When He Knew I Was Dead, He Cried All Night！

That evening, Ashton returned.

I was curled up on the couch in my pajamas, nursing a mug of warm milk—a nightly ritual that offered some comfort.

After the day's drama, Ashton clearly wanted nothing to do with me, heading straight upstairs.

"Ashton," I called out, halting his steps. "Let's talk."

He paused, irritation lacing his voice. "We've got nothing to discuss."

"Then let's talk about Evelyn."

Reluctantly, Ashton sat across from me, a long table stretching between us like a chasm.

"Evelyn's your sister," he began. "I can overlook what you've done to her in the past, but from now on, lay off her."

Curiosity piqued, I asked, "You like her?"

Ashton froze. Sure, Evelyn was understanding, and they'd spent years abroad together. He felt a fondness for her, but love? He wasn't certain.

"I just can't stand seeing you bully her. She's always seen you as a sister."

I cut him off. "Ashton, remember what you once told me?"

Memories flooded back. I was five, Ashton six.

He'd just moved to our neighborhood.

After another toy-snatching incident with Evelyn, I'd shoved her and run off, ending up in Ashton's backyard.

There he stood, dressed like a little prince, asking what was wrong.

I ignored him, but he crouched down, studying my face. He poked my cheek, declaring I was as pretty as a TV princess.

I blushed. No one had called me that since Mom died.

Seeing my tears dry up, Ashton beamed, taking my hand to play at his place.

From then on, I'd seek him out whenever I was down, often falling asleep at his house.

Ashton loved playing the hero, hands on hips, declaring, "One day, I'll make you my bride. Anyone who messes with you answers to me!"

Ironic how he became the one who hurt me most.

When did things change between us?

Maybe when I pushed Evelyn down the stairs, breaking her leg and landing her in a wheelchair for months.

Or that winter night I left her out in the cold, nearly killing her with fever.

Perhaps when I ruined her graduation dress, humiliating her publicly—yet she still smiled, defending me to Ashton.

All of it, I suppose.

To Ashton, I was the villain who was cruel and heartless, even to my family.

His expression hardened as the memories resurfaced. "Lyla, what's your point?"

I smiled wryly. "Ashton, spend my birthday with me tomorrow."

It would be my last, and I wanted him by my side.

He frowned. "Isn't your birthday next month?"

So he remembers.

My heart lifted a little.

"I won't make it to next month," I said regretfully.

Ashton's lips curled into that contemptuous smirk I hated. "Right. Who knows whose arm you'll be on by then, Ms. Murphy."

I just smiled, offering no explanation.

Lately, I couldn't keep anything down. I'd lost weight, my clothes hanging loose.

I had my driver take me shopping for something that fit.

That afternoon, I arrived early at the restaurant, instructing the chef to prepare Ashton's favorites.

As kids, Ashton celebrated a few birthdays with me. But after Evelyn deliberately drove a wedge between us, he barely spoke to me. I'd invited him every year since, but he never showed.

So today, I was brimming with anticipation.

The journey from hope to heartbreak could happen in the blink of an eye.

Ashton didn't show up.

Instead, he sent a cold, detached message: [Evelyn is hurt. I have to take care of her.]

I managed a bitter laugh, tears streaming down my face. With Ashton, cruelty was his default setting.

Just as I was about to get up, a snide voice cut through the air from behind me.

"Well, if it isn't Ms. Murphy. Oh my, are those tears I see? Don't tell me some guy stood you up."

I was stunned: why is she here?