Chapter 3 : “Those heels look dangerous.”

Rosie scarcely realised she had begun to run until the corridor stretched before her like something endless, her heels striking sharply against the marble as though urging her forward. Tears blurred her vision, spilling freely now, unchecked and unwelcome.

This family… they’re all monsters.

The thought came bitterly, almost violently.

She only needed to find Isabella.

Find her—and leave.

For good.

But before she could reach the stairwell—

She collided with someone.

“Ah—!”

The impact sent her stumbling backwards, her balance lost as she fell hard against the floor. For a moment, the world tilted unpleasantly, her thoughts scattering as she blinked up in a daze.

The first thing she noticed was a pair of polished black shoes, immaculate against the marble. Then the sharp line of dark trousers. And finally—

His face.

It was, quite absurdly, the sort of face one might expect to see in a painting rather than in the middle of a hallway—striking in its symmetry, composed to the point of arrogance, and framed by eyes so dark they seemed to hold far more than they revealed.

He extended a hand toward her.

“Sister-in-law,” he said, his voice low and smooth, touched with quiet amusement, “are you quite all right?”

Rosie hesitated, startled not only by the familiarity of the title but by the ease with which he used it.

Still, she accepted his hand.

His grip was firm, steady, and as he drew her to her feet, his other hand came briefly to rest against her back—just enough to steady her. The contact was fleeting, yet unexpectedly warm, and she found herself stiffening slightly before she could stop it.

Once she was upright, he released her at once, stepping back with a faint, almost courteous smile.

“You should take care,” he added lightly. “Those heels appear rather determined to betray you.”

Rosie exhaled, her heart still racing from both the fall and the encounter. And then, as she truly looked at him—

Recognition struck.

“Sebastian?” she said, the name leaving her lips before she could stop it. “Sebastian Edward Sterling?”

His smile deepened, warm and entirely assured. “I’m impressed,” he replied. “You remember the full name. It has been rather a long time, hasn’t it?”

For a moment, Rosie could do nothing but stare.

It had been ten years—ten years since he had vanished overseas after that quiet but unmistakable fracture within the family. Long enough that she had assumed she would never see him again.

And yet here he stood.

Not the boy she remembered—bright, restless, always lingering at the edges of her and Charles’s lives—but a man fully formed, self-possessed, and entirely at ease in his own presence.

She remembered him at ten, trailing after them with boundless curiosity. At twenty, already impatient, already looking beyond the confines of his family.

And now—

Now he was thirty, and the transformation was unmistakable.

Taller. Sharper.

Dangerously confident.

“Why are you here?” she asked, still struggling to reconcile memory with reality.

He gave a small, effortless shrug. “It is my mother’s birthday, after all. I thought it only polite to make an appearance before disappearing again. Business rarely waits.”

Then, after a brief pause, his gaze shifted—more attentive now, more searching.

“I did, however, notice you leaving her room earlier,” he added. “You were crying.”

Rosie’s hand rose instinctively, brushing at the corners of her eyes. “It was nothing,” she said quickly. “Just… an argument.”

He did not look convinced.

“You should go to her,” Rosie continued, stepping slightly aside. “I’m sure she’s waiting. I need to find Isabella.”

She moved to pass him—

But his hand closed gently around her wrist.

“Sister-in-law,” he said.

She turned back, startled.

With his free hand, he reached into his jacket and produced a crisp business card, placing it carefully into her palm.

“It has been years since we last spoke,” he said. “If you ever find yourself in need of anything—advice, assistance… even employment—do not hesitate to call.”

Rosie frowned faintly, her pulse quickening.

A job?

Why would he—

Had Charles told him? Or was her situation written plainly enough upon her face?

Her gaze dropped to the card.

—

Sebastian Edward Sterling

President & CEO

Sterling Enterprises

Office: [phone]

—

Her breath caught for the briefest moment.

Her birth year.

She shook her head almost immediately. Coincidence. Nothing more.

When she looked up again, Sebastian was watching her with that same quiet, knowing expression, as though he had noticed far more than she would have preferred.

“Well,” he said lightly, “should you require anything, you know where to find me. I’ll go and see my mother.”

He released her wrist and turned away, his stride unhurried, self-assured—the sort of confidence that suggested the world rarely denied him anything.

Rosie watched until he disappeared behind the doors, then let out a slow breath, slipping the card into her purse.

“Why is he even here…” she murmured. “I thought he’d cut ties with all of them.”

Shaking the thought from her mind, she pushed forward into the crowd below, her focus sharpening once more.

Isabella.

That was all that mattered.

Her eyes moved quickly across the room, scanning faces, corners, doorways—anywhere her daughter might be.

Nothing.

She knows this house, Rosie told herself, forcing down the rising panic. She’s been here before. The security is tight. She’s safe.

Her phone buzzed in her bag.

Rosie pulled it out, already frowning when she saw the name on the screen.

Of course.

Charles.

Rosie answered at once, her tone sharp with irritation. “What is it now? I’m looking for Izzie. Don’t call me again.”

A low chuckle drifted through the line, unhurried and entirely self-assured. “Looking for our daughter? There’s no need. She’s with me. In my room.”

Rosie’s stomach dropped.

“What did you just say?”

“Relax,” Charles replied lightly. “She’s perfectly fine. Come and fetch her yourself.”

Her jaw tightened. “Fine. Stay where you are. I’m taking her and leaving.”

She ended the call before he could respond.

“Of course he would be there…” she muttered, slipping her phone back into her purse.

The memory surfaced at once—his old bedroom, untouched in essence despite the passing years. The same room where they had once hidden themselves away as young lovers, where whispered promises had felt like something sacred.

Now, the mere thought of stepping inside it turned her stomach.

Still, she had no choice.

Drawing in a steady breath, Rosie set off down the corridor, her heels echoing with quiet insistence as the laughter and music of the party faded behind her. The further she went, the quieter it became, the air heavier somehow, as though the past lingered stubbornly within these walls.

At last, she stopped before the door.

Polished wood. A gold handle. And the faint, unmistakable trace of his cologne, as though time itself had refused to erase it.

Her heart pounded.

“Just take Izzie and leave,” she murmured under her breath.

Then she pushed the door open.

Charles was seated on the sofa as though he had been expecting her all along, one leg draped carelessly over the other, a glass resting loosely in his hand. The room smelled faintly of whiskey and that same expensive cologne—familiar, cloying, and deeply unwelcome.

He glanced up, the corner of his mouth lifting.

“Why are you standing there like a guest?” he said lazily. “Come in. We need to talk.”

Rosie did not move further than necessary, her hand still resting on the door.

“Where is Isabella?” she demanded.

He tilted his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. “You mean our daughter? She’s safe. In another room.” His smile widened slightly. “I won’t tell you which one just yet.”

Her pulse quickened.

“Come here,” he continued. “Let’s talk before you go.”

Rosie stepped forward, cautious, deliberate, keeping distance between them.

“Close the door,” he said.

“No.”

The answer was immediate.

“I don’t trust you.”

Charles let out a laugh—loud, mocking, echoing against the walls.

“Oh, Rosie,” he said, shaking his head, “do you really think I’d force myself on you?” His gaze swept over her with deliberate cruelty. “Please. I’ve been with women far more beautiful. There’s nothing left about you that interests me—especially after childbirth.” His lips curled faintly. “You know what they say. Men age like wine… women like milk.”

Her nails bit into her palms, the familiar sting grounding her even as his words struck where they always had.

“Just tell me where Isabella is,” she said, her voice trembling despite her effort to steady it. “I don’t want to hear anything else from you.”

Charles rose unhurriedly, adjusting his cufflinks with the casual precision of a man preparing for a meeting rather than a confrontation.

“Do you remember this room?” he asked, glancing around. “This is where it began for us. Where you first gave yourself to me.”

Rosie’s stomach twisted. “If you brought me here just to humiliate me, we’re done. Tell me where my daughter is.”

He ignored her entirely.

“You weren’t always like this,” he continued. “Do you remember who you were before I married you? You had nothing. And you were the one who begged me to make it official.” His voice softened mockingly. “You cried, said you didn’t want to be ruined.”

“Stop,” Rosie said sharply, stepping back.

“But I married you anyway,” he went on, his tone dropping into something colder. “Even when my family objected. You should have been grateful. Don’t forget that.”

He took a step closer.

She retreated instinctively, her heel catching slightly against the edge of the rug.

“Don’t come any closer, Charles,” she warned. “I will scream.”

He smiled.

“Scream for whom?” he asked quietly. “This is my house.”

There was something in his eyes—cold, assured, entirely without restraint.

“You have no idea how patient I’ve been with you,” he continued. “Ten years of complaints, of cold looks, of constant dissatisfaction. I gave you everything—money, comfort, a home.” His gaze hardened. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you. Just stop being so insufferable.”

Rosie swallowed, her chest tight, her voice shaking but unyielding.

“What I want,” she said, “is my life back.”

The words hung between them.

“I want my freedom. You’ve taken everything from me—my dignity, my confidence, my peace.” Her eyes met his, unwavering now. “I’m done. I’m not your wife anymore.”

Charles stared at her, something flickering briefly beneath his irritation—something he did not understand, and therefore immediately rejected.

The woman before him was not the one he remembered.

And he did not like it.

At all.

A slow, bitter smile returned.

“Very well,” he said at last. “She’s in the next room. Her things are packed—clothes, toys, everything. Try to make sure she eats.” His tone sharpened. “And if you find you can’t manage that, you know where to come.”

His gaze darkened.

“But take this as your final warning, Rosemary Park. If you walk away from me, there will be consequences.”

Rosie lifted her chin, her voice trembling—but fierce.

“Anything is better than staying with you. And it’s Rosemary Seo now. I don’t want your name. I don’t want your money.” Her eyes burned. “You Sterlings can rot.”

She turned without hesitation and walked out, refusing to grant him the satisfaction of seeing her break.

The door closed behind her with quiet finality.

Only then did she allow herself to breathe, the air outside feeling no less heavy—but at least no longer suffocating.

---

Rosie moved swiftly down the corridor, her heels striking against the polished floor in quick, determined rhythm until she reached the next door. Without allowing herself a moment to hesitate, she turned the handle and pushed it open.

“Mommy!”

Her heart leapt at once.

“Izzie—”

Rosie dropped to her knees just as Isabella came running into her arms, wrapping herself around her with all the unrestrained affection of a child who had never learned to hold back. Rosie held her tightly, pressing her cheek against the soft crown of her daughter’s hair, breathing her in as though to steady herself.

“Oh, my darling… I’m so sorry,” she murmured, her voice catching despite her efforts. “I missed you so much.”

Isabella pulled back slightly, her face lighting up with a bright, gap-toothed smile. “It’s okay, Mommy! Daddy took me to the mall! We played and bought toys!” She yawned faintly, her small shoulders drooping. “But I’m tired now… can we go home?”

Rosie stilled.

The word struck deeper than she had expected.

Home.

For a fleeting moment, she could not speak.

Then, with quiet effort, she managed a smile—gentle, reassuring, just enough to keep the world intact for her daughter.

“Sweetheart,” she said softly, brushing a strand of hair from Isabella’s face, “how would you feel about a little holiday instead?”

Isabella blinked up at her. “A holiday? But Mommy, I have school tomorrow!”

“It will only be a short one,” Rosie replied, her tone light, almost playful despite the tightness in her chest. “Think of it as a picnic. Somewhere nice and quiet, not too far from your school. I promise you’ll like it.”

The hesitation vanished at once, replaced by delight.

“Really? Yay!” Isabella clapped her hands, then tilted her head. “Daddy’s coming too?”

Rosie paused—only for a moment, but long enough to feel it.

“Daddy is very busy just now, darling,” she said gently. “That’s why he packed your things for us.”

She reached for the small suitcase beside the bed, drawing it closer as if to anchor the lie in something tangible.

Izzie’s smile faded into a slight pout. “Daddy never plays with us…”

Rosie’s hand stilled briefly before she smoothed her daughter’s hair with quiet care.

“He’s working very hard for you,” she said.

The words tasted hollow, but she would not let that show—not here, not now.

“Come along,” she added softly, taking Isabella’s hand in hers. “Let’s go.”

Hand in hand, they slipped quietly through the back corridor, away from the music, the laughter, and everything that had once defined their lives. With each step, the noise faded further behind them, until it became nothing more than a distant echo.

Rosie exhaled slowly.

And for the first time that evening, she did not look back.