Chapter 9

Dr. Willow stared at the phone screen as the line went dead, letting out a long, quiet sigh.

'Mr. Porter is impossibly stubborn,' he thought to himself. 'Yet, even now, worried out of his mind, and he still can't bring himself to admit it.'

Dr. Willow had followed Maxwell for more than twenty years. He had watched as Maxwell's attitude toward Zoey shifted again and again—yet the one thing that never changed was his feelings for her.

He still remembered when Maxwell was just a boy. The day Maxwell learned the truth—that Zoey's mother was the woman who drove his mother to her death—he didn't speak for an entire week.

Dr. Willow could still picture Maxwell sitting by the window, head leaning against the glass, staring quietly at the balcony across the street. He could see Zoey there, twirling around in her little white dress, as though any second now she would skip down, grab his hand, and say—

"Maxwell, let's go play."

Maxwell sat there for hours. Just... watching.

By the time Dr. Willow realized how long it had been, Maxwell was already crying. Silent, empty tears that had been falling for God knows how long.

That was the first time Dr. Willow had ever seen that look on his face—grief so deep it was almost hollow.

"Dr. Willow... I can't stop loving her," Maxwell had whispered back then.

Dr. Willow had watched him carry that tangled knot of hatred and love all the way into marrying Zoey.

The beginning... wasn't all bad. For a brief moment, there was happiness.

But Maxwell poured every ounce of his resentment—not at Zoey herself—but into her family, into everything tied to her past.

He orchestrated everything. Manipulated every piece. And yet, everything he built... was just a fortress to protect her.

But eventually, Zoey discovered the truth about the money. About where it all really came from. She showed up, clutching that financial report in her hands, sobbing as the papers shook in her grip. Her tears hit his arm like tiny, scalding drops of acid.

Maxwell nearly broke. Nearly.

But in the end... he forced himself to turn his back on her. He forced himself to spit out the words he knew would destroy them both.

"I hate you. I hate you so much, I want you dead."

Zoey begged him through her tears. She didn't believe it.

Nobody could believe that a man who loved her this deeply could possibly mean those words.

But she kept trying. Kept looking for him. Kept coming back, over and over, until hope turned to despair.

Until one day... she locked herself in her room and swallowed bottle after bottle of sleeping pills.

That was the first time Maxwell ever came to Dr. Willow looking like that. Desperate. Terrified. He held Zoey in his arms like she was the last fragile thing in the world.

"I don't love her anymore," he said, voice shaking. "Just... please, save her. Please... Tell me how to make her live."

Dr. Willow had sighed then. "Sometimes... hate lasts longer than love."

And so, the two of them spent the next ten years locked in this endless war of love and hate. Ten years of cutting each other open, over and over.

Dr. Willow let out another breath, heavier this time. His feet carried him back to the wedding hall... and the moment he stepped inside, something cold, heavy, and suffocating wrapped around him.

A chill crawled down his spine.

The wedding decorations were still up. Streamers. Balloons. Flowers. All bright. All colorful.

And in the middle of it all... was Zoey.

Her face was bone white.

At first, he thought she'd simply fainted. He rushed forward instinctively—

—and then her body collapsed. Just crumpled, like something hollow finally giving out.

She was dead.

Not just dead. The way she died was... unspeakably cruel.

Blood stained every part of her face—flowed from her nose, her mouth, even from beneath her eyelids. And worst of all... her lips. Even in death, blood kept oozing from her mouth.

Dr. Willow stumbled back two full steps. His hands trembled. His heart hammered in his chest.

One thought. Just one, overpowering thought filled his mind, 'Zoey... is dead?'

The stench of death hit him hard. His stomach lurched. He had to fight not to throw up.

When he finally managed to move, he bent down—trying, somehow, to lift her. But her body... her body was covered in bruises, in bite marks, in defensive wounds that spoke of how long and hard she fought to survive.

Her face... drained of all life. Her skin... ghostly, waxy, stretched too tight.

His first instinct wasn't to call the hospital.

It was to call the funeral home.

Because the only thing echoing in his head—growing louder, sharper, heavier by the second—was this, 'Maxwell... is going to lose his mind.'