Chapter 4

The hashtag exploded.

Videos of me being surrounded by reporters went viral online.

Emily Johnson quickly posted on Twitter: "We will never divorce. Please stop harassing my husband."

The post included our marriage certificate photo.

That afternoon, the reporter who asked the question was fired.

Comments flooded in:

"What a disgusting man! If he didn't want to marry, he shouldn't have. Stop playing the victim."

"I can't believe Ms. Johnson is defending him... I'm so jealous."

"Heard he dumped Ms. Johnson for money before, and now married her for money again."

"Typical hypocrite. Absolutely revolting!"

Suddenly, a comment shot to the top: "Shut up! None of you know the truth!"

Netizens immediately demanded answers.

The story begins five years ago.

Late that night, my mother suddenly had unstoppable nosebleeds.

In the ER, the doctor looked grave: "Hereditary blood disease. Less than 30% survival rate."

Worse, the disease was highly likely to be passed to the next generation.

When Mom woke up, her first words were: "Break up with Emily."

My knuckles turned white gripping the hospital bed rail. "She wouldn't care about—"

"I know."

Mom smiled weakly. "That girl's liked you since high school. Remember that heavy snow day? She waited at the alley entrance, stomping her feet to keep warm."

The memory surfaced clearly.

That winter was especially cold.

Emily always shoved warm breakfast into my hands.

Later I learned she often went to class hungry.

"When her grandmother was hospitalized, I saw her running around alone."

Mom sighed. "That child's suffered enough. Don't make her bear more."

I bit my lip until blood filled my mouth.

That night, I stayed on the hospital rooftop until dawn.

At 4 AM, I texted Emily to end things.

The phone screen burned my eyes.

Tears blurred the keyboard as they fell.

I stood outside the flower shop, staring blankly at the bright red persimmons displayed in the glass case.

My late mother had loved these—she would buy a whole bag whenever she saw them.

"Miss, would you like some persimmons?" the shop assistant asked, peeking out.

I nodded and pulled out my phone to scan the payment code.

As my fingers swiped across the screen, a sudden wave of dizziness hit me.

These episodes had been happening more often lately.

Clutching the heavy bag of persimmons, I hailed a taxi.

Before getting in, I hesitated for a moment, then gave the driver the address of Johnson Group.

The security guard in the lobby recognized me, his eyes flickering with surprise.

I swiped my access card and took the elevator up, catching a glimpse of my pale reflection in the mirrored walls.

When I pushed open the door to the CEO's office, Emily Johnson was staring at her phone screen.

I recognized the video immediately—it was the one I'd recorded that morning, wiping blood from my nose as I whispered, "I'm dying."

Her head jerked up, and the phone clattered onto the desk.

We locked eyes, neither of us speaking.

My gaze drifted past her to the corner of the desk.

The faded fabric lucky charm doll that should have been there was gone.

"Where's my doll?"

My voice trembled.

Emily's lashes fluttered.

She turned and opened a drawer, pulling out an elegant velvet box.

Inside lay the yellowed male doll.

"I've kept it safe," she said softly. "I take it out every day."

I reached for it, but she suddenly snapped the box shut.

"Why come for it now?"

Her eyes bore into mine. "Because of that video?"

I turned away, looking out the window.

The memory surfaced—ten years ago, my mother had bought these two dolls at the temple.

The sunlight had been golden that day as she smiled and said they would protect me and Emily forever.

"It was always mine," I rasped.

Emily stood abruptly, the box falling to the floor.

The doll rolled out, stopping at my feet.

As I bent to pick it up, she dropped to her knees first, clutching the little figure tightly.

"Ten years," she whispered, her eyes red-rimmed. "And now you finally come to see me?"