Married to the “Dying” Heiress,Now My Ex and Family Beg for Mercy

I'd barely left the hospital when I heard the news: my father had given Neil fifteen percent of the company shares.

And as if that weren't enough, he'd decided Neil and Julia's new home was too far from the family estate. Couldn't bear being so far from his precious son. So he bought Neil another villa—right in our neighborhood.

Now my father and stepmother spent their days helping Neil decorate his new place.

Everyone in our circle found it hilarious. The legitimate son, worth less than the mistress's bastard.

I couldn't care less.

With them gone, I finally had some peace.

I was in my room, replying to Abraham's messages, when Neil pushed open my door without knocking. He carried a bowl of something dark and murky.

He set it on the coffee table, sat down beside me, and hooked his arm through mine with a smile.

"I heard you spent two whole days in the hospital all by yourself?"

He pouted. "It's Julia's fault, really. She kept dragging me to auctions to bid on sky lanterns—said it was her wedding gift to me. I told her it was too extravagant, but I couldn't bear to disappoint her. That's the only reason I couldn't visit you." His voice turned syrupy. "Don't be mad at me, okay?"

I watched his performance with cold eyes. "What do you actually want?"

His gaze slid toward the safe in my room. A flush crept up his cheeks as he smiled.

"Julia's been so eager lately. We just got married and she's already begging me for a baby." He laughed softly. "I heard that the sacred Madonna portrait can help with fertility. I've been looking for one to hang in our living room, but nothing's been quite right."

He paused, letting the words hang.

"I heard your mother was devout. That she was an incredible artist. That she painted a Madonna portrait before she died." His eyes met mine. "I was hoping you might let me have it."

"I wouldn't take it for nothing, of course." His smile widened. "Julia and I talked about it. If you stay healthy, she said she'd keep you on the side. After all, a successful woman like her always has men circling. Why let some stranger have what could go to family? You could—"

I yanked my arm free and grabbed him by the collar, hauling him close.

"That portrait is the only thing my mother left me." My voice came out low, dangerous. "Father's company, his women—I don't care about any of it. But that painting? No one touches it."

I shoved him back. "Only trash like you and your mother would throw themselves at married men, begging to be the other woman. I'm not interested."

When I was six, I got sick. Desperately, incurably sick.

My mother had nowhere left to turn, so she turned to faith. She painted that portrait of the Madonna with her own hands. She brought in a master to consecrate it. Then she knelt before it for three days straight—no food, no water—kowtowing and chanting prayers, begging the heavens to save her son.

I recovered.

But my mother died trying to stop human traffickers. They stabbed her over and over until she stopped moving.

That painting held every ounce of her love for me. No one was taking it.

Neil crumpled to the floor where I'd thrown him, sobbing like his heart was breaking.

"You've got it all wrong..." He choked on his tears. "I just wanted to repay you for everything..."

Julia appeared out of nowhere. She pulled Neil into her arms, then turned and slapped me across the face.

Her eyes were glacier-cold.

"I'm the one who wanted a different groom. Neil was never the other woman." Her voice dripped with contempt. "He was worried you'd catch some disease. The Gilberts won't take care of a widower, and no one else would want you. So he begged me to find you a doctor, to make sure someone would look after you for the rest of your miserable life."

She stepped closer. "You'd raise your hand against a brother this thoughtful, but you'll fight to the death over a painting by a dead woman? You're insane."

She pinned me in place with one hand and snapped at her bodyguards over her shoulder.

"Since he won't hand it over willingly, cut open the safe. Take the painting."

Her words stabbed into my chest—a thousand times more painful than the slap.

Within minutes, they had the safe open. They pulled out the painting and handed it to Neil.

I stared at Julia, a cold laugh escaping my throat.

"So this is it. You've chosen Neil's side completely. You'll even help him steal from me."

Julia knew my history. She knew what that painting meant.

The tenderness she'd once shown me was gone. All that remained was a flicker of guilt she couldn't quite hide.