Part 1Seven Years of Secrets

The year Nathan loved me most, he cut ties with his family and eloped with me, moving abroad to start a new life.

But on the day he washed his thousandth dish, the day he coughed up blood from sheer exhaustion, I took three million dollars from his parents. Then I stood and watched as he was forced onto a helicopter bound for home.

He clung to the helicopter door, begging me not to leave him, even as his fingers broke and bled.

And I? I threw the money he'd earned into the sink and told him it wasn't even enough to buy me a single tube of paint. I told him a pauper like him had no right to talk to me about a future.

Seven years later, at a lavish charity gala, we met again. I begged him for money.

He agreed, on one condition: that I be the artist for his wedding, that I witness his happiness with my own eyes.

I nodded without hesitation.

He didn't know that the money I needed was to save a little girl.

A little girl who shared his blood, a daughter he never knew existed.

* * *

“I will.”

“As long as you keep your word, Mr. Vance.”

In a dimly lit corner of the grand ballroom, I stood beside Nathan, my back bowed in deference. A long, slow breath of relief escaped me.

The condition was so simple. If I just agreed, I could save my Madelyn.

Thank God.

But Nathan didn't move. He stared down at the top of my head for a long moment before a cold sneer twisted his lips.

“Only seven years, and you’ve already blown through all three million?”

“Was it all on paint?”

My breath caught. I dug my nails into my palm, then forced myself to look up, plastering a sycophantic, pleasing smile on my face.

“Yes, the money ran out a long time ago.”

“That’s why I need a man of your stature to help me out.”

After seven years, he was a powerful CEO, a man whose world I could no longer hope to touch.

He abruptly let go of my arm as if he’d touched something filthy.

“Nathan, what are you doing back here? Found an old flame?”

“Hey, man, you’re getting married. Don’t let Susan…”

The voice died in the man’s throat.

“Jess Kang? What are you doing here?” Nathan’s friends stared at me, their faces instantly hardening.

“Nathan, don’t be a fool!” one of them said, anxiously studying his expression. “Have you forgotten how she lied to you, how she ruined you? You can’t trust her again!”

I lowered my head again, saying nothing.

Everyone knew how insane Nathan had been for me back then.

To elope with me, he’d jumped from a third-story window of his family’s mansion, shattering his ankle. He hadn't even had it set until after our plane landed.

To afford the finest art supplies for me, he’d worked six jobs a day, working himself to the point of coughing up blood, yet he wouldn’t even buy himself a full course of medicine.

And I had abandoned him in the span of a single second.

So I couldn’t blame his friends for looking at me like they wanted to kill me.

“You’re overthinking it,” Nathan said, his voice flat. “I’ve just invited her to be the artist for my wedding. To paint Susan and me.”

Susan. His fiancée.

I repeated the beautiful name to myself, then looked up at them with a brazen, carefree smile.

“That’s right. As long as the price is right.”

“What can I get you all to drink? I’ll go get it.”

No one offered me so much as a kind glance. They formed a tight circle around Nathan and me, their voices a rising chorus of accusations, calling me heartless, warning Nathan not to fall for my tricks again.

I just bowed and scraped, playing along with their insults. I saw my manager across the room, waving impatiently at me, and a knot of anxiety tightened in my stomach.

Nathan followed my gaze. His face was a mask, devoid of emotion. He simply signed a check and tossed it at my feet.

“You start tomorrow. This is the down payment.”

He waved a dismissive hand at me, as if he couldn’t stand the sight of my face for another second.

I snatched the check from the floor, my fingers closing around it tightly, and backed out of the circle.

Madelyn’s hospital bills. I could pay them.

I was so happy I could have cried. Even when my manager made me wash dishes for an extra two hours, I didn't feel the least bit resentful.

The thin rubber gloves tore quickly, and the skin on my fingers peeled away, leaving them looking like waterlogged, rotting wood.

But I felt no pain. Instead, my mind drifted back to the past, to the nights when Nathan would come home from his own dishwashing job, and I would gently apply ointment to his chapped, raw hands.

It was cheap stuff, barely effective, but he was so stubborn, he’d never let me use more than a tiny amount.

“I’m a grown man. What do I need this for?” he’d say, hiding his chilblained hands and taking mine instead. “A painter’s hands… those are the ones that are precious.”

Lost in the memory, my hand slipped. A plate shattered at my feet.

A pang of dread shot through me as I calculated how much would be docked from this month’s pay.

But before I could even bend down to pick up the pieces, a figure appeared beside me, yanking me to my feet.

“Jess, what are you doing to your hands?!”