Chapter 8

A sharp, sudden ache twisted in Maxwell's chest. He leaned back against the chair, a little drunk now.

And just like that, he thought of Zoey, the woman who never knew how to give up.

She had always been gentle, yet unwavering. Even when they fought—every time—she never raised her voice. She just... bore it. Quietly.

He could still see her—from the way she begged in the beginning, to when her composure finally broke and she shattered completely... and then, somehow, pulled herself together, gritting her teeth to keep standing.

He toyed with her. Over and over.

There was a time he even disappeared for a full month, ignoring every call, every message. And yet, when he finally walked through the door... she still handed him a cup of coffee.

He never understood. What the hell was she holding on to?

He treated her like garbage. Pushed her away. Drove her to the edge. Lied about having a child with Nancy just to make her leave.

And yet... Maxwell knew. All of it... was because he loved her.

His hands trembled uncontrollably. He couldn't stop it—the way his mind drifted back to her. The way his heart still reacted to her name. To her face. To everything.

Dr. Willow had told him Zoey stayed in the same place after the transfusion. She had nowhere else to go.

Knowing that should've brought relief. It didn't. His chest felt like someone had shoved a fist right through it.

Just then, Nancy came out from the kitchen with a glass of milk.

"Maxwell," she said sweetly, tilting her head with a playful smile, "here, have some milk. Helps with sleep."

Her face was bright, radiant, full of the same spoiled charm... the same charm Zoey once had.

That's right. She looked like Zoey. Her eyes. Her lips. Her temper. Even the way she carried herself.

That was why he agreed to this wedding. Sure, Nancy was obedient and well-behaved. But more than anything, she looked like Zoey.

His arm slipped around her waist, pulling her into his lap. His heart sank lower and lower.

'There's not just one Zoey in this world,' he told himself. 'Just one insignificant Zoey. I can quit her. I swear I can.'

Nancy's cheeks flushed. Her heart raced as she leaned into his chest, thrilled beyond words. Ever since their deal began, this was the first time he had initiated any intimacy.

Maybe... maybe tonight they could take things further.

She bit her lip, her voice soft and syrupy. "Maxwell..." Her arms wrapped tightly around his waist.

Her hands fumbled with the cuff of his shirt, fingers working nervously. She tipped her face up, offering her lips, waiting—

But Maxwell barely glanced at her. His eyes darkened, shadows coiling behind them like a storm about to break.

He couldn't do it. Not with anyone who wasn't Zoey.

His voice turned frigid. "Nancy... did you forget our deal?"

Her lips trembled. Frustration flickered in her eyes. "But Maxwell... we're married."

He stood, buttoning his shirt with a smile that was nothing but sharp edges.

"You know damn well it's fake. You play the part, I give you resources. If it weren't for your father's gambling debts, you wouldn't be sitting here at all."

His words were precise. Ruthless. Mechanical. Like a verdict being read out in court.

And with that... he walked away. No hesitation. No backward glance.

Nancy stood frozen. Her fingers dug into her palms, leaving crescent-shaped marks. Her eyes reddened, filling with something venomous.

Because now she knew—no matter how perfect the imitation... she would never take Zoey's place in his heart.

…

Maxwell lay on the couch.

His mind kept spinning, stuck on that last cruel conversation with Zoey. He couldn't sleep.

At some point, he got up and lit a cigarette.

The smoke filled the room, thick and suffocating. But it did nothing to quiet the storm inside him.

In the end... he gave in. He pulled out his phone and dialed her number.

The dial tone rang. Once. Twice. Three times.

No answer.

The line cut. All that remained was the hollow echo of silence.

His chest tightened. His breath felt shallow.

Finally, he called Dr. Willow.

"Find Zoey. If she's fine... don't bother calling me back."

Dr. Willow hesitated. He'd done this a dozen times before—tracking Zoey down whenever Maxwell pretended not to care. But this time... he couldn't hold back.

"But Mr. Porter... you said after the divorce, I wasn't to report anything about Ms. Bradford anymore."

Maxwell closed his eyes. Smoke curled past his lips.

"Find her. Once you do... get everything arranged. A clean break. Send her abroad. And after that... make sure she never comes back. From this moment on... she's dead to me."