On Our Wedding, He Sent Me to Prison to Save His Mistress

On her wedding day, Helena fell from a glamorous bride to a despicable criminal—cuffed and handed over to the police by the very man she had trusted as a husband.

The wail of sirens ripped the wedding's romance to shreds.

Dressed in white, clutching Jackson's hand as if that grip could anchor her, Helena shook her head with everything she had left.

Her makeup was ruined; tears and despair streaked her face.

"It wasn't me—believe me! Jackson, I didn't hurt Laica!" she cried.

Jackson's eyes were cold as ice. He pried her fingers apart one by one with deliberate force. "The evidence is solid. Laica was assaulted—the law cannot bow to sentiment," he said, as if reading from a ledger. "Three years in prison is nothing. When you get out, we'll remarry."

Those three years became a nightmare she could never fully forget—countless beatings, sleeping in filth, humiliation that carved itself into her bones.

On the day she was released, she limped on an injured leg, stumbling and dragging herself toward Jackson's house.

The door was slightly ajar.

From inside, Shawn's amused voice drifted. "Jack, Helena is out of prison today. Are you really planning to hold the postponed wedding next month? If you hadn't forged the evidence and sent her away three years ago, she'd be Professor Hamilton's prized student by now—her future would've been limitless."

"A reformed convict? What future could she possibly have?" Jackson's voice was cold, emotionless.

"The promise to marry her after she got out was nothing more than a lie to comfort her—a way to make her go to prison willingly and clear the path for Laica."

Helena froze as if struck by lightning. The words landed like knives, each one slicing her open.

"You're indeed ruthless," Shawn said, almost admiringly. "You stole her research and handed it to Laica. You even told the prison guards to break her leg."

"Now she's a cripple and a criminal—she'll never be able to compete with Laica again." Shawn clicked his tongue with relish.

Helena's mind went blank, her world collapsing in an instant.

Forged evidence? Broke her leg?

All of that... was Jackson's doing?

She covered her mouth and bit down hard on the back of her hand to keep from making a sound, but her tears fell uncontrollably, like strings of pearls snapping apart.

"Professor Hamilton only accepted one student. Helena's talent surpassed Laica and he clearly favored her, so she had to step aside."

The words were spoken so casually, yet they crushed Helena's world to dust.

Shawn's tone turned suggestive. "Still, Helena's face and figure—even after three years in prison, she's stunning. And technically, you two are still husband and wife, right? You could..."

"Wife?" Jackson let out a cold laugh. "That marriage certificate from three years ago was fake."

"I never intended to marry her."

Helena's whole body began to tremble violently. A sharp, metallic taste rose in her throat, and she nearly lost her balance.

Fake...

Even the wedding she had treasured so much was nothing more than a carefully orchestrated lie.

Shawn burst into laughter. "You really outdid yourself! But Helena's real strength is her research. What a waste to let that go, huh?"

Jackson tapped the table once, twice—a slow, clinical rhythm that landed like a hammer on Helena's chest. "She doesn't need to know the truth about three years ago. From now on, she'll stay at home, quietly clearing the way for Laica's work. She'll be nothing more than Laica's stepping stone."

Those words were the last straw. Helena couldn't listen any longer. She spun on her heel, and stumbled out like someone running from a fire. The pain in her injured leg stabbed with every step, but it was nothing compared with the ache in her heart.

She could not believe the man who once took a bullet for her and almost lost his life—the man she thought loved her—had been plotting her ruin from the start. The marriage certificate was fake; there were no legal ties to hold her. Leaving would be easier than she'd feared.

She ran back to the marital suite she had designed three years earlier and unlocked the secret safe in the basement she had installed herself. Inside lay the fruit of years of effort—all the research she'd poured her life into and the proof that she had quietly financed assistance to the Cabrera Group.

Those research papers held everything she had ever been proud of—the sum of her dreams, her youth, her life's purpose.

With trembling hands, she dug up a number she hadn't called in years and dialed. When the call connected, a low male voice answered, "Who is it?"

Hearing it broke her. The tension she'd carried for three years unraveled in a flood of grief and fury.

"It's me," she said, voice cracking. "Brother... I was wrong to stay in Boston for Jackson. I want to cut him off completely. I'm going to slowly withdraw our family's investments from his company!"

On the other end, Henry's voice was steady. "Leave the divestment to me. The emigration paperwork will take at least seven days; I'll send the flight details to your phone."

"Great," she said, sniffling. "One more thing—help me look into the Jordan family's daughter's academic fraud and that kidnapping from three years ago. She destroyed everything I had. Now, I want to destroy them."

"I'll get everything sorted and send it to you before you leave," he answered.

After she hung up, Helena took photos of the research she'd hidden for years and sent them to her brother. She then removed the engagement diamond ring and tossed it into a trash bin with a decisive motion.

Three years ago, she had been framed, trampled, stripped of everything. But now, she would not leave without a fight.

'Jackson—you ruined everything I had. Now it's my turn to ruin you.'

The next day.

Helena was awakened by the sound of flirtatious laughter drifting up from downstairs.

Before she could sit up, the door swung open. Jackson stood in the doorway, tall and coldeyed, his expression carved from ice.

Laica followed behind him, affectionately holding his arm and looking at Helena with a proud attitude.

"Helena," Laica cooed, "we heard you got out. I even threw you a little welcome at the bar—everyone in our circle will be there. It's a perfect chance for you to get back into society."

Helena's lips curled into a bitter, mocking smile.

A welcome party?

Or an opportunity for the entire Boston to see how the oncepromising prodigy had returned—crippled, disgraced, a convicted felon?

Her voice was dry but steady. "I'm not going."

Her refusal instantly made Laica's eyes glisten with feigned sorrow.

"Jackson, is she still blaming me for her imprisonment?" She pouted.

Jackson's face darkened, the air turning sharp with tension. "Helena, you don't have the right to refuse."

He stepped forward, towering over her. "If you don't want Jennelyn to be comfortable inside the prison, then you can stay here and lie down."

"Jennelyn?!" Hearing that name made Helena's heart race. She looked at him in shock and asked anxiously, "What did you do to her?"

Jennelyn had been the only light in that darkness. When fever racked Helena and the cell felt like an oven, it was Jennelyn who had slammed her palms bloody against the iron door until a guard came.

Jackson's gaze lingered on her terrified expression, and the corners of his lips curled in satisfaction.

"I didn't do anything to her," he said smoothly. "But as long as you behave, she'll keep living well in there."

The thinly veiled threat wrapped around Helena's throat like a steel wire. Her blood ran cold, freezing her from the inside out.

It took her a long moment before she forced out a single word bitterly. "...Fine."

Jackson turned and walked away without looking back, his tall figure disappearing beyond the door—leaving nothing but suffocating emptiness behind.

Helena changed into the clothes his people had brought—a delicate white dress that sat against her scarred body like an insult. The contrast between the fabric's elegance and the bruises beneath it made her feel absurd and hollow.

The bar was loud with music and chatter. The moment she entered, every head turned. Once, these were people who had fawned over her brilliance. Now, their eyes gleamed with ridicule and satisfaction—every smile sharpened with malice.

Laica sauntered over, her red slip dress hugging every curve, a wine glass in hand. "Helena, welcome back. Let me toast to you."

Helena stared at the crimson liquid and shook her head weakly. "I can't drink."

Her stomach had been ruined by years of spoiled food and filthy water. Now, even a drop of wine would burn like molten metal down her throat.

Laica's smile sharpened. She stepped closer, her voice soft but edged with poison. "I know you can't drink. But so what? Do you think you can refuse me today?"

Then, as if on cue, she turned tearyeyed toward Jackson.

"Helena... do you think I'm dirty? Is that why you won't drink the wine I offered you?"

In an instant, every pair of eyes turned to Helena—accusing, judging, sneering.

Jackson's expression darkened. He stepped forward, shielding Laica behind him like a precious gem, his voice cutting like ice. "Apologize."

He pointed to the table. "Drink every glass of wine and apologize to Laica."

Helena stared at him in disbelief, her heart twisting painfully in her chest.

When she didn't move, Jackson sneered and pulled out his phone.

He dialed a number.

A monotonous female voice came through the receiver. "Hello, San Francisco Prison."

Jackson's voice was low, deliberate. "Find me a prisoner named Jennelyn."

"No!" Helena's pupils shrank. Panic surged through her as she lunged toward him, trying to snatch the phone away.

But he caught her easily—his grip ironstrong as he flung her hand aside.

"I'll drink!" Helena's voice cracked as she screamed the words, desperation spilling out of her like shattered glass.

Under the man's cold, watchful gaze, Helena lifted cup after cup and forced the fiery liquid down her throat.

Each swallow felt like swallowing flames. The alcohol burned through her throat, seared her stomach, and tore through her insides like a thousand steel needles. Pain twisted her body until she could no longer stand—she crumpled, clutching her abdomen, trembling.

"Tsk." Laica looked down at her, amusement flickering in her eyes. She bent slightly, lowering her voice so only Helena could hear.

"Helena, I heard someone's been investigating my research paper from three years ago. That was you, right?" Her voice was soft and poisonous.

"Consider tonight a little punishment. After all, we still need you alive to do research for me. Don't forget—Jackson is on my side."

Helena's head jerked toward the corner where Jackson stood. For a fleeting second, their eyes met—then he turned away, expression blank.

A fresh wave of pain tore through her chest. Both her body and heart felt pierced beyond repair.

Laica straightened, then raised her glass high with a dazzling smile. "Everyone! Let's toast to our dear Helena's return!"

The crowd erupted with laughter. One after another, glasses were emptied—wine, whiskey—cold liquid splashed down on her hair, her face, her shoulders. The stinging smell of alcohol filled her lungs, soaking through her thin white dress.

By the end of the "welcome" party, Helena couldn't tell if her face was wet from tears or liquor. Her body felt like it was falling apart. She lay motionless on the cold marble floor, her stomach twisting so violently she thought she might die there.

With the last of her strength, she reached out and clutched Jackson's trouser leg.

"Jackson... take me... to a hospital," she gasped. "It hurts... so much..."

Suddenly Laica screamed. "Ah! My hand!"

People looked. A shard from a broken glass had nicked the back of her hand; a few beads of blood appeared.

Jackson's expression changed instantly. He wrenched Helena's hand away and rushed to Laica's side, lifting her into his arms as though she were made of glass.

"Don't be afraid," he said anxiously. "I'll take you to the hospital right now."

Helena's vision blurred. The pain in her abdomen rolled like black waves, swallowing her whole. Then everything went dark.

When the waiter came to clean later that night, he found her curled in a corner—unconscious, pale, barely breathing.

...

The acrid scent of disinfectant hit her nose.

Helena opened her eyes to a white ceiling.

She was still alive.

But the realization brought no comfort—only a suffocating heaviness pressing down on her chest. A tear slid silently across her cheek, sinking into the pillow and leaving a faint wet stain.

She remembered the days when Jackson would panic over the smallest paper cut on her finger, holding her hand and blowing gently on the wound.

Helena, he once said, even your frown hurts my heart.

Now, she could collapse in agony before him, and he would still turn away—for another woman's shallow scratch.

She was wrong...

So wrong.

She regretted ever loving Jackson Cabrera.

Her stomach still throbbed painfully. She pulled the IV needle from her arm and dragged herself out of bed, one hand pressed to the wall as she searched for a doctor to ask for painkillers.

Halfway down the corridor, a door stood ajar. A familiar voice drifted out.

"Mr. Cabrera, are you sure you want Miss McCarthy to use this special medication?" the doctor asked hesitantly.

"Three years ago, she had a miscarriage in the first month of her imprisonment. Her body's already damaged. This drug will help her stomach temporarily, but the side effects are severe. She might never be able to conceive again."

Boom!

The words detonated inside Helena's mind.

Miscarriage? Child?

Her body trembled violently. She lowered her head, both hands clutching her flat abdomen.

Was there really... a child here?

A child that belonged to her and Jackson?

Fragments of memory flashed before her eyes. During her first month in prison, she'd been wracked with unbearable pain in her lower abdomen, pain so sharp it nearly made her faint. Blood had poured from her body for days, but the prison guards only cast a few indifferent glances.

She had thought it was just her period, worsened by hunger and cold.

But now she understood.

It hadn't been her body failing her.

It had been her child—leaving her in blood and agony, alone in the dark.

And the man who sent her there—the man she once loved—had destroyed not only her life, but their unborn child as well!

Outside the ward, Helena's fingers dug into the wall until her nails tore, leaving streaks of blood and broken paint behind.

Inside, Jackson's calm, detached voice gave the final order.

"It's fine," he said. "Use the medicine."

That single sentence shattered the last fragment of love Helena still clung to.

On what right—what right—did he have to decide the life or death of her child? To strip her so casually of her right to be a mother?

Rage and grief flooded her veins, drowning all reason.

Bang!

The door flew open. Helena stormed in and, without hesitation, struck Jackson across the face with all her strength.

The sharp crack echoed through the room. His head snapped to the side, and five crimson fingerprints bloomed across his cheek.

Her voice trembled, raw with fury.

"Jackson! What gives you the right?"

Her eyes blazed through a haze of tears. "On what basis do you take away my right to bear children?"

For a moment, Jackson froze. Her hatred hit him harder than the slap itself, cutting through his chest like glass.

"I did it for your own good," he said quietly.

Helena let out a broken laugh—cold, hollow.

"For my own good?" She enunciated each word, her tone icy and sharp. "Jackson... I can't afford your kindness."

Without another glance, she turned and walked out, leaving him standing there in silence.

The moment she thought of her lost child, she could no longer breathe the same air. She signed her discharge papers and left the hospital that very day.

Outside, she scrolled through her contacts until she found a name she hadn't seen in years—her senior from university, now a renowned lawyer who once owed her a favor.

When the call connected, her tone was steady but cold.

"Senior, I need your help. There's a prisoner named Jennelyn—I'll arrange a way for you to meet her. Help her overturn her case. You can name your price."

Jackson had used Jennelyn to threaten her; she wouldn't let that happen again. Jennelyn had once saved her life—now it was her turn to return the favor.

But Helena didn't know that a pair of eyes had been following her since she left the hospital.

A black van slowed beside the road. Before she could react, rough hands dragged her inside.

...

In an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city, Helena was thrown hard onto the concrete floor. Pain shot through her limbs as four or five men closed in, smirking.

The one with yellowdyed hair licked his lips.

"Pretty little thing," he sneered. "Boss is gonna like you."

Helena's face drained of color. She clutched her torn collar and backed away, trembling.

"Get away from me!"

Her fear only fed their excitement.

"Feisty, huh?" one of them jeered. "Makes it more fun."

A filthy hand shot out, grabbing her wrist, another tearing at her blouse—

Rip!

The sound of fabric tearing echoed through the empty space. Cold air hit her exposed skin, and a dozen camera flashes followed.

"Stop! Please—let me go!" Helena screamed, thrashing helplessly as tears streamed down her face.

But her struggle was useless against their brute strength.

Suddenly, a loud bang echoed.

A dark figure exploded through the shadows, his kick landing squarely on the leader's chest. The man slammed into the wall and collapsed with a groan.

Before the others could react, they were struck down one by one—heavy blows, quick and merciless. Their cries filled the warehouse, then faded into silence.

Helena looked up, shaking, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

Jackson stood amid the wreckage, his face cold, his entire body radiating murderous rage.

He shrugged off his bloodspattered suit jacket and strode toward her.

Without a word, he wrapped the jacket around her trembling body—still warm from his skin.

Helena's whole frame quivered as he pulled her into his arms.

For a moment, she wanted to resist. But her strength was gone. All she could do was let him hold her—just this once.

When they returned to the villa, Jackson carried Helena into the guest room and gently set her down on the bed.

But that gentleness cut deeper than a knife.

Helena lay there motionless, staring blankly at the ceiling—like a puppet whose strings had been severed.

Jackson didn't leave. He stood by the window, his tall figure bathed in silver moonlight, the shadow he cast stretching across the room until it swallowed her whole.

"Helena," he finally said, his tone calm but distant. "What happened back then was your fault. You should take care of yourself now and stop causing trouble."

Her lashes fluttered, but she said nothing.

How ironic. After lying for so long, had Jackson started believing his own lies?

Her only mistake—her greatest mistake—was falling in love with him.

When she didn't answer, Jackson's voice softened.

"If you still want a child... I'll give you one in the future."

He paused for a moment before continuing, "And about your research—I'll have a lab built at home so you can continue your work in peace."

Helena slowly closed her eyes, hiding every trace of emotion beneath her lashes.

A private lab at home—how convenient. He wanted her to keep working... for Laica.

Seeing that she seemed to be asleep, Jackson stood there for a long while before quietly closing the door behind him.

...

Sometime past midnight, thirst pulled Helena out of her restless sleep.

She slipped out of bed, bare feet brushing against the cold floor, and tiptoed toward the kitchen for a glass of water.

As she passed the study, a faint light leaked through the gap in the door—and voices drifted out.

Shawn's voice was low and tense.

"Jackson, you went too far today. Sending people to kidnap her, taking those kinds of photos—aren't you afraid Helena will hate you for life if she ever finds out?"

Helena froze. The cup in her hand nearly slipped.

Inside, silence lingered for a few seconds before Jackson's voice broke through—quiet, controlled, and utterly cold.

"She won't know."

His tone carried the faintest hint of a smirk. "Never."

"Still," Shawn said, "Laica told me Helena's been digging into what happened three years ago. You're only making things worse—"

"She's safe now," Jackson cut him off, his voice turning even colder. "After what happened tonight, she'll rely on me again. She won't dare go anywhere. She'll stay home, focus on her research, and help pave the way for Laica's success."

Outside the study, Helena's body trembled so hard she could barely stand.

She pressed both hands over her mouth, stifling the scream that clawed up her throat.

It turned out... everything that happened tonight—the kidnapping, the fear, the near violation—was all his plan.

Every second of terror she felt had been part of his carefully staged performances.

She stumbled back to her room in a daze, her mind spinning with Shawn's words.

Those kinds of photos...

For Laica—to protect Laica's image, her future—Jackson had gone this far.

Her vision blurred with tears, but her heart felt frozen solid.

"Jackson..." she whispered hoarsely, gripping the edge of the bed until her knuckles turned white.

"You really do have a cruel heart."

Back in the guest room, Helena sat motionless on the edge of the bed, her eyes fixed on her phone.

On the screen, the flight information for four days later glowed faintly—a small, distant beacon of freedom. But now, that fragile light could no longer pierce through the numb, suffocating darkness inside her.

Three years ago, she had been framed, trampled, stripped of everything.

And now—was he planning to destroy the last thing she had left? Her dignity, her innocence?

She would never let that happen again!

...

The next morning, Helena forced her aching body out of bed.

Downstairs, Laica was sitting gracefully on the very sofa Helena had once handpicked for the house. Dressed head to toe in Chanel's latest collection, she sipped her coffee with practiced elegance—like the true mistress of the house.

The moment she saw Helena, Laica set down her cup and rose with a sugary smile. "Helena, you're awake? I heard something happened to you yesterday—I was so worried! I came to check on you personally."

Helena's gaze was icy. "I don't need your fake concern."

The smile on Laica's face faltered—but only for a second. Then, it curled into a smirk, sharp and taunting.

She reached into her designer bag, took out her phone, and turned the screen toward Helena.

"Really? Then I suppose you won't need this either."

Helena's gaze dropped—and her heart stopped.

On the screen were photos from last night—her clothes torn, her face streaked with tears, humiliation captured in cruel, deliberate angles.

Every photo screamed shame.

Laica watched the color drain from Helena's face, her voice dripping with venomous delight. "I've already sent them out. Every media outlet in Boston should have received them by now."

She leaned closer, whispering like a demon savoring her victory. "Stop investigating my thesis from three years ago. Otherwise, these photos will just be the appetizer."

Her voice hardened. "I have a hundred ways to ruin you, Helena—to make sure you'll never rise again."

"Damn you, Laica!" Helena's vision went red. She lunged forward, fury exploding as she tried to snatch the phone from Laica's hand.

"Ah!" Laica screamed and dramatically stumbled backward, collapsing in an exaggerated heap. The phone clattered to the floor.

"Laica!"

A man's furious voice thundered from the doorway.

Jackson stormed in. Without even glancing at Helena, he rushed to Laica's side, cradling her protectively.

"Jackson, I... I just came to check on Helena..." Laica whimpered, tears sparkling as she trembled pitifully in his arms.

Jackson turned, his eyes cold and cutting like shards of ice. "Helena—what the hell is wrong with you now?"

"She—she sent those photos online!" Helena's voice shook with rage.

But Jackson only looked more disgusted. "Those photos were leaked by those thugs from last night! I've already handled it!"

"Laica came out of kindness, and you still slandered her?!" His voice cracked like a whip. "Apologize to her!"

Apologize?

Helena stared at him, eyes burning with disbelief and hatred. "I did nothing wrong."

"I won't apologize."

Jackson's expression hardened into fury. His patience snapped. He turned to the guards at the door, his voice like steel.

"Lock her in the basement."

"No food. No water. Let's see how long she can keep that stubborn mouth shut."

The guards grabbed her roughly. Helena didn't struggle.

She only turned her hollow, lifeless eyes toward Laica—who was nestled in Jackson's arms, smiling triumphantly.

...

Darkness. Cold. Hunger.

Time blurred.

Helena didn't know how long she'd been locked in the basement. Her lips were dry, her body weak, her stomach twisting in pain.

Just as her vision began to fade into black, the door finally creaked open.

Jackson's tall figure blocked the only light in the dark basement, his shadow stretching long across the floor. He looked down at the woman curled up on the cold ground, his expression devoid of even a trace of warmth.

"Remember this lesson," he said flatly. His voice was as cold and unfeeling as steel.

"If you dare to hurt Laica again, it won't end as easily as this."

That night, Helena was finally allowed back to her room.

The first thing she did was grab her phone.

The screen lit up, and a message popped into view.

It was from her brother, Henry.

Attached were a series of files and recordings—undeniable evidence.

Evidence proving how, three years ago, Laica had stolen another researcher's work and fabricated the awardwinning thesis that made her famous.

A minute later, another encrypted email quietly appeared in her inbox.

Hands trembling, Helena opened it.

Inside was an investigation report from her senior at the research institute—and the truth struck her like lightning.

Jennelyn was innocent too.

Laica had been a corporate spy, but she had framed Jennelyn, destroying her career to cover her own crimes.

Helena stared at the evidence for a long time, then slowly smiled.

It was a cold, sharp smile that sent shivers down the spine.

At dinner, the air was suffocatingly tense.

Helena ate in silence, as if the ordeal in the basement had never happened. Then, she suddenly looked up at Jackson. Her tone was unnervingly calm.

"I've thought it through," she said softly.

"I won't go out anymore. I'll stay home and continue my research in the lab."

Jackson paused midcut, his knife and fork hovering in the air. He studied her carefully.

Her expression was blank, almost numb—like someone who had finally accepted her fate.

"That's good," he said approvingly.

He set down his cutlery, his tone softening, as if granting mercy. "You can focus on your research here. I'll help compile your work into a paper for publication."

Helena's eyes flickered with a cold, mocking light.

'Help me publish?' she thought bitterly. 'You mean give them to Laica—to pave her way to glory with my blood and sweat.'

But she nodded obediently, playing her part. Then she rose and walked upstairs.

When she returned, she was holding a thick stack of documents in her hands.

"These are my research manuscripts from before I was imprisoned," she said quietly. "Sign your name on the cover page, and they'll be ready for publication."

Jackson took the papers, the sight of her docile obedience made the irritation in his heart began to fade.

He flipped to the first page, ready to glance through it—but before he could, his private phone buzzed sharply.

The name flashing on the screen softened his entire face in an instant.

"Hello, Laica."

On the other end, Laica's sweet, excited voice chimed through. "Jackson! My thesis just won the award! There's a celebration party tonight—will you come with me?"

"Of course," he replied without hesitation.

As soon as the call ended, he was already on his feet.

He picked up the stack of documents Helena had given him, glanced at the cover page only briefly, and scribbled his signature without reading another word.

Sliding the signed papers back across the table, he grabbed his jacket from the chair and headed for the door.

"Jackson." Her cold, steady voice stopped him.

He frowned slightly, turning back impatiently.

"What is it now?"

Helena looked at him quietly. Her voice was steady, but her words cut deep.

"Do you remember what day it is today?"

His brows furrowed deeper, impatience flashing openly in his gaze.

"Today is Laica's award ceremony."

"Stay home and behave. I'll come back later."

He left without another glance.

Helena stood still, staring at the empty doorway.

A faint, selfmocking smile touched her lips.

He remembers Laica's big day... but forgot this one.

Five years ago, on this very date, he lit fireworks across the entire city—held her in his arms beneath the dazzling night sky—and whispered solemnly, "Helena, I'll never forget this day. The day you said yes to me."

The villa door slammed shut behind him.

The world fell silent.

Helena stood in the vast, empty living room, then slowly opened the stack of research papers he'd just signed.

At the very last page, hidden beneath the research notes, was a document titled: [Cabrera Group—30% Equity Transfer Agreement (No Compensation)]

And under the recipient, the name signed in bold ink—was hers.

Pulling out her phone, she dialed Henry.

"Brother, it's done," she said, her voice steady. "You can start the full withdrawal."

"Good," Henry's deep voice replied. After a pause, he added, "And the flight ticket you asked me to book for Jennelyn—I've sent the details to your phone."

"Got it."

When the call ended, Helena gathered the signed equity agreement and her research documents, locking them carefully into her suitcase.

Then she took one last look around the house—the gilded cage that had imprisoned her love, her youth, and her dreams.

Without a single trace of hesitation, Helena wheeled her suitcase to the door—and walked out of the villa, leaving it all behind.

Boston Logan International Airport was ablaze with light.

All the immigration paperwork had been handled by her brother long ago.

As soon as Helena arrived, she spotted two familiar figures waiting by the terminal—Jennelyn and her former senior, Emmett.

"Helena!" Jennelyn's voice trembled with emotion. "I never thought I'd see you again."

Helena smiled softly, reaching out to pat her head.

"Don't worry," she said gently, but her eyes were filled with coldness. "I'll make sure every single person who hurt us pays for what they did."

Jennelyn's eyes reddened. She was an orphan—framed, disgraced, and imprisoned just like Helena. The years had been cruel to both of them.

After saying goodbye to Emmett, Helena walked up to the counter, her voice hoarse yet unwavering.

"Hello, I'd like to change my ticket—two seats on the earliest flight tonight."

...

Moments before the plane took off, Helena opened her social media app.

Her fingers were steady as she composed a final message and uploaded a series of carefully prepared files.

The first document was a public divorce statement between her and Jackson.

The second was a signed property transfer agreement, in which Jackson had personally given her 30% of Cabrera Group's shares.

The third was a complete evidence of the Jordan family heiress's kidnapping three years ago: investigation reports, transaction records, call logs—every last detail laid bare.

She tapped send.

When the posts went live, Helena quietly turned off her phone, removed the SIM card, and dropped it into the trash can.

'Jackson... you forged evidence to send me to prison. You destroyed my career, stole my freedom, took my child from me—and even staged a "rape scene" just to make me a stepping stone for Laica.'

'And Laica, with all your scheming and lies—you won't escape either.'

This time, it was their turn to fall.