maximus’s. She pulled him toward her, shielding him from Rose’s gaze. "I spent months wondering which pampered heiress had the ego to force Maximus into a marriage. Turns out, it was my own best friend. We really were a match made in heaven, weren't we? Anything I wanted, you had to steal."

Maximus watched the two of them, his expression unreadable. Even he seemed shocked by how perfectly, cruelly the pieces had fallen into place.

Rose looked at the pair, glued together in a display of sickening intimacy. She didn’t know whether to scream or laugh. Was she the villain for falling in love with a man she didn't know was taken? Or was she just another victim in her father's boardroom chess game?

She forced a brittle, broken smile. "Delilah, I didn't know he was your boyfriend. If I had known, I never would have agreed to my father’s terms."

Delilah didn't offer a reply. She simply buried her face in Maximus’s chest. The sight was like a jagged piece of glass turning in Rose’s gut.

"Delilah... are we still friends?" Rose asked, her voice thin and ragged. Even as the words left her lips, she knew the answer was a lie.

"We’re nothing," Delilah spat, her eyes cold as ice. "I hate you, Rose."

Maximus gripped Delilah’s hand tight, his gaze fixed on Rose with chilling indifference. In that moment, Rose felt like an intruder in her own life. She had lost this standoff completely. But her pride—the last shard of her dignity—wouldn't let her collapse. She stood straight, masking her agony with a mask of icy arrogance.

"Maximus, you want to build an empire, don't you?" Rose stepped closer, her voice sharp. "Do you think you can survive without my support? Do you really think you can just ignore the weight of the marriage contract my father put in place?"

Maximus hated being cornered. Seeing the fierce, defiant look in her eyes, he felt an urge to reach out and tear the composure from her face.

Rose held her ground, holding onto her pride like a lifeline. "Fine. Since we're all being honest, here is your ultimatum: decide right now. Walk away with me, or stay here with her. If you choose her, I’ll pull the funding today. Your precious little startup will crumble into dust before the sun sets. You’re a businessman—you know exactly what that costs."

"Don't give me that garbage," Delilah hissed, stepping forward. "If you weren't hiding behind your father's checkbook, you’d be a nobody."

Rose turned her gaze to Delilah, a thin, mocking smile ghosting her lips. "And without me, you’d be nothing, too."

It was a cold, cutting truth. Before Rose had reached out to her, Delilah had been a ghost—a dull, awkward girl no one bothered to speak to, often the target of cruel pranks by the neighborhood boys. It was Rose who had pulled her into the light, treated her to meals, bought her the designer clothes she craved, and even paid her tuition so she could get her degree.

Delilah went silent, her knuckles white as she squeezed Maximus’s hand. She was terrified he might actually walk away.

Maximus’s throat worked as he swallowed, his gaze locked on Rose. "You’re something else."

"No," Rose said, her voice steady. "I’m just doing what a wife of the Anderson family is supposed to do."

She turned on her heel and walked away, leaving them standing in the silence of their own wreckage. She had won the battle, but the war was only just beginning.

It was midnight when the bedroom door creaked open. Rose lay in the dark, her heart hammering against her ribs as she felt the mattress dip. Maximus had returned. He had chosen the money; he had chosen the survival of his empire.

He lay on his side, his body radiating a cold, simmering rage. He felt as though he were burning alive, forced into a corner by a woman he despised. As he stared into the shadows, a singular, dark thought took root: *Goujian could sleep on brushwood and taste bile to plan his revenge. So can I. Rose, mark my words—I will make you pay for this.*