He Married My Dying Best Friend, So I Married His Rival

The old me might have trembled. I might have softened. I might have mistaken this belated tenderness for love.

But now, I only turned my head away and pressed his hand down firmly.

"Sorry," I said calmly. "I don't feel anything anymore."

Adrian froze.

He stared at me for a long time, searching my face as if trying to find anger, jealousy, or sadness.

But there was nothing.

No tears.

No struggle.

No trace of the woman who once loved him desperately.

After a long silence, his expression gradually cooled. The tenderness in his eyes disappeared, replaced by visible impatience and disinterest. Somewhere in the hallway beyond us, I could hear two of Enzo DeLuca's household soldiers murmuring to each other, their voices low enough to carry respect and sharp enough to carry gossip by morning.

"I'm sleeping in the study tonight," he said.

Then he turned and left.

Not long after I fell asleep, I heard the sound of hurried footsteps outside.

Adrian rushed out again.

I opened my eyes for only a moment, then turned over and went back to sleep.

I no longer cared where he was going.

I no longer cared who he was running to.

The next morning, when I opened the bedroom door, I unexpectedly saw Adrian sitting in the living room.

I raised an eyebrow slightly. "You're up early."

He did not respond to my greeting.

Instead, he looked straight at me and asked coldly, "Why did you report Viviana for plagiarism?"

His voice was filled with accusation.

"Do you know how much of a blow that is to her?"

My smile faded.

I looked at him and asked slowly, "Then tell me, Adrian. Did Viviana really create that design herself?"

His expression stiffened.

I continued, each word clear. "If she didn't, then isn't it plagiarism?"

Adrian seemed stunned by my question, as if he had never expected me to confront him so directly.

After a moment, disappointment appeared on his face.

"Bianca," he said, "how did you become like this?"

I almost laughed.

Like this?

What was I supposed to be like?

The kind, obedient woman who swallowed every grievance in silence?

The fool who watched him give my work to another woman and still pretended nothing had happened?

He looked at me with frustration. "Where did the kind-hearted Bianca I knew go?"

Then he continued, his tone growing sharper.

"You already have everything. Awards, success, recognition. Why do you have to take this away from Viviana too?"

His voice softened slightly, but the words that followed were even crueler.

"Viviana is in the hospital. She's dying, Bianca. She only wanted to experience what it feels like to win a commission before she leaves this world. Is that really too much to ask?"

For a moment, I was so angry that my fingertips went numb.

A chill spread through my body, followed by a burning rage that nearly stole my breath.

"Of course it's too much!" I snapped.

My voice trembled, not from weakness, but from fury.

"Adrian, you know better than anyone how much I sacrificed for my dream."

"For years, every winter, my hands would crack from the cold. They would swell, itch, bleed, and ache until I could barely hold a brush. But I still practiced. I still painted."

"Every award I won, every commission I completed, every bit of recognition I earned came from my own pain and effort."

I stared at him, my chest rising and falling violently.

"How could you give my work to Viviana so easily?"

"If she wants to know what it feels like to win, then she should earn it herself. Not steal from me."

"What part of that is so hard for you to understand?"

I could lose a man.

I could give up a relationship.

I could walk away from ten years of love.

But if Viviana dared to touch my designs, I would make sure she paid the price.

Adrian did not seem to notice how badly I was shaking.

He only looked at me with that same disappointed expression, as if I had committed some unforgivable sin.

"You've changed," he said.

Then he turned and walked out.

The door closed behind him.

The next second, a sharp pain tore through my chest.

My heart clenched violently, and my body lost all strength. I collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath.

Cold sweat broke out across my forehead.

I reached toward the door with trembling fingers.

"Adrian…"

My voice was weak, broken, almost inaudible.

"Save me…"

But he did not look back.

Not once.

When I woke again, I was lying in a hospital bed.

The smell of disinfectant filled the air, thin and sharp beneath the hum of private-clinic machinery. The kind of clinic where records could disappear if the right family asked.