Anne hesitated in front of the rusted gate, her fingers curling tightly around the strap of her bag. The familiar stench of damp concrete and cigarette smoke drifted from the house, tugging at memories she'd rather leave buried.
Just apologize and leave, she told herself. It's the right thing to do.
She had yelled. Stormed out. Some small part of her still clung to the hope that maybe… just maybe, her uncle once had good intentions.
She pushed open the gate.
The door creaked open before she could knock. There he stood—Uncle Jeff, beer in hand, eyes bloodshot and breath sour.
"So the princess returns," he slurred, stepping aside.
Anne swallowed hard. "I came to say sorry. I didn't mean to yell that day. I just—"
"Sorry?" Jeff snorted. "You think sorry pays the bills? Sorry feeds me?"
Anne's brows furrowed. "I gave you every paycheck I had. I even sold Mom's jewelry and my room's furniture. I thought we were using that to pay off Dad's debts—"
Jeff's laugh was sharp, bitter. "You really think that bastard deserved anything after the mess he left us in?"
Her stomach twisted. "Wait… what do you mean?"
He tossed the beer can into the sink and turned to face her fully, his grin stretching cruelly across his face.
"I used the money, Anne. All of it. Debt? That was your sob story. What I needed was a little luck at the tables. That money kept me in the game. Blackjack. Poker. All of it."
Anne's breath caught. "You—what?"
He stepped forward. "You think you're some kind of saint? You think working those late shifts makes you a hero? You're just a girl. A stupid girl."
Anne's voice rose. "I worked myself to the bone! I starved, Jeff! I sold everything! You—" Her voice cracked. "You used me."
The slap came out of nowhere. Her cheek exploded with pain as her head snapped to the side.
Then another.
And another.
She stumbled backward, hitting the wall, but he was already on her. His fists no longer hesitating.
Anne screamed.
She curled into herself, arms wrapping around her knees, trying to shield what little she could. Pain bloomed across her ribs, her back, her arms.
Run.
Survive.
That was all she could think.
Then—he paused. Maybe to catch his breath. Maybe because he thought she wouldn't get up again.
But she did.
Bloodied, trembling, she pushed herself off the floor and ran. Her legs screamed, but fear screamed louder. She didn't look back.
She fumbled for her phone, her fingers stained and shaking. The screen lit up, and with one press, it dialed the last number she had called.
"Brian…" she croaked, her voice broken. "Help."
____
Thirty minutes later, the hallway outside the emergency room was chaos.
Brian strode in with purpose, Anne cradled in his arms. "Get me a trauma nurse, now!" he barked at the reception.
A nurse rushed over with a wheelchair, and within seconds, Anne was whisked away behind white curtains and sterile walls.
Rayden arrived moments later, his expression unreadable, but his pace sharp with worry.
"Where is she?" he demanded.
Brian met him at the door. "Inside. They're treating her. Multiple bruises. Minor lacerations. A fractured wrist. She was lucky."
Rayden's jaw clenched. "Lucky?"
"She called just in time. If she had waited even a few minutes longer…"
Rayden turned his gaze toward the corridor, where the soft beeping of monitors echoed faintly.
"She's twenty-two," he said, voice low.
Brian glanced at him. "I know."
Rayden closed his eyes briefly. "She's ten years younger than me. And she's been through hell."
Brian hesitated. "There's more. I ran the financials, like you asked. You were right. Not a single payment was ever made to the debt collector. The man's ledger had no record of Anne's efforts. Her uncle's been lying to her from the beginning."
Rayden's silence was heavy.
Then he opened his eyes and said, "Find the best damn lawyer in this city. I want Jeff Dwasond behind bars. And I want him to rot."
Brian nodded once. "It's already done."
___
Hours passed.
Rayden sat beside the hospital bed, watching Anne's still form beneath the thin sheets. Her face was pale, her lower lip split. A faint bruise was already blooming on her jaw. Yet despite it all, she looked… peaceful. As if sleep, for once, was free of nightmares.
He didn't understand it.
How someone so small could carry a burden so heavy.
How someone like her—fierce, proud, angry at the world—could still believe in doing the right thing.
He reached forward and gently brushed a loose strand of hair from her forehead.
No cameras. No contracts. No deals.
Just… her.
He didn't say it aloud.
But in his heart, something unspoken cracked open.
___
Anne stirred.
Her lashes fluttered, her lips parting slightly as she blinked against the soft light.
When her eyes adjusted, she saw two silhouettes beside her.
"Brian…?" she whispered hoarsely.
He stood quickly. "I'm here."
"And Mr. Lancaster," she added softly.
Rayden inclined his head. "Welcome back."
Anne tried to sit up, wincing immediately. Brian gently adjusted her pillows.
"You shouldn't move too much," he said. "The doctor gave you something for the pain, but you'll be sore for a while."
Anne nodded slowly.
Then her gaze shifted—to her right.
Sitting there, still gripping her hand like a lifeline, was a girl with shoulder-length hair and puffy eyes. Her mascara was smudged, her nose red, and her expression one of utter heartbreak.
"Hana…?"
The girl gave a small, wet laugh. "You idiot," she whispered. "You scared me half to death."
Anne's throat tightened. "You're here."
"I should've been here earlier. I should've known something was wrong when you stopped replying to my messages," Hana said, voice trembling. "God, Anne. Why didn't you tell me?"
Tears welled in Anne's eyes. "I didn't want you to worry."
"You're my best friend," Hana said fiercely. "Worrying is literally my job."
She leaned down and hugged Anne gently, careful not to touch any of the bruises. Anne closed her eyes and clung to her.
Rayden watched the exchange in silence.
He wasn't used to this. Softness. Vulnerability.
But watching Anne cry in her best friend's arms stirred something unfamiliar in him. Something almost protective.
Not as a CEO.
Not as a man trying to salvage his public image.
But as a person who, without realizing it, had begun to care.