Chapter 4: Scars, Schemes, and a Kiss Goodbye

Warm blood dripped from my palm to the floor, one drop, two drops. It felt strangely satisfying, like proof I was still here.

The red stood out against the white tile. Mason's pupils shrank. A shadow flashed in his eyes. I caught a glimpse of something—fear? Regret?—before he looked away.

Seeing his hesitation, Grace panicked. She clung to him, voice shaking.

"Brother, I'm cold."

Her voice was small, desperate. But under everyone's gaze, Mason put her down and told another female assistant, "Take her to change clothes."

"Mason~" Grace stomped her foot in frustration, her wet hair making her look ridiculous. I almost laughed.

She looked like a drowned cat, but Mason didn't even flinch. "Be good," he said, his tone hard and edged with impatience.

I couldn't help but smile. When I looked up, I met Mason's deep gaze. For a second, everything else faded away.

He took me to the break room, squatted in front of me, and bandaged my wound, lips pressed together in silence. His touch was gentle, but his eyes stayed on the floor.

His hands were steady, but his eyes wouldn't meet mine. I watched his sharp profile, feeling a strange ache.

I remembered when I was eighteen: I peeled a pear for Mason when he was hospitalized for appendicitis and accidentally cut my hand. The wound was tiny, barely a scratch. But he bandaged it like it was life or death, even giving up his hospital bed for me. He was so nervous back then.

He hovered over me, brow furrowed. I teased him, "If someone marries you one day, won't you spoil her rotten? Forget it, don't let anyone else have you—you should just marry me."

He pressed his lips together. "Savannah Brooks, can you be a little more reserved?" Under the light, the tips of his ears turned red. I remember thinking he looked so cute then.

Snapping back to reality, I couldn't help myself—I kissed him. It was quick, impulsive, but I didn’t regret it.

His lips were warm, surprised. He froze, eyes wide. After the kiss, I cupped his face, grinning. "As expected of the husband I chose—so attractive, no matter how I look at you."

He pushed my hand away, kept a straight face, and pinched my chin. His eyes were unreadable.

"You beat her. Are you proud?" he asked, voice low, almost tired. I shook my head, my smile fading.

Getting what you want through guilt trips isn't something to be proud of. I knew that, deep down.

He put down the first aid kit, and I grabbed his arm before he could walk away. I didn’t want the moment to end.

"Let's go eat. I have a surprise for you." My voice was light, but I was holding my breath.

He frowned, about to say something, when his phone rang. The sound made me jump.

"Mr. Whitaker, something's wrong—Grace went to the rooftop alone." I could hear the panic in the assistant’s voice.

Worry flashed across Mason's face. He didn't even look at me—he shook me off and ran to the rooftop. I was left standing there, hand outstretched.

I glanced at my empty palm. What a joke—after all this, I still ended up with nothing. It stung more than the cut on my hand.

The silence in the break room was deafening. After saving Grace, Mason didn't come home for a whole week. I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry.

There was only one week left before I left. Time was slipping through my fingers.

Grace bought tons of fake accounts online, made herself and Mason look like childhood sweethearts, and painted me as the rich homewrecker who stole love—leading people on Instagram to harass me. My phone buzzed nonstop.

The comments were brutal, the DMs worse. I stared at the screen, thumb hovering, then used my real name to like and comment under every post:

[May lovers finally become family. Wishing you happiness forever!]

My thumbs shook as I hit send. I almost dropped the phone. That night, when I checked again, every related post had been wiped from the internet. Just like that—gone.

Mason, for once, messaged me:

[There's a gala tonight. Come with me.]

Scrolling up through our chat, I realized I hadn't messaged him at all since coming back from the company. The realization hit hard.

The silence between us stretched for miles. My eyes swept over the half-empty closet. I replied:

[Busy, can't make it.]

I've really been busy. Medical aid will last two years, and the hospital has a mountain of work to hand over. It wasn’t a lie.

My desk was buried in paperwork, my suitcase only half-packed. My hands shook as I tried to organize it all. This time, he replied quickly:

[Whatever!]

Two hours later, Grace posted an Instagram story. No words—just a photo. In it, she was clinging to Mason's arm. They looked like the perfect couple. My stomach twisted.

Her smile was bright, his expression carefully blank. I dug out my diary full of entries about him and set it on fire. It felt like the only thing left to do.

The flames licked up the pages, curling the edges. I watched, mesmerized. Not paying attention, I almost started a real fire.

The smoke alarm shrieked, making my ears ring. With my face blackened by smoke, I was being scolded by firefighters when Mason rushed back after getting a call from the building manager.

He burst in, eyes wide, taking in the chaos. He looked more worried than angry, but in a house worth millions, he didn't even glance at the burnt area. He just put his hands in his pockets, leaned against the bar, and looked at me with a half-smile:

"Savannah Brooks, is there anything you can't do?"

His voice was dry, almost amused. I could tell he thought this was another one of my stunts. He never did give me the benefit of the doubt.

I wiped the ash from my nose with the back of my hand, lowered my head, and mumbled, "Sorry, I didn't mean to." My voice came out muffled, almost like a kid caught sneaking cookies.

His cold fingertips lifted my chin. I shivered.

His dark eyes were full of undercurrents. I couldn’t read him, not at all. "Did the sun rise in the west? You even know how to apologize?"