Tired of Being My Husband's Substitute, I Ran Away

"Jerissa, the doctor said this heart is a better match for your sister. Tell your mother to wait for the next donor."

Jerald slid the Heart Transplant Waiver Form across the table toward Jerissa.

Her fingers tightened around the neck of the wine bottle. "So that's it?" Her voice was low, trembling with restrained fury.

"The first time I came to your house, it was only so you could ask me to give up the heart my mother has been waiting for five years—so that Juliette can live?"

Jerald frowned. "Your sister is younger, and her body is weaker. Besides, your mother has already waited five years; waiting a little longer won't hurt."

Jerissa let out a sharp laugh. "Jerald, I really didn't misjudge you." She leaned forward, eyes like blades. "If your precious daughter's life is worth everything, then what exactly are you willing to pay for it?"

A flash of irritation and wariness crossed his face. "What do you want?"

"All the Cortez Enterprises' overseas shares." She pulled out a contract she'd already prepared and placed it on the table. "And… you'll help me divorce Franco."

Veins bulged at his temples. He glared at her, voice shaking with rage. "Are you insane? I just poured every cent into our overseas market! Things are finally showing results, and you want to take it all? And as for Franco—the marriage was a business alliance. Juliette likes him. I told you to let her marry him, but you refused. Now you want to divorce him? What game are you playing?"

Jerissa swirled her glass lazily, watching the ripples of red wine shimmer. Her tone was flat, almost careless. "No game. I'm simply tired of him. She wants him? Then let her have him."

"You—!" His voice rose sharply. "Do you see your sister as nothing but a rival? Is this just to humiliate her?"

She drained her glass in one gulp, set it down with a sharp clink, and stood. "If you can't do it, forget I said anything. I'm tired. Do as you like."

Immediately he panicked. "I'll agree!"

Grabbing the pen, he signed the transfer contract without hesitation. His voice was tight and urgent. "Once Juliette's surgery succeeds, I'll take care of the divorce."

Every day Juliette spent in the hospital was tormenting him. He felt as if his own flesh was being carved away. He had no time to haggle—he just needed his younger daughter on the operating table, alive.

Jerissa inhaled deeply, then picked up the pen and signed her name on the transplant waiver.

The final stroke barely left the page when Jerald sneered. "I can understand you fighting Juliette for shares. But don't you love Franco so much you swallowed every humiliation, even when he brought other women home? Now you're willing to let him go?"

Her chest jolted, words stuck like shards in her throat.

He was her father. The man who should have stood behind her, shielded her from harm.

But what kind of father would spit such cruelty at his own daughter?

Jerissa didn't answer. She only turned and walked away.

Only behind the safety of her locked bedroom door did her trembling ease. She collapsed onto the bed, drowning in alcohol's haze until her mind went blank.

She didn't know how much time had passed when strong arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her into a hard chest.

Hot breath brushed the shell of her ear, trailing across her cheek. His grip pinned her wrist above her head, the other hand sliding toward her collar—then abruptly stopping.

"You've been drinking?"

The voice was deep, magnetic—yet cold as steel. It snapped her back to consciousness.

Her eyes fluttered open and collided with Franco's furious gaze.

He sat up at once. "Didn't I tell you never to drink?"

Raising his voice, he ordered toward the door. "Someone, bring a sobering soup. Now!"

Then his hand clamped on her arm, yanking her upright. She stumbled as he dragged her into the bathroom.

The shower burst open, warm water drenching her body, but her heart only grew colder.

If not for the violence of his grip, she might have fooled herself into believing he cared. But no—what he cared about was that this face, this body, must never carry even the faintest trace of alcohol.

He left without looking back.

Over the rush of water, Jerissa whispered an answer to the question her father had thrown at her.

"Because he's just like you. He only keeps me around when I'm useful. The moment I'm not... he'll throw me away."

Pain spread through her chest, sharp and endless.

She remembered three years ago, the night of Franco's engagement banquet.

Juliette had sat at the piano, playing her carefully rehearsed melody—gentle, elegant, drawing sighs of admiration from the crowd. Jerald beamed with pride, as though he could already see his younger daughter as the future Mrs. Alba.

And Jerissa? She stood in the corner, invisible as always, quietly counting the champagne tower's tiers.

Until she felt a gaze.

She looked up—and fell into a pair of deep, commanding eyes.

The star of the evening.

Franco, the man who had expanded the Alba family empire in just a few short years, tall and aristocratic, aloof as snow—until his eyes landed on her.

At that moment, his careless gaze sharpened, lit by a hidden fire. And that one look sealed her fate.

To her shock, he chose her as the Alba family's bride.

Jerald's face had darkened. As always, he demanded she step aside for Juliette.

But for the first time in her life, Jerissa shook her head.

Because all her life, she had yielded simply because she was the elder sister. But this time—this time someone had chosen her. And she wouldn't give it up.

The wedding was a spectacle, shaking the entire city. Gilded invitations flooded the business world. Her gown was custommade, designed personally by Franco and crafted for months until it was oneofakind.

Afterward, he treated her like a treasure.

Luxury brands delivered new collections straight to her closet before she even glanced at the magazines. The most soughtafter pastry chef in the city was whisked into their kitchen daily, making her favorite osmanthus cakes and almond pastries just for her.

Surrounded by his tenderness, she felt dizzy with happiness. Franco was like fate's gift, making up for twenty years of neglect.

Until the day she carried a pot of soup to his office—and overheard him talking with a friend through the closed door.

"The ones I've found lately—some sound like her, some have her figure. Want to take a look?"

Franco's voice answered, calm and indifferent. "Fine. Arrange it."

"You don't sound excited like before. Don't tell me you're actually falling for Jerissa? Although... I admit she's the closest to Nicole. Especially her eyes. Sometimes I almost mistake her for the real thing."

Silence ensued for a moment before his cold and merciless reply sounded.

"No matter how alike… she's not her. My Nicole is irreplaceable."

It was as if thunder exploded in Jerissa's ears. A deafening buzz filled her head, drowning out every sound.

She returned home like a lost soul, her feet carrying her into the one place Franco had forbidden her to enter—his study.

As soon as she entered, she froze.

The walls were lined with photographs. A girl in a white dress smiling in the sunlight, laughing carefree... Her brows and eyes bore an uncanny resemblance to her own—seven parts alike, three parts different.

On the desk lay open journals, pages overflowing with longing, filled with one name: Nicole.

And at that moment, everything became clear.

Jerissa was nothing but a standin.

The grand wedding, the unique gown, the vows whispered to her... none of it had ever been meant for her. They were all prepared for the woman he had truly wanted to marry.

...

The bathroom door creaked open. Franco stepped in, setting down a neatly folded set of pajamas—soft gray cotton with a lacetrimmed collar.

Her stomach turned. She hated lace. It scratched her skin and caught in her hair. But of course, Franco didn't care what she liked. He only wanted to mold her into the image of another woman.

Jerissa closed her eyes and sank beneath the bathwater, letting the weight of it press against her chest.

Memories sharpened in her mind like glass shards.

The rows of clothes in the walkin closet were all Nicole's favorite brands and style. Even the pastries the chef delivered every morning were also Nicole's favorite sweets.

The gentleness in his gaze when he looked at her was never truly hers. He was staring through her face, tracing the ghost of someone else.

He forbade her from drinking not because he cared for her health. But because Nicole hated alcohol.

Jerissa had confronted him once, even broken down in hysteria. And his reply had nearly shattered her.

"To resemble Nicole at all—that's your blessing. Otherwise, what makes you think you deserve to marry into the Alba family?"

When she still refused to back down, he wrapped it in business.

"As long as you stay my wife, your father's company will have every resource it needs. If you leave... don't expect Cortez Enterprises to survive."

He didn't need to say the rest. His warning was clear enough.

At that time, Cortez Enterprises had just begun pushing into foreign markets. If the Alba family turned its back, they'd be devoured by competitors before they even found their footing.

So she endured.

And in her endurance, a fragile, foolish hope sprouted.

Nicole was gone. But she was here—alive. Maybe, just maybe, with time, he would see her. Not as a substitute, not as a shadow, but as Jerissa.

So she started reclaiming herself—wearing the leather jackets she loved, racing with friends on roaring tracks, laughing wildly in the wind.

She wasn't fighting Nicole anymore. She was fighting her own desperate hope.

Until one day, all the racetracks in the city suddenly banned her.

Franco dragged her away, wiping the crimson lipstick from her lips. His voice was ice, every word was like a dagger piercing her heart.

"I have plenty of options. If it weren't for your sister's heart condition, the position of Mrs. Alba would never have been yours. A substitute is just a substitute. If you don't do it, someone else will. So stop making trouble... hmm?"

Each syllable pierced her chest, but worse was yet to come.

He began openly bringing other "substitutes" into their home.

Women who sounded like Nicole.

Women who moved like Nicole.

Even women who shared Nicole's name.

The entire social circle whispered and sneered—Jerissa, nothing more than a disposable prop, a placeholder in someone else's story.

If it weren't for Juliette's heart disease, the first person to replace her would be her own younger sister.

At that thought, Jerissa felt the air drain from her lungs. She burst to the surface with a splash, gasping.

Why?

Why should she live as someone else's shadow?

She was Jerissa Cortez—alive, breathing, a woman with her own desires, her own fire.

Staring into the mirror, she heard a voice ring clear within her chest, firm and unyielding, 'From this day forward, I will live for myself.'

Jerissa didn't put on the pajamas. Instead, wrapped only in a bath towel, she stepped out of the bathroom.

Franco's gaze flicked at her, his brows drawing together almost imperceptibly. But he said nothing.

Instead, he walked into the closet and returned with a silk nightdress he had hidden away.

"Change into this before you catch a cold."

A flicker of surprise stirred in Jerissa's eyes. She had expected him to be as forceful as before—pressing the clothes onto her, even dressing her himself with unyielding hands that allowed no refusal.

Before she could respond, a knock came from the door.

"Sir, the hangover soup is ready."

By the time she emerged again, Franco was sitting on the edge of the bed. In his hands was the steaming bowl of soup, his head bowed as he blew gently across the surface. The rising mist softened his features, giving him, for once, a faint tenderness.

He tested the temperature with the spoon, then looked up at her.

"Come. Drink this so you won't have a headache in the morning."

Her chest tightened.

How did he know she always got headaches after drinking?

Jerissa walked over and sat beside him. He lifted the spoon to her lips. She parted them slightly, letting the warm, faintly bitter liquid slide down her throat, carrying a faint medicinal fragrance.

When the bowl was empty, he picked up an almond pastry.

"Your favorite." Her body stiffened. Bitterness stung her tongue.

Every time she ate one of those, she had to secretly swallow allergy medicine afterward.

"That isn't me." She met his eyes, her voice steady. "I'm allergic to almonds."

Franco's gaze darkened. After a pause, he said quietly, "Alright. I won't have the chef make them again."

Jerissa studied the rigid line of his profile. Something strange rose inside her.

Was he... different, somehow?

That night, he did nothing more. He simply held her in his arms. His arm around her waist wasn't tight, yet it bound her with a weight that was impossible to shake off.

The next morning, Franco had breakfast prepared. Warm milk, golden toast edged with char, strawberry jam—all of it were still Nicole's favorites.

Jerissa picked up a slice of toast, only to notice a servant pressing a highfashion gown under the iron.

"When you're done eating, change into that," Franco said flatly. "We're going out."

She remembered too well—there had been a photograph in his study, Nicole wearing that exact same dress.

What was different? What was she still hoping for?

Maybe last night's gentleness was nothing but an illusion born of too much wine.

She laughed at herself. "Where are we going?"

"The hospital. Juliette's surgery is today."

Her heart plummeted.

Of course. She should have known.

Juliette's features resembled Nicole's even more closely than hers did. She, too, was frail and ill, fragile to the point of breaking.

The only reason Franco had chosen Jerissa in the first place was because Juliette had been too sick—he feared she might leave him, just as Nicole had.

And once Juliette recovered, he would finally have a more "perfect" standin.

How laughable. Even as a substitute, she was only the second best.

She remembered not long ago, when Juliette deliberately coughed blood in front of him, and he had rushed overnight to gather an elite medical team to stay at the Cortex estate.

When Juliette murmured so much as murmured that her chest felt heavy, he had abandoned Jerissa in the pouring rain, driving forty minutes just to deliver medicine.

If it weren't a crime, Jerissa was certain he would tear someone's heart out just to keep Juliette alive.

Lowering her eyes, she drained her glass of milk in one swallow.

"Let's go."

Soon, she would no longer be Mrs. Alba.

Who he cared for, who he dressed up as a substitute—it would no longer have anything to do with her.

As the door to the hospital room opened, they saw Juliette was propped weakly against the headboard, waiting for surgery.

The moment she saw Franco, her dull eyes suddenly lit up with life.

Without the slightest regard for the fact that this man was her brotherinlaw, she reached out and clutched his hand.

"Franco, I'm scared… what if I don't wake up?"

Franco sat down at her bedside, his voice steady, reassuring. "You will. Just focus on the surgery."

Tears welled in Juliette's eyes at the perfect moment, shimmering without spilling.

"Then… when I wake up, will you be here? I want the first thing I see to be you."

"Yes," he promised softly. "I'll be right here waiting."

Not far away, Jerissa stood silently, watching the look in his eyes—a tenderness so deep it bordered on devotion.

But she knew too well. That gaze wasn't really meant for Juliette.

Perhaps, long ago, it was Nicole who had once laid in that hospital bed, clutching his hand, whispering not to leave.

Suddenly, Juliette sneezed twice in quick succession, her face turning pale further.

"Sister, did you spray perfume? You know I'm allergic!"

Franco’s expression darkened, his brows knitting as he snapped, “How vicious can you be? Are you trying to sabotage Juliette’s surgery on purpose? Get out—before I lose my temper.”

Jerissa turned without a word, digging her nails into her palm to ground herself.

She hadn't touched perfume at all. But if Juliette said she had, then that was all that mattered.

It had always been like this.

Juliette was the one who broke their father’s antique vase, yet she framed Jerissa for it—leaving Jerissa to be punished and locked in the dark basement all night.

When their father forgot important documents at home, it was Jerissa who braved a storm to deliver them. But when he asked, Juliette calmly claimed the credit.

As Jerissa reached the door, she caught sight of her sister's gaze.

Juliette truly believed that with a few practiced tears and delicate pretenses, she could make Franco fall for her—that soon, this brotherinlaw would become her husband.

Jerissa's lips curved into the faintest smile.

'Take him, then.' She spoke silently in her heart.

'Soon, the title of Mrs. Alba, even Franco himself, will be yours. But when the moment comes that you realize you were only ever a substitute—don't cry.'

Just then, Jerald approached, his expression was thunderous.

The sharp scent of disinfectant filled the corridor. Jerissa had barely turned when his cold face loomed over her.

"What are you doing here?"

Before she could answer, his voice cut sharper, laced with warning. "Don't tell me you want to back out. Too late. Juliette's surgery is already arranged."

Jerissa's throat burned as she looked at the man who was her father in name only.

"My mother is just across the street in the nursing home. Have you gone to see her even once?"

A flicker of guilt flashed in his eyes. "Why bring her up?"

"Why not?" Jerissa's gaze hardened.

Her mother had told her once: Dad only married her because of her grandfather's influence. And the day her grandfather's family went bankrupt, he served divorce papers. By the next day, he had married Juliette's mother.

But fate was cruel—Juliette's mother died in childbirth, and ever since, her father had spoiled Juliette without restraint.

"You were married to my mother for years. Even if there was no love, now that she's this ill—"

"Stop trying to guilttrip me!" Jerald snapped. "You stayed in the Cortez family for money! For your mother's medical bills, for your share of the inheritance. Don't act so high and mighty."

"I’ve already given you everything you wanted. I’ll take care of the divorce as soon as possible. What you want is foreign stock, isn’t it? All so you can take your mother abroad? Fine—go. But don’t ever come back.”

"Divorce?"

The hospital room door opened abruptly.

Franco stepped out, his brows drawn tight, his voice edged with cold suspicion.

"Where exactly are you going?"

Jerissa avoided his gaze, her tone was light and dismissive. "Nothing. We were just talking about the past."

Franco clearly didn't believe her. But before he could press further, a nurse entered the ward and began wheeling Juliette out.

"The patient is ready for surgery. We'll begin shortly."

Juliette clutched Franco's sleeve once more. "Franco… I won't die, right? You'll be waiting for me outside the operating room, won't you?"

Her trembling voice pulled every ounce of his attention away. He bent down, his tone soft and coaxed. "I'll be right here. Don't think nonsense. Just listen to the doctors."

He personally followed as they pushed her bed toward the operating room.

Their hands stayed clasped tightly together until the very last moment, when the doors forced them apart.

Around them, nurses and waiting families whispered in awe.

"My God, the way he looks at her is so full of love!"

"They must be deeply in love. I'm envious."

Every word struck like a needle into Jerissa's chest, leaving a dense ache that spread in waves.

She had thought she no longer cared.

So why was there still that inexplicable sting, spreading quietly through her veins?

After asking the doctor about the surgery duration, Franco suddenly seized Jerissa's wrist.

"Come with me."

He pulled her along without explanation, straight into an elevator.

When the doors slid open, she froze.

The obstetrics and gynecology department.

Her eyes widened. "Why are we here?"

He turned back, his voice calm, almost indifferent. "For a checkup."

"A… gynecology checkup?" She couldn't believe it.

Throughout their marriage, even when his desire had burned out of control and his eyes turned red, if he wasn’t using contraception, he had always forced himself to stop. And now he was bringing her in for a gynecological exam?

"Yes." He cut her off. "It's already arranged. Go in."

A nurse appeared quickly to lead the way, and Jerissa, still reeling, followed helplessly through a series of tests.

When she finally received the report, her eyes drifted down to the results column.

[Good physical condition. All indicators suitable for childbirth.]

The words landed like a hammer against her chest.

Her breath hitched. Her heart thundered. He had brought her here… because he wanted her to bear his child?

But before she could process it, Franco, seemingly oblivious to her turmoil, took the report and walked straight into a consultation room.

"Come in."

Jerissa forced a deep breath, shoving her tangled emotions down, and followed.

The doctor greeted them with practiced ease, already pulling out prepared documents.

"Mr. Alba, Mrs. Alba, based on the test results, Mrs. Alba is in excellent condition. And the frozen eggs Miss Nicole left behind are still wellpreserved. We can arrange the procedure soon. If Mr. Alba provides a sample, we can proceed directly with embryo implantation."

The words shattered through her like lightning.

"Nicole's... frozen eggs?"

Jerissa stood rooted to the spot, her blood rushing backward in a dizzying chill.

Her hands and feet went icecold.

Franco ignored Jerissa's outburst and turned back to the doctor.

"What's the success rate of a single embryo transfer? I've read the reports—women suffer a lot during the procedure."

The doctor adjusted his glasses. "With the current medical standards and Mrs. Alba's physical condition, there should be no problem. I'll prescribe her ovulationstimulating hormones. The operation can be scheduled for the day after tomorrow."

Jerissa sat rigidly in the chair, a chill seeping into her bones.

Is he worried about hurting me now?

What was this—compassion? Charity?

It felt absurd, like an executioner raising his blade only to pause and ask gently, “Are you afraid of pain?” Cruelty wrapped in false kindness.

She lurched to her feet and staggered toward the door.

"Jerissa!"

Franco caught up in two strides, gripping her wrist hard. "What are you doing?"

She shook him off with force. "Franco, what makes you think I would ever bear a child for you and another woman?"

Ignoring her anger, he replied indifferently, "Because you're my wife. Bearing children for the Alba family is your duty."

The words struck like a thousand iceneedles piercing her skull.

Glancing at his watch, he added impatiently, "Stop making a scene. I'll provide my sample now. Juliette's surgery should be finished soon—I need to be there when she wakes up. Take your medication and go home. Don't wander around."

Without hesitation, he turned and walked away, his back straight and unyielding, not a trace of reluctance in his stride.

Jerissa stood frozen in place, her vision blurring.

So this was her role. Not only a substitute... but a tool.

No... She was worse than that.

Even a tool for childbirth could at least give life connected to itself. But she? She was nothing more than a vessel, a container for Franco and Nicole’s socalled “love crystallization.”

Her chest tightened. Instead of going home, she flagged down a taxi and headed straight to the sanatorium.

Through the glass window of the ward, she gazed at her sleeping mother. The sterile light cast gentle shadows across the room, and Jerissa’s vision blurred as her eyes turned red.

“Mom,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

"Don't we look alike? You loved a man who never loved you. I married one who only ever saw me as a substitute. And now he wants me to carry a child for him and another woman. Loving someone who doesn't love you... it's the most painful thing in the world."

Tears streamed down her cheeks. She wiped them away, her eyes slowly hardening with resolve.

"But it's alright, Mom. We won't waste our lives here. Once I divorce him, I'll take you away to a place where no one knows us. Somewhere with the best medicine, where they can cure you. We'll live well—better than well."

When she returned home from the sanatorium, the first thing she saw was servants clearing out her belongings from the master bedroom.

She frowned. "What are you doing?"

The housekeeper looked uncomfortable. "Sir said… the master bedroom needs to be emptied for Miss Juliette. Your things will be moved to the guest room."

"Juliette?" Her voice dropped, cold and sharp. "She just had surgery. Why isn't she in the hospital?"

The answer came moments later, in a message from Franco.

[Juliette's operation was a success. The doctor recommended rest. Our home has a better environment and a medical team available. You'll stay in the guest room for now.]

Jerissa suddenly understood.

Nicole had once been ill like this—ill until the end.

And now, with Juliette's surgery behind her, her frailty and her resemblance to Nicole made her the perfect patient for him to guard over, day and night.

Franco's selfishness had never bothered to hide itself.

She laughed suddenly, a low, bitter laugh that carried no joy.

Her phone buzzed again. This time it was her father.

[The overseas shares are now in your name. The divorce papers are ready. Tomorrow, someone will present them to Franco under the pretense of a cooperation agreement. Once he signs, you'll be free.]

Her grip tightened around the phone. For the first time in what felt like forever, the fog in her chest began to clear.

This farce—would finally end soon.

Juliette was carried back in Franco's arms. His hold was firm yet cautious, as though he were cradling a piece of fragile glass. Behind him followed several private doctors.

Turning to Jerissa, he ordered coldly, "The doctor said she can eat eight hours after surgery. There are still two hours left. Go make some rice porridge yourself. Make sure it's soft and easy to digest."

The servants exchanged quick glances.

Without a word, Jerissa turned and headed for the kitchen.

At eight that evening, Juliette finally stirred awake.

Franco immediately rose and shouted toward the door, "Bring the porridge!"

Jerissa walked in, holding a steaming bowl, just in time to see Franco moistening Juliette's lips with a cotton swab dipped in warm water.

"Franco…" Juliette's voice was frail. "I'll get better soon, won't I?"

"Of course you will," Franco soothed. He took the bowl, blowing on the porridge several times before carefully pressing the spoon to her lips. "You've slept for a long time. Drink a little first."

She swallowed in small sips, then her eyes reddened. "Since I was little, I've always envied Sister. She's so healthy—she can run and jump… But me? I was always sick, I've never even been to an amusement park."

"Give it some time. I'll take you. Wherever you want to go, whatever you want to do—I'll be there with you," he gently promised.

"Really?" Her eyes lit up. "Then I want to ride a roller coaster, and watch fireworks too!"

"Alright," Franco agreed without hesitation. Then suddenly, he stood and looked out the window. "Fireworks… you can see them right now."

He left, and moments later the sharp whoosh—bang of fireworks split the night.

Brilliant lights blossomed across the sky, their glow illuminating Juliette's delighted face.

Inside, only the two sisters remained.

Juliette turned her head toward Jerissa. The fragile expression she wore a moment ago vanished, replaced by something darker.

"Sis, did you see? Franco set off fireworks just for me. He treats me so well."

Jerissa said nothing. Her silence only deepened Juliette's mocking smile.

"Do you know? All my life, there has never been anything I wanted that I couldn't get."

She raised a hand, pressing it lightly against her chest, her laugh sharp as poisoned thorns.

"The heart beating here? It used to belong to your mother. But now—it's mine. The master bedroom is mine too. And as for the position of Mrs. Alba… I think I'd like to try that as well."

Jerissa's gaze lingered on her twisted expression. Slowly, she stepped closer, her own lips curving into a faint smile.

"I hope everything you schemed so hard to steal… doesn't end up disappointing you."

The words had barely left her mouth when Franco pushed open the door.

Almost at the same time, Juliette's wrist tilted and the porridge bowl at her bedside toppled, spilling across her hand.

The porridge had been sitting for a while—it wasn't even hot. But her eyes still welled up with tears as she pouted pitifully.

Franco rushed forward, dabbing at her hand, his voice tight with anger.

"How can you call yourself a sister? You can't even take care of your own little sister properly!"

"Franco, don't blame her…" Juliette's voice trembled as if she were defending someone. "She just seems a little upset. Maybe it's because I've been staying in the master bedroom. I should've stayed in the guest room—how could I take that from her?"

"She has no right to be upset. This house isn't hers to decide," Franco snapped.

Jerissa let out a cold laugh. "Of course, I have no right. Otherwise, why would I stand by and let my sister and my husband be so… close?"

Franco's face darkened. "What nonsense are you spouting? She's your sister. Naturally, I treat her like my own sister."

"You actually want me to believe that?" Jerissa stepped forward, meeting his furious gaze headon.

"I've never seen a sister call her brotherinlaw with such tenderness. And I've never seen a man carry his sisterinlaw into the master bedroom, while sending his wife to the guest room."

"Jerissa!" Franco's roar shook the room as he lifted his hand high.

The next second, a sharp slap cracked through the silence.

Franco's hand never fell.

Instead—Juliette slapped herself.

A bright red mark bloomed quickly across her pale cheek as tears spilled like broken pearls.

"I'm sorry… it's all my fault. I caused my Sister and Brotherinlaw to quarrel…"

She choked on her sobs, looking up at Franco with a face drenched in tears. "I never had a brother growing up. Brotherinlaw has always treated me so well, just like family—that's why I called him by his name. If Sister doesn't like it, I'll never call him that again."

"If Sister doesn't like me living here, I'll move out right now. I just hope she won't be angry with me anymore."

With that, she lifted the quilt and tried to get out of bed.

Franco's anger dissolved in an instant. He gently tucked the blanket back over her.

"Don't say such foolish things. None of this is your fault. It's her making trouble for no reason. You can call me whatever you want, and you'll stay right here until you've recovered. Whoever doesn't like it... can get leave."

Just then, thunder rumbled outside.

A torrential downpour followed, rain hammering against the windows.

Franco's gaze hardened. "Apologize to Juliette."

Jerissa pressed her lips together, unmoving.

"Fine." His tone was ice. "Someone, take Madam outside. Let her stand in the rain until she clears her head."

The servants obeyed without hesitation.

"Watch her closely. She should not come back in for three hours."

Jerissa was shoved onto the rainsoaked stone courtyard. Water drenched her hair and clothes within moments, coldness seeping into her bones. Her knees scraped against the ground, sending sharp pain up her legs.

She lifted her head. Rain blurred her vision, but she could still see the master bedroom window—and the smug, undisguised triumph on Juliette's face.

It was summer, yet a bonedeep chill crept through her, making her body tremble uncontrollably.

No one knew how much time passed before darkness edged into her vision. At last, her body gave out and she collapsed unconscious.

The servants rushed to alert Franco. He ran out instinctively, scooping her limp, icy form into his arms and carrying her inside.

He laid her on the guest room bed, changed her into dry clothes, and wrung a hot towel to wipe her down himself.

A maid brought ginger tea to warm her, but her lips were pressed tightly shut—nothing could be coaxed past them.

Franco frowned deeply, studying her face under the soft lamplight. Her brows were sharp, her features carrying a quiet resilience. Even in fainting, she looked unyielding.

Nothing like his gentle Nicole.

A strange jolt struck his heart, spreading out in a faint, numbing ache.

He sat by the bed, cradling her against his chest. With one hand, he slowly fed her spoonfuls of ginger tea, slipping it between breaths.

...

The next morning, Jerissa opened her eyes to a splitting headache.

She forced herself out of bed and downstairs, only to find Franco bustling in the dining room. A hot breakfast waited on the table, steam curling upward.

In a trance, the scene of Franco changing her clothes and feeding her ginger soup last night flashed through her mind. But the warmth faded quickly, leaving only a cool indifference in her heart.

"You're awake? I made you breakfast. Cold medicine is next to it—eat first, then take it."

She didn't respond, and sat down quietly. At that moment, the secretary entered, bowing slightly.

"Mr. Alba, Mr. Cortez said a few cooperation documents need your signature again. It's urgent. Once you've signed, I'll deliver them right away."

Franco took the papers and began flipping through them.

At the table, Jerissa's grip tightened on her spoon, her heartbeat thundering in her chest.

Then, from upstairs, came a weak cough. It was Juliette.

At the sound, Franco stopped skimming the papers, swiftly signed his name, and picked up a breakfast tray to carry upstairs.

The secretary turned to leave, but Jerissa spoke suddenly, "Wait. Give them to me. I'll bring them to my father later."

The secretary blinked, then nodded.

Since Mr. Cortez was his boss's fatherinlaw, and the documents were urgent, he thought nothing of it. Without checking further, he handed them over.

Jerissa's hands trembled slightly as she pulled a paper free from the stack—a divorce agreement, already bearing Franco's signature.

Without hesitation, she added her own name. She immediately contacted a lawyer to process the divorce certificate, then bought two plane tickets abroad.

She packed only her essentials and documents, then headed for the door.

The moment she stepped outside, Franco's voice drifted from behind her.

"You've caught a cold. Don't go out. Stay home and recover. I've spoken with the hospital—the embryo transfer has been postponed for a few days."

Jerissa's heart sank, but she forced her tone to be steady. "The nursing home called. My mother's condition isn't good. I need to see her."

Franco didn't stop her.

"Come back early," he only said.

What he didn't know—was that she would never return.

When Jerissa arrived at the sanatorium, she found her mother sitting in a wheelchair, gazing quietly out the window.

Earlier, she had called ahead to remind the staff not to give her mother any sedatives that day.

"Mom."

The woman in the chair turned her head, her eyes startlingly clear. "Jerissa…"

Jerissa froze.

All those years ago, her mother had attempted suicide by swallowing sleeping pills after suffering a devastating blow. Though she had been saved, the ordeal left her with heart failure and memory loss. Ever since, her mind had remained trapped in the past, with no recollection that she even had a daughter.

Now, as her mother looked at her, tears slowly welled in her eyes. "All these years… you've suffered so much."

Jerissa rushed forward and clasped her mother's hand tightly. "From now on, neither of us will ever suffer again."

Leaving the nursing home, Jerissa managed to escort her mother onto a plane bound for Massachusetts.

As she gazed out at the rolling sea of clouds beyond the window, it felt as though all the pain of the past had finally been cast far, far behind her.