I'd been Rhys Kingston's "best friend" for two decades. Twenty years. Not even the night we tumbled into bed—drunk, messy, losing our virginity to each other—could change that. All I got in return was his cool, measured voice: “That was just a mistake, Rory. We’re still best friends for life, right?” I used to believe Rhys was just emotionally detached, incapable of real intimacy. That was, until the day the housekeeper, Lana, climbed into my father’s bed, and I cracked my equestrian crop across her back until she bled. Rhys, who should have been standing shoulder-to-shoulder with me, had eyes only for Seraphina “Sephy” Bell, the housekeeper's daughter, who stood weeping behind her mother. He was genuinely in love with her. He brought her brazenly into our exclusive social circle. He even announced his intention to marry her at the Kingston family dinner. Only I, his so-called childhood friend, was left to become the city's laughingstock. My mother, crushed by the gossip and sinking deeper into depression, jumped from the top floor of our house. That twenty-year delusion of mine shattered into dust. I decided to simply vanish from his world and start over. But Rhys Kingston, We were just friends. So why did you panic when I hired a boat full of models? 1 When Rhys kicked open the cabin door, I was grinding against a male model, clad in a skimpy scarlet two-piece. My skin, slick with sweat and shimmering under the low, suggestive lights, was a reckless, burning fire—scorching the eyes of every observer. “Oh my God... what is this?” Devon Reed, usually all easy smiles, stopped dead in his tracks, his cheeks flushed, barely able to look directly at me. Rhys stood right beside him. He was still wearing his usual detached, above-it-all expression, though his gaze darkened considerably as it swept over me. “Aurora Wells! Are you done with this charade?” He strode forward, slamming off the deafening music, and tossed a heavy blanket over me. I ignored him, instead pulling the model closer and whispering against his ear. “Ignore him... let's keep going.” The model smirked, pulling me into a tight embrace in open defiance, his shaggy head burying itself provocatively in my neck. But before his breath could even graze my skin, Rhys grabbed my arm, wrenching me away with such force I nearly stumbled. “Rory Wells!” His fury finally broke through. “Parties, hookups, models—do you even remember what day this is?!” “Of course I remember!” I froze for a split second, then spun around and slapped him across the face. The sound was sharp and clear, but the tears finally came, blurring my vision. “You don't get to tell me what to do, Rhys Kingston! And you definitely don’t get to mention my mother!” My mother had treated Rhys like her own son, pouring money and influence into him, securing his place as the Kingston heir. And yet, Rhys had fallen for the housekeeper’s daughter. He’d fallen for Seraphina Bell! Today was my mother’s funeral. The one person in the world who had no right to lecture me was him. Devon hesitated, stepping forward. “Actually, Rhys handled the entire funeral...” “Aurora Wells,” Rhys said, cutting him off with a cold voice. That face I had been obsessed with for twenty years was still utterly remote, his dark eyes fixed on me, but the words he spoke felt like a slow, agonizing flaying. “Did you forget? You’re the one who ran to the Kingston estate, caused a scene, exposed everyone’s secrets, and drove your mother to take her life.” I froze mid-breath. My swollen eyes locked onto his face, while inside, something cracked, splintered, and stabbed painfully through my organs. It hurt so much I couldn’t draw air. He was right. I hadn't been able to stand the thought of him marrying Sephy. I had foolishly, shortsightedly, failed to see that the Kingston power now dwarfed my family's, and that Rhys was no longer the bullied bastard child who needed my protection. I was the idiot who stormed the Kingston house, waving that embarrassing photo of us in bed, shrieking that Sephy’s mother was a shameless homewrecker. And when Rhys had rebuked me, I’d lost all control and publicly thrown his own mother’s background—she was once a struggling single mother who clawed her way up—back in his face. That was when the future Mr. Kingston had unleashed his true wrath. He not only silenced the rumors and had me physically removed from the estate. He retaliated. He took that photo of us, cropped his face out, leaving only the image of me, flushed and lost in the moment, for the entire city to consume. He let the entire city dissect and pass judgment on my passionate expression in bed. My twenty years of devotion to Rhys became a sick joke. Look at her. The Wells heiress is a desperate slut. Her mother couldn't compete with Sephy’s mother, and she couldn't compete with Sephy for Rhys, either. That's what everyone said. And that was why my proud, vibrant mother, in a moment of utter despair, threw herself off the penthouse balcony, crashing into a scarlet stain on the pavement. Right before she died, she had a moment of lucidity, a clarity brought on by the trauma. She clutched my hand, her eyes sharp, clear, and utterly heartbroken. “Rory, you chasing after Rhys looks exactly like I chased after your father. Chasing... until you can’t see yourself anymore. It’ll kill you.” “Go find a few men. You’ll know that in the end, love is just... a cheap trick.” So, I had skipped her funeral. Instead, I’d chartered a yacht and hired a crew of models. And finally, it was my turn to use his words against him. “So what?” My smile was bright, but my nails were digging crescent moons into my palms. “We’re just childhood friends. You don’t get to dictate my life.” Rhys stared at me, his dark, heavy eyes emanating a strange, oppressive atmosphere. After a long pause, he simply said, in a dull voice: “Sephy is waiting for you.” In an instant, my heart stopped, then erupted in a wave of pain. I thought I had moved on. But twenty years of entanglement, all it took was one name to leave me a wreck. “You’re a real piece of work, Rhys Kingston.” I murmured the words under my breath. Typical of the “best friend” I grew up with—he knew exactly where to twist the knife for the maximum effect. He ordered his men to drag me into a waiting car. As I was leaving, I noticed the model's light-colored eyes. Devon leaned in, whispering, “I know you’re hurting, Rory. But it’s your mom’s funeral. You can’t not go.” He glanced at Rhys, who was leaning back with his eyes closed, clearly resting, and hesitated. “Don’t be angry. Rhys oversaw the whole service. He really does care...” He trailed off, unable to finish. He was right to stop. Was Rhys doing it for me? Or was it to show respect for my mother’s protection all those years ago? Neither reason seemed to stick. The moment my mother jumped, whatever was between us curdled into an impossible, messy debt. I slumped into the seat, watching the tiny porcelain pendant hanging from the rearview mirror sway with the speed of the car. Devon, Rhys, and I had been inseparable since kindergarten. Yet, Rhys only ever had one picture in the car—a tiny old selfie of just him and me. And the passenger seat was always reserved for me. I used to believe that small “exception” was my special privilege, and I threw myself blindly at him because of it. Now, my photo was gone, replaced by the pendant Sephy had made by hand. The passenger seat was cluttered with a fluffy, incongruous pink dog blanket. Everywhere I looked, there were traces of Sephy. Oversaw the funeral? I managed a strained smile, tasting the metallic tang of blood at the back of my throat. He probably just wanted to impress Walter Wells so he could marry Sephy sooner. The car stopped at the Wells estate, and I shoved the door open and got out. My mother's funeral had just concluded, but the Wells living room had already been completely redecorated. Even the old family portrait—my mother, father, and me—had been replaced with a wedding photo of Walter and the housekeeper. My mother's body wasn't even cold, and he was already rushing to bring his new wife home. “You wicked girl! Where the hell have you been all day?!” “How dare you skip your own mother’s funeral! Do you even care about this family?!” Walter Wells stood up, slamming his fist on the table, his face, ravaged by alcohol and indulgence, turning an ugly shade of red. Beside him, Lana Bell, dressed like the wealthy matriarch she'd always wanted to be, cooed softly in a proprietorial manner, though a flicker of disdain crossed her eyes. “Darling, Rory is just too distraught. That's all.” “She’s still young. Don't be so angry, Walter.” “Yes, Mr. Wells, Rory must be so sad,” Sephy chirped, standing nearby in a crisp white dress, looking as innocently fragile as a gardenia. Walter sat back down next to Lana and scoffed. “If she were half as level-headed as Sephy, her mother wouldn’t have died from despair!” I snapped my head up. Looking at this trio's pathetic performance, I suddenly burst out laughing. “Stop the act. If you two hadn't been shameless enough to sleep together, would my mother have been driven to jump?” “Aurora Wells!” Walter bellowed a warning. Lana's face went white. “I am so sorry for your mother, but Walter and I are genuinely in—” Before she could finish, I lunged forward, grabbed a handful of her hair, and, over her shriek, slammed her down in front of my mother's memorial photo. “You begged my mother to take you and your daughter in when you had nothing, and you repaid her by climbing into my father’s bed.” “If you really feel sorry, you should join her in the grave!” Walter roared for me to let go. Sephy rushed forward, crying and trying to pull me away. “Stop, Rory! You can’t blame my mother! You’re the one who drove your own mother to suicide, don't pin the blame on her—” Before she finished that line, I snatched the nearby equestrian crop and viciously brought it down across her lying, two-faced mouth. “You hit me! Rhys won’t let you get away with this!” Sephy clutched her mouth and screamed, a malicious, poisonous gleam in her eyes. I gave her a wild, triumphant smile. “Not pretending anymore, are we?” “I like you better this way.” “You are going to kill me with this madness!” Walter clutched his chest in fury, servants and staff rushing to his side. “Your madness changes nothing! Your mother is gone, and it’s your fault! No one in this house wants you here!” Sephy shrieked through her red-rimmed eyes. I raised the whip again, but a hand suddenly grabbed my forearm, the grip so tight I felt my bones might crack. “Aurora Wells! Who gave you permission to lay a hand on her?!” Rhys, who had somehow appeared behind me, had two burning flames in his dark eyes. I refused to yield, though the hand gripping the crop trembled for a moment. “Didn’t you hear what she said? She deserves it!” “I heard,” Rhys said, his voice flat as he dropped my arm. “So what.” My heart stopped beating for an instant, and then the raw, sharp pain began to blossom. I stared at Rhys, disbelief suffocating me. He knew! He had always known Sephy was playing a role, he knew she was intent on driving me out of the Wells family, and he knew how impossible my life was here. But he still chose to stand with her. “Rhys!” Sephy sobbed, throwing herself into his arms. “She hit my mom, and she hit me with that horse whip!” Rhys held her close, his eyes fixed on me, his voice colder than ice. “Is that so? Then I’ll give her a hundred lashes myself to apologize to you. How about that?” “Rhys Kingston, you wouldn’t dare!” I glared at him, my eyes burning. Rhys met my gaze unflinchingly. His dark eyes held mine for a moment, then he raised his hand and ordered his bodyguards to restrain me on the floor. In front of Walter and the Bells, he ruthlessly beat me until my skin was raw and bloody. As the pain grew so intense I began to cough up blood, I heard a terrible, deafening crash inside my chest. Twenty years of affection, the very last flicker of hope... It was all ground into ash in that single moment. I don't know how many lashes I took before I finally lost consciousness and collapsed. In a haze, I was lifted into a familiar embrace, the faint, clean scent of cedarwood and iris—Rhys's signature scent—filling my nose. “Rory! Get a doctor now!” I heard his voice, ragged and panicked—a rare sound—but he was shouting for me only after he had commanded his men to beat me until I was bleeding. I used my last surge of energy to struggle out of his arms, preferring to fall painfully onto the tiled floor rather than remain in his embrace. “Rhys Kingston, you're fucking disgusting.” Rhys didn't respond to that. He had me rushed to the hospital that night and arranged for my treatment. But the next morning, the small company I had secretly started was reported to the authorities, and all the evidence was dumped right on Walter’s desk. The partners I had worked so hard to secure overnight immediately backed out. Even the photos of me and the models at the funeral party were deliberately circulated. One by one, these events cornered me. Walter publicly announced his intention to disown me. I was forced to swallow my pride and call in favors, desperate to find someone to intercede. The former darling of the city, Aurora Wells, was hobbling on unhealed whip marks, meekly asking for help from the socialites who used to follow her around. “Rory, it’s not that we don’t want to help.” Tristan Davies, the one at the head of the table, looked distressed, but his eyes were shamelessly licking over my pale face and the visible bruises on my neck. “But you crossed Rhys. That’s a cost none of us can afford.” He slid a glass of amber-colored liquor towards me, his eyes gleaming with a familiar, predatory hunger. “But if you’re willing to have a few drinks with us and hang out tonight... we could potentially reconsider.” I knew exactly what “a few drinks and hanging out” meant. It was the ugly, transactional game of power and sex, a common practice in our circle. I used to watch it with cold contempt. Now, I was the fish on the cutting board. No escape. “Tristan, I didn’t call you all here for that!” Devon, his face ashen, tried to intervene, but his lower-tier family status meant he was quickly—and physically—silenced. “She can’t expect us to risk everything without showing any sincerity,” someone sneered, his gaze on me vile and sickening. “Besides, who doesn’t know Rory plays fast and loose? A whole yacht of models—what’s a few more of us?” They advanced on me, liquor glasses in hand, a pack of wolves circling, savoring the reversal of power. The shame turned my face white, and the salty, metallic taste in my throat threatened to spill over. “Quite the party, isn't it?” Rhys’s voice suddenly cut through the air. “Why didn’t you invite me?” The room went instantly silent. Everyone watched Rhys standing in the doorway, Sephy on his arm in a custom-made evening gown. It looked like a casual, accidental encounter. Tristan froze, then quickly recovered, ushering Rhys to the head seat with an awkward smile. “We knew you were busy, Rhys. Just a casual get-together.” Rhys’s eyes scanned my pale face, then the liquor glasses in every man's hand. He settled calmly into the seat and issued his instruction to me. “Since you love to drink so much, maybe you should use this opportunity to properly apologize to Sephy.” “If she hadn't interceded on your behalf, the punishment would have been far worse.” I bit my lip, glaring at him, and everything clicked into place. My small attempt at independence, my plan to get revenge on Walter—Rhys had seen it all. With a slight nod, he had crushed all my hope, pushing me into this humiliating, unspeakable position. All to exact revenge for Seraphina. My heart felt fit to burst with rage. But I bowed my head, forcing myself to swallow the burning liquor in one gulp. “Sephy, I was wrong. I apologize.” Only then did Rhys nod in satisfaction, turning to leave with Sephy on his arm. A moment later, a strange, burning heat coursed through my body, and I realized the drink had been spiked. I tried to leave, but Tristan blocked the door, slapping me hard across the face. “Running, are we?” Tristan had already had Devon quietly dispatched. His voice was a triumphant, savage roar. “Let’s see who saves you this time!” Save me? Through my blurring vision, I managed a bitter, hopeless smile. Who had ever saved me? Ever since I became the city’s joke, every step I took had already landed me in this unending hell. I bit down on my lip until it bled, grabbed the liquor bottle, and smashed it against the head of the man tearing at my clothes. I ran, dragging my leaden, injured leg. “Bitch! Get her!” Someone threw a bottle at me; someone else brutally kicked my lower leg. The stabbing pain, coupled with the feverish heat that threatened to overwhelm me, nearly drove me mad. Clutching the last shred of my sanity, I dragged my broken body into an empty supply closet and crammed myself into a utility cabinet. By pure instinct, I clawed out my phone and dialed my emergency contact. He picked up almost instantly, his voice quiet and calm. “Hello?” Fear and the drug made me choke out the words, sobbing. “Rhys, help me!” “I’m sorry, I was wrong, please, you have to save me—” Then Sephy’s voice cut in on the line. “Rhys, darling, I suddenly have a craving for that special gourmet shortbread. Can you go get it for me right now?” I screamed into the phone. “No, Rhys, please listen to me, my leg is broken, they’re trying to—” “Yes, of course.” “Beep—beep—beep...” Rhys had answered Sephy. I buried my head into my knees, letting the sound of despair roar out of me. Just as my consciousness began to fade, I heard footsteps outside the closet, like the approaching drumbeat of the devil.
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