Chapter 113

"Say that again, Susan."

Andrew Lucas's eyes burned with violent crimson, his knuckles cracking under pressure.

Yet Susan Thompson only smiled more bewitchingly, her red lips parting. "I'd rather bear a beggar's child than carry your seed again."

She was thrown violently onto the bed.

As his weight crushed her, she heard her bones protest with brittle snaps. The hatred in Andrew's gaze was tangible, like poisoned blades flaying her inch by inch.

That rainy night four years ago resurfaced. When she'd killed their child, blood had mingled with rainwater as it rolled down his forehead, stealing his last shred of warmth.

"Hah."

Just as Susan thought she'd suffocate, Andrew suddenly laughed coldly.

"Susan, do you even deserve it?"

A wad of cash struck her face, the sharp edges slicing her cheek.

"Remember to take the pill." Andrew adjusted his cuffs with aristocratic calm, as if his earlier fury had been an illusion. "If you dare get pregnant—"

He leaned down, whispering demonically in her ear, "I'll strangle it with my own hands."

The door slammed shut with thunderous force.

Susan stared at the ceiling with a hollow laugh. Her body, ravaged by late-stage stomach cancer, had long lost the ability to conceive. The blood-red bills lay over her like fallen leaves—she couldn't be bothered to brush them away.

In the depths of pain, darkness became her only solace.

......

Outside the apartment, Andrew snapped a memory card in half.

The filthy images burned behind his temples. Only after grinding the fragments to dust did he call his assistant.

"Clean this up."

Four words—a death sentence.

......

Her new phone had barely powered on when an unknown number flashed across the screen.

"Miss Thompson, it's Nathan Foster."

At the voice of Ethan Sullivan's assistant, Susan's fingers trembled.

"Young Master Sullivan... passed this morning."

A stifled sob traveled through the receiver. "His last wish was for you to live well."

The phone clattered to the floor.

By the time Susan staggered into the hospital, the VIP room stood empty. A nurse was changing the sheets, the blinding white fabric searing her eyes.

"Where is he? Where's Ethan Sullivan?"

She gripped the nurse's wrist, nails digging deep. The nurse gasped in pain. "He was taken to the funeral home at dawn..."

The words "funeral home" exploded in her ears.

Susan knocked over an IV stand as she whirled around. Amid the shattering glass, a familiar figure appeared at the end of the hallway—

Nathan Foster approached, cradling a black ebony urn, his eyes red-rimmed.