On Our Wedding, He Sent Me to Prison to Save His Mistress

That single sentence shattered the last fragment of love Helena still clung to.

On what right—what right—did he have to decide the life or death of her child? To strip her so casually of her right to be a mother?

Rage and grief flooded her veins, drowning all reason.

Bang!

The door flew open. Helena stormed in and, without hesitation, struck Jackson across the face with all her strength.

The sharp crack echoed through the room. His head snapped to the side, and five crimson fingerprints bloomed across his cheek.

Her voice trembled, raw with fury.

"Jackson! What gives you the right?"

Her eyes blazed through a haze of tears. "On what basis do you take away my right to bear children?"

For a moment, Jackson froze. Her hatred hit him harder than the slap itself, cutting through his chest like glass.

"I did it for your own good," he said quietly.

Helena let out a broken laugh—cold, hollow.

"For my own good?" She enunciated each word, her tone icy and sharp. "Jackson... I can't afford your kindness."

Without another glance, she turned and walked out, leaving him standing there in silence.

The moment she thought of her lost child, she could no longer breathe the same air. She signed her discharge papers and left the hospital that very day.

Outside, she scrolled through her contacts until she found a name she hadn't seen in years—her senior from university, now a renowned lawyer who once owed her a favor.

When the call connected, her tone was steady but cold.

"Senior, I need your help. There's a prisoner named Jennelyn—I'll arrange a way for you to meet her. Help her overturn her case. You can name your price."

Jackson had used Jennelyn to threaten her; she wouldn't let that happen again. Jennelyn had once saved her life—now it was her turn to return the favor.

But Helena didn't know that a pair of eyes had been following her since she left the hospital.

A black van slowed beside the road. Before she could react, rough hands dragged her inside.

...

In an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city, Helena was thrown hard onto the concrete floor. Pain shot through her limbs as four or five men closed in, smirking.

The one with yellow-dyed hair licked his lips.

"Pretty little thing," he sneered. "Boss is gonna like you."

Helena's face drained of color. She clutched her torn collar and backed away, trembling.

"Get away from me!"

Her fear only fed their excitement.

"Feisty, huh?" one of them jeered. "Makes it more fun."

A filthy hand shot out, grabbing her wrist, another tearing at her blouse—

Rip!

The sound of fabric tearing echoed through the empty space. Cold air hit her exposed skin, and a dozen camera flashes followed.

"Stop! Please—let me go!" Helena screamed, thrashing helplessly as tears streamed down her face.

But her struggle was useless against their brute strength.

Suddenly, a loud bang echoed.

A dark figure exploded through the shadows, his kick landing squarely on the leader's chest. The man slammed into the wall and collapsed with a groan.

Before the others could react, they were struck down one by one—heavy blows, quick and merciless. Their cries filled the warehouse, then faded into silence.

Helena looked up, shaking, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

Jackson stood amid the wreckage, his face cold, his entire body radiating murderous rage.

He shrugged off his blood-spattered suit jacket and strode toward her.

Without a word, he wrapped the jacket around her trembling body—still warm from his skin.

Helena's whole frame quivered as he pulled her into his arms.

For a moment, she wanted to resist. But her strength was gone. All she could do was let him hold her—just this once.