Please forgive me for my deep love

Cynthia wasn't dead. Her eyes fluttered open to the familiar sterile white of a hospital room, her wounds neatly dressed. Five minutes later, she wished she *had* died back in that private room at the club.

Without warning, several masked strangers burst in. Before she could react, a cold, unknown liquid flooded her veins from a needle. Instantly, paralysis took hold. She couldn't move a finger—could only watch, helpless, as they stripped her bare under the stark, pitiless glare of camera lenses. Manipulated like a marionette, she was forced into a series of lewd poses, the room echoing with coarse whoops and jeers.

She wanted to scream. To vomit. But she was trapped in a waking nightmare, her silent tears the only protest. Why was this happening? What had she done? Over and over, a desperate prayer looped in her mind: *Someone, anyone, please save me!*

She jolted awake, drenched in sweat and gasping for air. Michael stood over her bed, looking down.

"Bad dream?" His expression held an uncharacteristic softness.

Cynthia nodded numbly, the line between nightmare and memory blurring.

Michael extended a hand. Hesitantly, she took it. In the next instant, his arm locked around her waist, steering her—pushing her—toward the massive floor-to-ceiling window.

"I have a surprise for you. Shall we count down? Three… two… one… Well?" His low whisper brushed her ear. "Do you like it?"

Horror washed over her. The advertisement on the giant outdoor screen was gone, replaced by an image of a naked body. The face wasn't visible, but Cynthia recognized it instantly—the small red birthmark on the chest, the telltale patches of frostbite scattered across the skin. It was her.

An icy dread seized her bones, turning them to water. She went utterly limp, sagging back against him.

He took the opportunity to press her down onto the bed, sinking his teeth into her collarbone. At her choked gasp, a satisfied smirk touched his lips.

"Remember," he murmured against her skin, "this is just a small warning. I don't want there to be a next time."

He was about to continue when Cynthia—always docile, always yielding—suddenly began to struggle violently.

"...Aren't you afraid Hannah will get angry, Mr Michael?" Her words were deliberate, cold.

Michael's expression frosted over instantly. He gripped her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. The desolation and utter despair he saw in her eyes inexplicably irritated him.

Releasing her abruptly, he stood and turned to adjust his suit jacket. "You're right. For the duration of Hannah's hospital stay, you will take care of her. Remember—you only keep your place as my dog if you're obedient enough. Understood?"

Without another glance, he left.

Cynthia fought to steady her breathing. Finally, her resolve hardened. She picked up her phone and dialed Matthew's number.

"A woman with your looks and talent shouldn't suffer such indignities. You should be playing for a winning team. Why not come to my side? I promise you won't be disappointed."

Matthew was Michael's fiercest business rival. Cynthia had snatched several multi-million-dollar contracts right from under his nose. Yet, instead of hating her, he'd developed… an interest.

He'd made similar overtures before, once even deliberately in front of a drunken Michael, who had a pretty young thing draped over his arm at the time. Michael had merely shot Cynthia a drunken, dismissive glance. She'd immediately lowered her eyes and murmured, "It is my greatest honor that Mr Michael allows me to remain by his side."

Even that display of submission hadn't spared her. Michael had been furious afterward. He'd collared her like a dog and kept her in bed for three days and nights, his breath hot in her ear as he repeated the same phrase: *"A dog must be loyal. Do you understand?"*

"**Cynthia.** You calling me… I'm genuinely surprised. And delighted."

"I want to leave Michael. Can you help me?" She cut straight to the point.

She knew Michael would never agree to a divorce. Even if she somehow got the papers, he'd find her—for him, it would be like snapping his fingers. She needed to disappear completely.

"Of course! Nothing would please me more." Matthew paused, his voice taking on a new, calculating edge. "But Cynthia, I'm a businessman. And in business, we expect a return on our investments."

"...What do you want?"

"You. I fell for you at first sight. Surely you don't doubt my sincerity?"

His tone was flippant, almost mocking. Cynthia couldn't help a cold, derisive laugh. She didn't believe a word of it.

But it didn't matter what Matthew wanted. The Cynthia of now was willing to pay any price.

"Fine. I'm yours. How long do you need to prepare?"

"Ten days, maximum," he promised, his voice turning serious.

"Good. It's a deal. I'll see you then."