After he killed my daughter, he knelt down and begged me for forgiveness

On the other end of the line, the assistant's voice trembled, every word cutting through the silence of the lounge.

"M-Mr. Abbott…"

"The day after that blizzard… a patrol officer dug a child's body out of a snowdrift by the highway…"

"After verification… it was… it was the little miss…"

Marcus's hand spasmed. The phone cracked against the floor.

The screen stayed lit. The assistant kept talking.

"Cause of death was… organ failure from severe hypothermia… The medical examiner said she was frozen in the snow for an entire night…"

"And also… Miss Henson's right hand… that same night, digging through the snow to save the child… severed tendons, nerve necrosis… completely destroyed…"

Dead silence.

Marcus stood frozen, his face the color of ash. His lips trembled. His gaze drifted to me, then down to my right hand hidden inside my sleeve.

I braced myself against the wall and straightened.

Slowly raised my right hand.

Knuckles. Scars. Exposed under the light.

"Marcus."

I looked at his face. My voice was soft, but every word was clear.

"This is the daughter you wanted to see."

"And the piano you wanted to hear."

"How is it? Does it sound good?"

The shattered phone rang out across the banquet hall, and the room went instantly silent.

Marcus's body was rigid, his eyes locked on my hand suspended in the air.

A broken sound scraped out of his throat:

"No… impossible…"

"Alex, you're lying to me… you and them—you're all lying. How could Lily be dead? She's only two…"

He staggered toward me, reaching out, trying to touch my ruined hand.

"This hand is fake too… all to deceive me…"

The instant his fingertips were about to make contact, I yanked my hand back and slapped him across the face with my left.

Crack.

I put everything into it. My palm went numb from the impact.

His head snapped to the side. Blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. But he only stared at me, blank and hollow.

I looked at him with disgust.

"Marcus, don't touch me."

"You touched Sophia's hand, and now you want to touch my wound? It makes me sick."

Sophia had been trembling beside us the whole time. Seeing things turn, she lifted her skirt and tried to shrink back into the crowd.

"Stop."

I spoke coldly.

"Sophia, the show from five years ago isn't finished yet. And you want to leave already?"

She froze. Forced herself to turn around. Her makeup had run, smeared by cold sweat, making her face look grotesque.

"Alex… what are you talking about?"

"Marcus, don't listen to her nonsense—she's just jealous of me…"

I ignored her. Pulled out a voice recorder. Pressed play.

I'd recorded it five years ago. On a truck with no brakes. Recorded it with my life on the line.

From the speaker came Sophia's smug voice, layered over howling wind and snow, echoing through the dead-silent banquet hall.

"Alex, do you know why your brakes failed? I had someone cut them."

"Marcus told me—only if you die can I become Mrs. Abbott."

"And that little burden of yours? Best if it dies with you."

"Oh, it's useless to beg for help. Marcus is in my bed right now—who has time to care about your little bastard with a fever?"

The recording cut off.

The room erupted.

Countless stares—contempt, shock, horror—stabbed toward Sophia all at once.

Marcus's body jolted. He turned his head slowly, his neck making a mechanical cracking sound.

He stared at Sophia. His eyes were so hollow they were terrifying.

"It was you…?"

His voice was barely a whisper. Like a ghost.