Chapter 5

"What wedding are you talking about?" Tad demanded, his brows tightly knit.

I curved my lips slightly—a faint, detached smile edged with mockery.

"A wedding you two will never be invited to."

He blinked, caught off guard, as if trying to process my words.

"Whose wedding? Don't tell me—it's yours?"

I tilted my head, the corner of my mouth sharp as a blade.

"Of course not. After all, you, Mr. Tad, have yet to kneel down and propose, haven't you? You're still, officially, my ‘boyfriend,' right?"

I reached out and brushed my fingertips against his arm—so briefly it could've been imagined.

But it was enough to make him flinch as if burned.

"Enough, Nancy," he said sharply, irritation flaring. "Stop being so dramatic. You're still recovering. Just rest."

The words cut into me like a dull, rusted knife.

He didn't even bother to pretend anymore.

And to think—I once gave him my trust, my love, my everything.

Leaning against the doorframe, Leo crossed his arms arrogantly. "So why are we excluded? We've known you for years."

"It's just a distant relative's wedding," I replied calmly. "You don't know them. My mother asked me to attend on behalf of the family."

"What about Celia?" Leo pressed, eyes sharp. "Is she going with you?"

I shrugged indifferently. "No. She's just a charity case the family took in. She's not qualified for that kind of occasion."

Tad visibly relaxed, smiling in relief. "Perfect. While you're gone, we're planning a trip to Finland."

Finland.

My breath caught.

The destination I'd mentioned for three years—

the one they always dismissed as "too expensive" and "a waste of time."

"Yeah," Leo added with a smug grin. "Doctor says Celia can travel next week. We're booking the jet already."

"No room for me?" I asked quietly, already knowing the answer.

Tad's smile gleamed like a blade. "Don't worry, we'll bring you a souvenir. Maybe even a ‘nice' dress for the wedding. Now get some rest—we're taking Celia for her checkup."

They turned and left again, without a second glance.

I said nothing—just nodded slightly and closed the door behind them, sealing their presence out.

So that's what I'd become—just part of the background.

That was fine.

They didn't need to know that I already had a plan—

an escape so complete, so seamless, that by the time they realized I was gone, it would already be far too late.

All I needed now was patience.

That afternoon, I finally forced myself out of bed and went to the safe house's fully stocked kitchen.

I needed real food—something warm, something that could remind my body it was still alive.

I opened the temperature-controlled fridge, took out ingredients, and began to prepare.

As the soup started to simmer and release soft white steam, I heard it—

a faint sound of footsteps approaching from behind.

I turned slowly.

Celia stood there.

She wore a pale pink cashmere cardigan, her hair braided loosely, exuding a carefully crafted aura of "harmless sweetness."

"Didn't think you'd be up already." She smiled saccharinely, leaning against the counter. "I thought you were still too weak to move—or maybe just pretending to get sympathy?"

I ignored her, continuing to chop the vegetables rhythmically. The knife hit the board with steady, precise clicks.

"I mean," she went on, still smiling, voice dripping with venom, "did you really crash that car, or was that just a show you staged? Scared the attention wasn't on you for once?"

I set the knife down and met her eyes—cold and sharp.

"You and I," I said evenly, "are fundamentally different."

Her face stiffened. "What's that supposed to mean?"

I enunciated each word clearly. "The one who craves attention—who'll do anything to play the victim—is you."

"Oh, please." She rolled her eyes, sneering. "You're just jealous. You know what it feels like now, don't you? Tad and Leo—your men, your friends—they're mine. My protectors. And you? You're nothing, Nancy."

My fingers curled slightly, almost imperceptibly.

That tiny flicker of reaction didn't escape her notice.

Her expression brightened with triumphant satisfaction.

"Honestly," she whispered, leaning closer, voice full of taunting sweetness, "you should just leave. This house doesn't belong to you anymore."

I turned back to the pot, picked up the spoon, and stirred the soup slowly—refusing to give her the satisfaction of another reaction.

"Still pretending to be above it all?" she mocked, yanking open a drawer and pulling out a sharp kitchen knife. "Fine. I'll ‘help' cook. Let's see whose meal the boys prefer."

She began hacking at ingredients recklessly—fast, messy, dangerous.

I stepped back silently, watching her without expression.

Then—

"Ah—!" Celia screamed. The knife clattered to the tile floor, and blood instantly welled between her fingers, splattering down in bright red drops.

"Of course," I muttered under my breath. "This act again."

But it was already too late.

"Tad! Leo!" she shrieked, voice shrill and panicked. "Help! I'm bleeding—Nancy, she… she did this to me!"

Within seconds, heavy footsteps thundered from the hallway.

The brothers burst in like hounds on alert, their eyes locking on the "wounded" Celia.

Tad rushed to her, wrapping her protectively in his arms. "What happened? Where are you hurt?"

"She didn't say a word," Celia sobbed, trembling against him. "I was bleeding so much—and she just stood there, watching… like she didn't even care…"

I stood frozen, still holding the soup spoon, its edge dripping faint traces of broth.

"You didn't help her?" Leo snapped, fury flashing in his eyes. "Do you even have a heart?"

Celia clung to Tad's arm, voice trembling. "I was just trying to help… she pushed me, and then I—"

"I never touched you," I said quietly. My voice was calm, almost too calm—

but drowned out completely by her crying and their rage.

No one listened.

In their world, there was only one truth:

Celia—the helpless, fragile girl who must be protected.

And me—the jealous, heartless villain who would always be the one to blame.