A Love Too Deep, A Fate Too Short

Olivia trembled as she held my blood-soaked body in her arms.

That day she cried for a long time before finally rasping out,

“Daniel, will you be with me?”

Of course I would.

Beyond the affection I already held, she was also the heir of the White family.

She needed someone to help her move on from her heartbreak.

And I needed someone to help me escape the abyss of the Smith family.

And so, we officially began our relationship.

After surviving a brush with death, Olivia grew calmer, more grounded.

Our love wasn’t as fiery or reckless as hers had been with Eric, but it was steady and happy.

She wanted to start a business—I joined her.

She wanted independence—I agreed without hesitation.

As a girlfriend, Olivia was flawless.

As a business partner, she was even more perfect.

Ten years passed.

We built our own company. Amassed enough wealth to live comfortably for the rest of our lives.

One ordinary afternoon, Olivia casually suggested,

“Daniel, let’s get married.”

I agreed.

And that led to the farce we endured today.

A click—the sound of a lighter cut through my thoughts.

Though she had quit smoking long ago, Olivia had somehow produced a lighter and a cigarette.

The small flame flickered between her fingers.

In the dim light, I couldn’t see her expression, only the rings of smoke curling from her lips.

I was about to speak when Olivia suddenly pulled me close and kissed me deeply.

Only when I was breathless did she reluctantly let go.

Pressing her forehead against mine, she said gently but firmly,

“Daniel, being with you in this life is my greatest blessing. From now on, let’s just live our own lives, and forget the Smiths.”

Relief washed over me.

I nodded, but before I could respond, my phone rang.

The caller ID: Eric Smith.

Olivia frowned, tapped the screen, and blocked the number.

Then she started the car, and we drove back to the mansion we now lived in.

That night, Olivia was unusually clingy.

Even in sleep, she held my hand tightly, refusing to let go for even a second.

By morning, the pillow beside me was empty.

The silent room echoed only with an impatient knocking at the door.

Still half-asleep, I shuffled to open it—only to see my mother standing there with a displeased expression.

The moment she saw me, she raised the platinum handbag in her hand and smashed it against my head.

“You worthless brat! What did you say to Eric that made him cry all night in his room?”

“Stealing Olivia wasn’t enough—you want to drive your brother to his death too? How can your heart be this cruel?”

“If you don’t apologize to Eric today, I’ll never acknowledge you as my son again!”

I’d heard these words too many times growing up.

When I was born, my parents were busy building their business, leaving me behind in the countryside.

By the time they were successful, Eric was already at their side.

To them, he was their son.

And I was nothing more than a piece of the past they’d rather not remember.

In that house, if Eric cried, it was my fault.

If Eric was tired, it was my fault.

Whenever anything went wrong, it was always my fault.