The silence in the penthouse stretched long after the memories faded. Mindy sat motionless on the edge of the bed, her hands resting loosely in her lap. The images of the Hawthorne Mansion still burned behind her eyes—the gown, the accusations, the fall, the slap, the blood. She could almost hear the echo of her father’s voice, the sharp crack of his hand against her cheek, the dull thud of her head striking the stair railing. The pain had been so vivid that for a moment she forgot where she was.
Her fingers moved unconsciously to her forehead. The skin there felt tender, slightly raised beneath her touch. She frowned and stood, crossing the room toward the bathroom. The light flicked on with a soft hum, illuminating the marble counter and the mirror above it. When she looked up, her reflection stared back—pale, composed, but not unmarked.
A small beige bandage clung to her forehead, just above her left brow. She reached up and brushed it gently, feeling the faint sting beneath. The sight made her chest tighten. "So even in this timeline," she whispered, "I came back bleeding."
The words hung in the air, heavy and bitter. She remembered the moment she had fallen, the warmth of blood trickling down her face, the way no one had looked back. Not her father. Not her brothers. Not even the woman who had once called herself her mother. They had all rushed to Missy, leaving her behind on the cold marble floor.
She leaned closer to the mirror, studying the bandage. The edges were uneven, the adhesive slightly wrinkled. She must have bandaged it herself after returning to the penthouse. The thought made her lips curve into a humorless smile. Of course she had. Who else would have done it?
Her reflection looked back at her with calm, steady eyes. The granddaughter of Dr. Jasper Wilson—trained in medicine, capable of treating wounds others couldn’t even diagnose—yet she had never been able to heal the one wound that mattered most. The one carved not into her skin, but into her heart.
She traced the edge of the bandage once more, then lowered her hand. The pain was still there, but it no longer felt like weakness. It felt like proof. Proof that she had survived. Proof that she had returned. Proof that this time, she would not let them destroy her again.
Her reflection seemed to harden before her eyes. The woman staring back was no longer the same one who had begged for love and understanding. This version of Mindy was colder, sharper, and infinitely stronger.
She turned off the light and stepped back into the bedroom. The city lights shimmered through the window, distant and indifferent. She looked at the divorce papers on the nightstand one last time, then exhaled slowly.
"Never again," she murmured.
And with that, the memory of the mansion returned—pulling her back to the moment everything had begun to unravel.
Back then, standing alone inside the empty Hawthorne Mansion, Mindy had no idea what was happening at the hospital. She did not know that everyone was gathered around Missy’s hospital bed. She did not know that her family was once again painting her as the villain. And she certainly did not know that the fate of her marriage was already being decided.
Years later, sitting in the bedroom after her rebirth, Mindy remembered everything clearly. Painfully clearly. Because that afternoon had changed the course of her entire life.
The VIP suite on the top floor of St. Matthew Hospital was unusually crowded. The sterile scent of antiseptic hung in the air, mingling with the faint perfume of fresh lilies arranged on the bedside table. Although the doctor had already confirmed that Missy’s injury was nothing more than a minor ankle sprain, nobody seemed willing to leave.
Raymond sat beside the hospital bed with a dark expression, his hands clasped tightly together. Emily remained next to Missy, occasionally dabbing at her eyes with a silk handkerchief. Drake stood near the window, his arms crossed, while Jagger leaned silently against the wall. The atmosphere inside the room was heavy—not because Missy was seriously injured, but because everyone was angry. Angry at Mindy.
The more they thought about the incident at the staircase, the angrier they became. Emily looked down at Missy and gently brushed several strands of hair away from her face. Seeing the bandage wrapped neatly around her daughter’s ankle made her eyes redden again.
"My poor child," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. "You must have been terrified."
Missy immediately shook her head. "No, Mom." A weak smile appeared on her face. "I’m fine."
The smile only made Emily’s heart ache more. In her eyes, Missy had always been too kind, too forgiving, too soft-hearted. Even now, after being pushed down a staircase, she was still trying to comfort others. The contrast between her and Mindy seemed even greater. At least, that was what Emily believed.
Raymond let out a heavy sigh, his expression grim. The image of Missy falling replayed in his mind again and again. Each time he remembered it, his anger toward Mindy deepened. The daughter he once adored had become someone he no longer recognized—or perhaps that was what he told himself. Because accepting the truth would have been far more difficult. Accepting that he might have failed his own daughter. Accepting that he had stopped listening to her years ago. Those thoughts were uncomfortable, so he chose the easier path: blame.
Across the room, Drake’s jaw tightened. He remembered the look on Missy’s face before she fell—the fear, the tears, the helplessness. Every memory made him feel protective. When they were children, he had promised to protect both of his sisters. Somewhere along the way, that promise had become one-sided. Now, whenever trouble appeared, his first instinct was always to protect Missy. Never Mindy.
Jagger wasn’t much different. Although he rarely involved himself in family drama, even he felt that Mindy had crossed a line this time. The incident with the gown, the argument, the accusations, then the fall—everything seemed obvious, at least from his perspective.
The room remained quiet until Emily finally broke the silence. "Should we call Layton?"
The moment his name was mentioned, everyone looked up. Missy lowered her gaze immediately, her fingers tightening slightly around the blanket covering her lap. It was a perfect reaction—one that suggested hesitation, uncertainty, concern. As though she did not want to cause trouble. In reality, she had been waiting for someone to suggest it.
Drake frowned. "He should know."
Jagger nodded once. Raymond remained silent for several moments before finally agreeing. "He deserves to hear about it."
Missy’s eyelashes trembled. "No," she said softly, shaking her head. "Please don’t call him." Her voice sounded almost pleading. "I don’t want him to misunderstand Sister."
The room immediately grew quiet. Emily’s eyes filled with emotion. Raymond sighed heavily. Even Drake’s expression softened. There it was again—the same familiar pattern. Missy always protected Mindy, even when Mindy supposedly hurt her, even when she suffered because of her. That was exactly what everyone believed. And because they believed it, they loved her even more.
Missy lowered her head to hide the small smile threatening to appear. Everything was unfolding exactly as planned.
An hour later, the door to the suite opened, and the atmosphere shifted instantly. Layton Knight had arrived.
Even standing silently, he commanded attention. His tall frame and composed demeanor filled the room with quiet authority. His sharp features remained expressionless as he stepped inside, but the faint tension around his eyes betrayed a trace of concern. The moment his gaze landed on Missy—pale, fragile, and surrounded by her family—his brows furrowed slightly.
"What happened?" His voice was calm, but the coldness beneath it was unmistakable.
Emily immediately stood, her expression a perfect blend of relief and distress. "Layton, thank God you’re here."
Missy looked up quickly. The moment their eyes met, tears welled in hers. "Layton..." she whispered, then looked away almost instantly, as though embarrassed to be seen in such a vulnerable state.
Layton walked toward the bed, his gaze briefly examining the bandage around her ankle. "Are you hurt badly?"
Missy shook her head. "No," she said softly, forcing a faint smile. "It’s only a small injury." Then she added, almost as an afterthought, "Please don’t blame Sister."
The room fell silent. Layton’s expression darkened slightly. The first thing she said was not about herself, not about her pain, but about protecting Mindy. That alone created a powerful impression.
Emily sighed dramatically. "Even now, you’re still defending her."
Missy lowered her gaze. "I know she didn’t mean it," she murmured. The words sounded sincere, heartfelt, as though she genuinely believed them. Only Mindy, eight years later, would understand how brilliant the performance truly was.
Layton listened quietly as the story unfolded. Emily spoke first, then Drake, then Jagger. Eventually, even Raymond joined in. Piece by piece, they painted a picture—a picture of a jealous wife, a bitter sister, a woman unable to tolerate Missy’s success. They spoke about the argument, the damaged gown, the accusations, the fall. Every detail was carefully presented, every word chosen to make Mindy appear worse.
Missy repeatedly tried to stop them—at least on the surface. "Please don’t," she said softly. "Sister didn’t mean it. It was partly my fault. You shouldn’t blame her." Yet somehow, every attempt to defend Mindy only made her seem guiltier. Every tear Missy shed, every tremor in her voice, every selfless word she spoke painted her as the perfect victim.
Layton remained silent throughout the entire conversation. The silence made the room increasingly tense. Nobody could tell what he was thinking. Nobody could read his expression. But Missy could. She had spent years learning how to read him, and what she saw pleased her. His patience was slipping—slowly, steadily—exactly as she intended.
Finally, when the room fell quiet again, Missy looked toward Layton. Tears still lingered in her eyes. "I really don’t want this to affect your marriage," she whispered. "I know Sister has always misunderstood my relationship with you."
The sentence hit the room like a bomb. Nobody spoke. Nobody interrupted. Because everyone understood what she was implying. Missy quickly lowered her head, as though she regretted saying it, as though she had accidentally revealed something she should have kept hidden.
Emily’s expression darkened. Drake clenched his jaw. Even Raymond frowned. And for the first time since entering the room, Layton’s eyes turned completely cold.
Missy saw it and knew she had won. Perhaps not completely—not yet—but the seed had been planted. The seed that would eventually destroy Mindy and Layton’s marriage.
And nobody in that room realized it. Nobody except Missy.