Qianshan Twilight Snow Only Shadows Towards

Christopher’s fingers clenched around Heather’s sleeve, his eyes wild and bloodshot.

“Heather, you’re all I have left. If you go, what am I supposed to do?”

His panic reached her, and Shirley’s heart twisted.

He actually said he couldn’t live without Heather…

Then what was she? All those promises to cherish her for a lifetime—they meant nothing.

“Let me jump first, Heather. Watch me. See if it hurts—then you can decide.”

He yanked her back and leaned out the window himself.

Shirley lunged, grabbing his leg. “She’s having an episode, and now you’re going to be just as insane? This is the fourth floor! Do you love her so much you’d throw your life away?”

Christopher pried her fingers loose, disdain written across his face. “Heather means more to me than life. If you’re so desperate to stop me, why don’t you jump instead?”

A coldness settled deep in Shirley’s chest. Her pale fingers slowly let go.

He wasn’t unaware. He knew she was terrified of heights.

And he knew perfectly well that her mother had jumped from a building right in front of her when she was six—after catching her husband in an affair.

“You… you’re serious?” Her voice shook.

“It’s only the fourth floor. It won’t kill you. Jump, and the man who raised you gets his surgery tomorrow.”

The man who raised her was her last remaining weakness.

Shirley closed her eyes and leaped.

When she woke, the sharp scent of disinfectant filled her nose; white-coated figures swam in her vision.

Nausea rolled through her. Her head spun.

“Mrs. Christopher, please don’t move. If the tree in the courtyard hadn’t broken your fall, it would be much worse than a concussion and internal bleeding.”

She nodded and lay back obediently, but her eyes kept searching the room.

The nurse understood. Lowering her voice, she said, “Mr. Christopher is with Miss Heather—she’s still unstable. He hasn’t been able to visit yet. He’s right next door. Should I tell him you’re awake?”

Shirley shook her head and waved a weak refusal.

She didn’t want him to visit. She only wanted to confirm the surgery date for the man who’d raised her.

When she’d tried to divorce him before, he’d threatened to cancel the surgery. Now that she’d nearly died, she just wanted this last wish settled.

As soon as the nurse left, she pulled out her IV and, leaning heavily on the wall, dragged herself painfully to the next room.

Inside, the two of them were laughing over photos scattered across the floor.

After falling from the fourth floor, she’d lost consciousness—and with it, any clear memory.

Those photos showed her how utterly pathetic she’d looked: skirt shoved up, underwear exposed, collapsed on the ground.

Christopher pointed at one. “Look at her, Heather. Pathetic. Thank God you didn’t jump. You’d never debase yourself like that. Promise me you won’t ever pull a stunt like this again.”

Heather nestled obediently against his chest. “Okay. If everyone who’s sick like me could see what happens when you jump, maybe they wouldn’t get hurt, right?”

Dread clenched Shirley’s heart—what was she planning?

“No!”

She tried to rush in and snatch Christopher’s phone, but he stopped her cold.

Five minutes later, the photos had flooded every major social media platform.

Uncensored pictures of her fall were everywhere, her private areas magnified and crystal clear.

**[Mrs. Christopher’s lace panties are so hot! Where’d she get them? Link?]**

**[What’s the point of dressing like that if you still can’t keep your husband’s attention?]**

**[Who jumps out a window dressed like that? She’s a disgrace to their entire social circle.]**

Her phone buzzed and chimed incessantly, a flood of insults vibrating until her palm went numb.

Her personal accounts were completely overrun.

Every comment she tried to post in her own defense was instantly deleted. One after another.

“Don’t waste your energy. I’ve already spoken to the backend. You won’t be able to explain yourself.”

“Accept who you are. A desperate woman in lace underwear, staging a scene because she’s lost her husband to her own sister.”

Christopher leaned against the doorframe, a cigarette between his fingers, half his face shadowed in the dim light.

His tall frame cast a long shadow over her, pressing down until she couldn’t lift her head.

“Why?” she managed, clutching her aching, suffocating chest. “Why would you do this?”

He gave a cold, mocking smile. “Why? The kind of woman who sleeps around even while pregnant with Sharon—doesn’t a stunt like this, in lace underwear, fit your character perfectly?”

His hand closed around her throat, squeezing the air from her lungs. Shirley’s face flushed crimson as she flailed helplessly.

A single warm tear fell onto the back of his hand.

He froze, something like regret flickering through his eyes.

Shirley wasn’t one to cry.

She used to smile all the time—like a patch of winter sunshine that warmed you through.

No matter how exhausted he was from work, seeing her smile had always healed him.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her smile.

Christopher slowly released his grip, his expression complicated. He took one last hard drag on his cigarette and turned to leave.

A doctor came stumbling toward them, face pale. “Mr. Christopher! It’s your father-in-law! Something’s happened!”