Chapter 6

"Thank God you're safe... thank God..."

Julius's hands trembled as he held Anastasia tightly, his voice thick with fear and guilt. His embrace was so tight she could barely breathe.

Her gaze swept over his neck—faint red marks still lingered there, the kind that only another woman could leave. Her voice came out hoarse, soft but cutting.

"What are you so afraid of, Julius? Didn't you hand me over to them yourself?"

"It was just a temporary measure," he said, quickly taking off his jacket and draping it over her bare shoulders. "You're my wife. I would never let anyone hurt you. Don't worry—I'll make sure those bastards pay for what they did."

'But Julius... the one who hurt me most, was always you.'

Anastasia let out a small, mirthless laugh. She didn't argue—there was no point. The irony spoke for itself.

He carried her to the hospital himself, tending to her like she was made of glass. It was the first time he'd shown such devotion since Irene returned.

The room soon overflowed with flowers, jewelry, and boxes of gifts. Every day after work, Julius would bring in fresh bouquets, sometimes even cooking for her—just like he used to when she fell sick years ago.

Yet Anastasia felt nothing. Not a flicker of warmth, not a drop of gratitude.

She never opened a single gift, never tasted a bite of his food.

Until one day, he set a familiar pink box on her table—her favorite desserts.

Back then, whenever she got angry, he would buy these to cheer her up, even if it meant driving for hours and waiting in endless lines.

Her fingers tightened around the spoon until her knuckles turned white. She cut a piece of the cake and put it into her mouth, chewing slowly.

Was it always this sweet?

It tasted bitter now.

Her throat burned, her eyes stung, and she quietly set the spoon down—then dumped the cake into the trash.

Julius's daily visits soon stirred Irene's jealousy.

One afternoon, Irene barged into the hospital room, her voice sharp as glass.

"Can you stop clinging to him like a leech? Do you really think Julius still loves you?"

Her lips curled into a cruel smile as she tucked her hair behind her ear, flashing the diamond ring on her left hand. "A substitute is just a substitute. No matter how much you look like me, you'll never replace what I am to him."

Anastasia looked at her, not angry—only pitying. "If you were really that confident, you wouldn't need to come here to prove it."

Irene's smile faltered.

Anastasia's tone remained calm, but every word hit its mark. "If Julius's heart truly belongs only to you, then tell me—why hasn't he divorced me yet? Why hasn't he married you?"

The air froze. Irene's expression twisted in rage.

"We're still married," Anastasia continued, her voice like a knife wrapped in silk. "So no matter how hard you try, you'll always be just a mistress—no, a shadow of what you wish you were."

Color drained from Irene's face. Her hand lifted, ready to slap, but the sound of approaching footsteps made her stop cold.

She leaned close to Anastasia's ear, her whisper dripping with threat.

"Before my baby is born, you'd better disappear. Otherwise..." She smiled, her words turning venomous, "I can't guarantee you won't have another little accident."

Anastasia's hands clenched under the blanket, her nails digging into her palms as she watched Irene leave—red-eyed, brushing past Julius in the hallway.

She had long suspected Irene's schemes weren't as simple as "chasing a dog into the wrong place." But what hurt most was that Julius—brilliant, calculating Julius—never saw through her scheme.

"Does it still hurt?" His voice came from the doorway, low, almost gentle.

Anastasia didn't answer. Didn't even look at him.

Seeing her cold silence, Julius's patience began to fray.

"Enough of this tantrum. Don't be childish."

But as he caught sight of her pale lips, his tone softened again. "Alright... tell me what you want. As long as it's not too much, I'll agree."

Anastasia slowly reached under her pillow and pulled out a stack of documents, sliding them toward him.

Julius glanced at the front page—a property transfer contract. Relief washed over his face.

"If it's about houses, fine. I'll sign everything in your name. Just don't stay angry."

Without another look, he flipped to the last page and signed. Then, without hesitation, he turned and hurried after Irene's retreating figure.

Anastasia picked up the signed papers, a faint, weary smile curving her lips—the first in days.

Other than her brother's recovery, this was the best news she'd had.

She took out her phone and dialed a number.

"The divorce papers are signed," she said quietly. "Don't worry about me. The plan can move forward."