Chapter 2

Holding the business card my best friend Chloe gave me, my fingers shook uncontrollably.

Chloe was my college roommate, now one of the city's most prominent financial investigative journalists, known for exposing the darkest corners of Wall Street and corporate fraud.

When she heard my tearful story, she shattered her brand-new phone against the floor in sheer fury.

"Fuck! Julian Vance is an absolute monster! He's not human!"

"Summer, wake the hell up! This isn't a marital dispute; it's premeditated murder!"

"Men like him have scheming baked into their DNA. Don't think for a second this is his only move. You're a brilliant surgeon—don't end up dead on your own operating table without ever knowing why!"

I let out a bitter, hollow laugh. "I can't even put together the money for my mom's surgery. What else can I possibly do?"

Chloe pulled a pen from her bag and scribbled a name and number onto a paper napkin.

"Logan Reed."

"Former detective, specialized in corporate and financial crimes. Runs his own private intelligence firm now."

"When it comes to tracing assets, you might be out of your depth, but when it comes to digging up the dirt people bury in the dark, he's the absolute master."

I returned to the gilded cage we called "home."

For once, Julian wasn't lingering beside his massive aquarium.

He sat casually on the sofa, nursing a glass of red wine.

Seeing me walk in, he even managed a faint, gentle smile.

"You're back?"

"Try to make peace with things regarding your mother. Life and death are out of our hands. We did our best."

Looking at that hypocritical face made my stomach churn with violent nausea.

Setting down his glass, he pulled a printed document from a manila folder beside him.

"Summer, since you're here, sign this."

"It's a Legal Mental Health Guardianship Authorization my legal team drafted."

I took the document, my heart instantly plunging into an icy pit.

The language on the page was polished and righteous.

"To protect the legal rights and interests of both spouses in the event of extreme psychological distress..."

Yet the core clause was pure horror.

"Should Party B, Summer Hayes, experience mental instability and be diagnosed by two or more licensed physicians as lacking full civil capacity, all assets registered under her name shall be irrevocably entrusted to Party A, Julian Vance, for comprehensive management."

My hands began to shake uncontrollably.

Over the past six months, I had indeed suffered from chronic heart palpitations, severe anxiety, night sweats, and even occasional auditory hallucinations.

I assumed it was simply the stress of my mother's declining health compounded by the immense pressure of daily open-heart surgeries.

I had even consulted a colleague in our hospital's neurology department, who prescribed some mild sedatives.

Now, countless tiny details rushed back into my mind, piecing together a terrifying puzzle.

Julian's "impeccable" care over the past half year.

The soothing herbal tea he handed me every single evening without fail.

The specialty tonic broth he personally watched me swallow twice a week.

And that neurologist colleague who evaluated me? Last month, he had been poached by one of Julian's portfolio companies to serve as their Chief Medical Consultant.

Staring at the refined, gentle face before me, a wave of pure dread surged from the soles of my feet straight to my skull.

He had set this board months ago.

He didn't just want to watch my mother die.

He wanted to slap an official label of "mentally incompetent" on me right when my emotional state hit rock bottom, legally turning me—his golden goose—into a captive pet locked inside his gilded cage.

Chloe's words echoed in my mind.

"When it comes to digging up the dirt, he's the absolute master."

Taking a deep, silent breath, I forced down the terror and venom inside me, offering him a frail, compliant smile.

"Okay, Julian. You always think of everything."

Pretending to sign the paper, I "accidentally" knocked over the water glass on the table.

Water flooded across the paperwork.

"Oh god, I'm so sorry! I've been so clumsy lately."

I frantically grabbed napkins to wipe the spill, seizing the opportunity to slip a used tea bag from his nightly herbal blend—along with several soaked napkins—straight into my pocket.

Watching my flustered state, his eyes remained completely devoid of emotion.

"It's fine. I'll print another copy tomorrow."

"Summer, you're just exhausted. You need real rest."

He stepped forward, pulling me into a warm embrace, his voice a soft murmur against my ear.

"Don't be afraid. I've got you."

Leaning against his chest, I was stiff as stone, yet forced every muscle to loosen.

Just you wait, Julian.

Let's see who gets locked away first: me in an asylum, or you in a federal prison.