Night had fallen, and a cold breeze swept through the halls.

Elaine Miller’s eyes were squeezed shut, her pupils darting beneath her lids as she broke into a cold sweat. She muttered in her sleep, "Don't hit me... it hurts... Mom..."

A pair of hands clamped onto her waist. She bolted upright, scrambling to the edge of the bed as a wave of nausea hit her. She doubled over, dry-heaving violently. Memories of the mental institution flooded back—the sickening stench of the ward, the forced labor, the moments she had been shoved to the floor to lick up slop like an animal.

It was repulsive. Every fiber of her being wanted to retch her guts out.

Marcellus Spencer froze, his expression hardening into an icy mask. "What is the meaning of this? Does my touch disgust you that much?"

Elaine waited until the bile receded, her lips paper-white. "No. It’s just... it reminded me of my time at the hospital."

Marcellus’s face darkened further. "I told you, no one in that facility dared to touch you. You were sent there for postpartum depression. Who are you putting on this show for?"

So that was what he called it. The torture, the humiliation—just a "treatment plan."

Elaine offered a bitter, hollow laugh. "I’m sorry. I suppose I’m just being dramatic."

Marcellus choked on his retort. Elaine was usually the one to scream, to insist she was telling the truth, to fight back with everything she had. Seeing her just cave and admit fault so easily left him feeling both unsettled and deeply irritated.

Finally, he spoke, his voice clipped and cold. "Glad you know it. It’s Morgan’s birthday party tomorrow. Make sure you apologize properly. She’s treated your children like her own—don’t be an ungrateful brat."

Elaine swallowed the bitterness rising in her throat and gave a quiet, obedient nod.

Marcellus felt a strange, simmering rage in his chest. He wanted to storm out, but he found he couldn't quite bring himself to leave. He lay down beside her, his arm draped loosely over her.

"Elaine," he murmured, his voice dropped to a low, dangerous register. "Stop acting out. As long as you stay obedient, I’ll take care of you."

There was no reply.

The next day, the Spencer Estate was a whirlwind of activity. Although the eldest Spencer son was bedridden, Marcellus—the true power in the house—was fiercely protective of Morgan Rose. With the children already under her control, Morgan’s position at the top was ironclad.

Guests arrived in a steady stream, bearing lavish gifts, their faces masks of obsequious flattery. But all the jewelry, paintings, and real estate in the world couldn't compare to the gift Marcellus presented to Morgan.

It wasn't a diamond or a deed to a mansion. It was the Spencer family signet ring—the literal key to the family’s assets, the power to override any directive, and the authority to sign off on any legal document.

Morgan held her breath as she accepted the ring, her cheeks flushing with triumph. Around them, the whispers began.

"I heard they were a couple years ago. Looks like the old flame never died."

"Spencer is giving her that? Isn't his wife going to be furious?"

"Elaine? Please. A woman who had to drug her way into this family doesn't have a seat at the table. She’ll be kicked to the curb before the year is out."

Elaine, the center of their whispers, merely sat in the corner, her gaze fixed on Marcellus. When they had first married, Greta Spencer had tried to teach her how to handle the family business. Marcellus had feigned concern, claiming she was too fragile, and handed every responsibility over to Morgan instead.

That was why the entire estate bowed to Morgan while treating Elaine like a discarded rug.

He knew exactly how to starve a person of power, didn't he?

Her thoughts were cut short when a scrawny, desperate-looking man lunged from the crowd, a dagger glinting in his hand. He sprinted straight for Morgan. "You filthy bitch! You ruined my family, now you’re going to die for it!"

Marcellus’s pupils dilated in terror. "Morgan!"

In the next heartbeat, Elaine felt a crushing, violent shove from behind. She was propelled forward, stumbling directly into the path of the blade, shielding Morgan with her own body.

She stared at the man standing behind her in disbelief.

It was Marcellus. He had used her as a human shield.

The blade plunged downward, tearing into Elaine’s chest. A searing, white-hot agony blinded her. As her vision began to blur and the world turned to ink, she felt Marcellus scramble over, his arms wrapping around her in a frantic panic.

Elaine forced the last of her strength into a single, rattling whisper: "Why..."