Chapter 1

After I was diagnosed with late-stage stomach cancer, I didn't tell Ethan.

I let him shove me into the mud in front of the tombstone, forcing me to my knees to confess.

“Stella, your life belongs to Chloe now.”

The heavy rain lashed down, cold to the bone, but it was nothing compared to the icy hatred in his eyes.

I wanted to say that it was Chloe, his sister, who had fought to push me into the ventilation shaft that day.

But I opened my mouth, only to swallow a mouthful of blood.

Three years. He wouldn't believe me.

“Speak!” Ethan gripped my chin, his eyes bloodshot. “Tell Chloe how you locked her in that burning building!”

I looked at his face, contorted with hatred, and suddenly laughed.

“Ethan, if I told you I was dying, would you finally stop hating me?”

The cramping in my stomach seized me again. I coughed up a mouthful of blood, splashing onto his polished dress shoes.

He froze.

And I, finally collapsed at his feet.

Stella POV

“Ms. Davis, the test results are in. Late-stage stomach cancer, with peritoneal metastasis…”

The doctor adjusted his glasses, his tone heavy. “Given your current physical condition, surgery won’t do much good. With conservative treatment, you probably have about three months.”

I sat in the chair, staring at the thin diagnostic report, my eyes blank for a moment.

“Three months, huh…” I murmured, no tears in my dry eyes. Instead, a faint smile touched my lips. “That’s good.”

It was enough.

Three months was enough time for me to pay back every debt I owed Ethan.

Stepping out of the hospital, a cold autumn rain was falling. I didn’t open my umbrella, letting the icy water hit me. The biting chill seeped into every pore, but it couldn't compare to the agonizing pain in my stomach, like a thousand ants gnawing at me.

I forced myself to suppress the spasms and took a cab back to the mansion on Long Island.

Pushing open the heavy, carved front door, the living room lights were off. In the dimness, a red cigarette tip glowed erratically on the sofa.

I was drenched, raindrops trailing down my pale cheeks and splashing onto the floor. I changed my shoes, and just as I was about to head upstairs, his deep, cold voice cut through the darkness.

“Come here.”

I paused, then turned and slowly walked towards the sofa.

Billionaire Ethan Smith sat in the shadows, his long legs crossed. His intense eyes were hidden behind wisps of smoke, exuding a frightening pressure.

He casually slammed a thick stack of documents onto the coffee table with a sharp thwack, a jarring sound in the dead silence of the living room.

“Look at these,” he said simply, directly, his voice devoid of warmth.

I bent down, my hands trembling as I picked up the documents. In the faint glow of the streetlights outside the window, I made out the title on the cover—Chloe Smith Memorial Hall Design Proposal.

My heart clenched, my fingertips instantly turning to ice.

Chloe. Chloe Smith.

Ethan’s most beloved sister, and my once best friend.

Three years ago, Chloe and I were kidnapped and held in an abandoned underground theater in the New York suburbs. The kidnappers, in a fit of rage, set the place on fire.

The flames spread rapidly, thick smoke billowing everywhere. There was only one disused ventilation shaft we could crawl through, but it was too narrow for more than one person.

Chloe pressed the only wet towel over my mouth and, with all her strength, shoved me into the shaft. She herself was hit by a falling wooden beam, trapped forever in that inferno.

By the time I returned with the rescue team, the theater was a pile of ashes.

But the evidence left behind, and a recording deliberately fabricated by the kidnappers, all pointed to one “fact”—that I had selfishly snatched the wet towel, locked Chloe in the fire, and escaped alone to save my own life.

Ethan believed it.

From that day on, the man who had doted on me ceased to exist. In his place was a devil, crawled from hell, vowing to torment me to death.

“You’re building a memorial hall?” My voice was terribly hoarse, like sandpaper scraping across a table.

“You’re a top architect. Chloe loved your work when she was alive.” Ethan leaned forward, gripping my chin, forcing my gaze to meet his cold, dark eyes. “You will design this memorial hall.”

I was forced to tilt my head back, my chin aching. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

“Don’t agree so fast.” Ethan sneered, a cruel glint in his eyes. “I want you to completely recreate that underground theater. The temperature, the smoke, the sense of despair when Chloe was burned to death—I want you to reproduce every detail exactly!”

My pupils constricted, my blood seeming to freeze instantly.

Recreate that inferno?

That was the terrifying scene I dreamt about every single night for the past three years!