Chapter 3

Soft, scraping sounds came from behind the door.

From where I stood, I could see through the small window a little girl, so thin she looked like nothing but skin and bones, collapsed beside the door.

With what little strength she had left, she clawed weakly at the wood, her movements slow and desperate.

Hunger had already stolen her voice. Even forcing her eyelids open took everything she had.

Starving to death was an unbearably cruel process, and yet, even then, her lips were still moving faintly.

It was clear that she was silently calling for her mother.

In her short six years of life, she had lived under Desmond's cruelty, under her own mother's hatred, and under a deep resentment toward a father she had never once met.

She was so small, and she had thought about it again and again, unable to understand.

Why did her mother not love her?

Outside the door, the father was still sobbing and begging, swearing and cursing, doing everything he could to convince Winnie that I was already dead.

Inside the basement, Winfrey had lost all signs of life.

Her eyes slowly closed.

A grief so violent it felt like a beast crashing into my skull overtook me. I screamed Winfrey's name at the top of my lungs, but nothing could bring her back.

It was as if my father sensed it.

His voice suddenly cut off.

Facing the tightly shut basement door, he let out a raw, meaningless howl that was painful, animalistic, utterly broken.

Winnie's expression finally shifted. Panic flickered in her eyes, and she ordered someone to open the door.

Winfrey's lifeless body came into view.

My father nearly lost his mind. He struggled to get out of his wheelchair, desperate to crawl over and hold her.

However, a crippled body could not complete such a movement.

He fell hard onto the ground.

Winnie's lips trembled, as if she were about to say something, but before she could, Desmond rushed in.

He let out an exaggerated cry.

"Winfrey is dead? I'm so sorry, Winnie. This is all my fault…"

Winnie instantly forgot the faint trace of grief she might have felt as a mother and moved to comfort him instead.

"It has nothing to do with you! That little witch should've died six years ago! Just thinking that I once had a child with Andy makes me sick!"

My father, sprawled on the floor, looked up at them with burning fury.

"Winnie, even tigers don't eat their own cubs! You're nothing but a monster!"

Winnie laughed in rage.

"I'm a monster? The real monster is Andy!

"I only wanted him to kneel before me and apologize, but he wouldn't show himself, no matter what!

"He's the one who killed your wife! He's the one who killed that little wretch!"

Every word she spoke carried bone-deep hatred toward me.

I collapsed to my knees, my entire body shaking.

Yes.

It was all my fault.

I was wrong to love Winnie. I was wrong to donate my heart to her.

If I had never given her my heart, if I had not staged that cruel performance just to make her forget me..,

None of that would have happened.

My father knew there was no turning back. Over and over, he whispered hoarsely, "Winnie… You will regret this…"

She grew irritated.

Her eyes shifted, and then she smiled.

"You think this is the end?

"I'm going to drag that little wrench's corpse out to feed the dogs. Let's see how long Andy, that coward, can endure it."

The father's face changed instantly.

Using both hands, he crawled toward Winfrey, clumsily trying to gather her emaciated body into his arms.

However, the security guards rushed forward, pulling him away without mercy.

Ignoring his desperate screams, they carried Winfrey's body off.