Chapter 3

Five days into my marriage, Victor grew tired of waiting for me to ask the Sterlings for business favors.

His retaliation was swift.

Every single one of my bank accounts was frozen.

An hour later, my phone rang. It was the dean of my university.

"Nora Vance? Your father came to the administrative office this morning and filed for your voluntary withdrawal. Your enrollment has been terminated effective immediately."

I stood frozen in the hospital corridor, clutching the phone until my knuckles turned white.

Graduation was only six months away. Getting that biomedical degree was my mother’s dying wish for me.

I dialed Victor's number.

"What right do you have to withdraw me from school?" I demanded.

Victor's voice was completely detached.

"You belong to the Sterling family now. The Vance household has no obligation to fund your education."

"Deliver the Westside project to my desk, and I'll reinstate your enrollment tomorrow. Otherwise, keep your head down and play the devoted bride. Don't get any grand ideas."

He hung up.

When I walked back into the private suite, Eleanor took one look at my pale face and immediately sensed something was wrong.

"Nora, what happened?"

Before I could hide my phone, she saw the withdrawal notification and the banking alerts on my screen.

Her face instantly turned rigid with fury.

"What is Victor Vance thinking?" she gasped. "You're at the top of your class! How dare he pull you out of school? I'm calling him right now!"

She pulled out her phone, but I gently caught her wrist.

"Eleanor, please. Don't."

Eleanor looked at me, her eyes brimming with maternal concern. "Child, you don't have to carry every burden alone."

I lowered my head.

I wasn't bearing this out of weakness. I was bearing it because in order to avenge my mother and burn the Vance family to the ground, I needed to play the long game.

The next afternoon, Victor arrived at the hospital bearing jars of premium wellness tonics.

He walked in, eagerly shaking Arthur's hand. "How is Nora adjusting to the family, Arthur?"

Arthur merely offered a brief nod, not bothering to engage.

Undeterred by the cold shoulder, Victor turned to Eleanor with excessive flattery. "Thank you for looking after our girl, Eleanor. If she ever steps out of line, please discipline her as you see fit."

Eleanor cast a frosty glance his way. "Nora is a wonderful girl. She requires no discipline from you or anyone else."

Having hit another brick wall, Victor forced a chuckle and walked over to me.

"Nora, I brought you some tonics. Make sure you take care of your health."

Seeing that no one in the room wanted him there, he finally excused himself.

The moment he stepped into the elevator, my phone began vibrating with a barrage of texts from him:

*Don't think the Sterlings actually care about you. You're nothing but a human good-luck charm to them.*

*Get me the Westside contract, or you will never step foot on a college campus again.*

*I am your father. I can strip away everything you have in an instant.*

I read the texts with a blank expression, leaving every single one on read.

A minute later, another message flashed:

*By the way, before your mother passed, did she leave anything behind? Like a notebook, or a medical formula?*

A dangerous chill settled in my chest. He was finally showing his true colors.

I typed back: *I don't know anything about a formula.*

Victor: *For your sake, you better not be lying. And don't you dare mention a word about any formula to the Sterlings.*

He had always suspected the formula was in my possession.

He was right.

And he would never, ever get it.

That night, after Damien’s parents and the private nurse had retired for the evening, I double-locked the suite door.

I retrieved a velvet case containing sterile silver acupuncture needles from my backpack, laying them out across the bedside table. Then, I unfolded the delicate, yellowed parchment.

Thirty-six specific acupressure points. Seven sessions in total, administered exactly three days apart.

Taking a deep breath, I pulled back the linen blanket, exposing Damien’s bare arm and chest.

Following the ancient manuscript, I guided the needles into the precise neural meridian pathways.

The moment the final needle settled, the heart monitor beside the bed emitted a sharp, erratic blip—a distinct shift from its monotonous, comatose rhythm.

I looked down at Damien’s still, aristocratic face. Reaching out, I lightly brushed his cold fingertips.

"Hold on just a little longer," I whispered. "Only six more sessions."