Third Person's POV
As night fell, Emily simply dressed and headed to the restaurant designated by Richard.
It was a self-operated restaurant in a seven-star hotel. Though reluctant, she didn't dare to defy Richard.
On the way, she pictured the man as a cynical playboy. Enduring a meal with him would be tolerable. After all, she despised heartless rich men, none of whom compared to Blake in her eyes.
Pushing open the restaurant door, all her assumptions crumbled—a middle-aged man sat there, slightly overweight, balding, with yellowed, decayed teeth from years of smoking.
Emily froze. What was Richard thinking?
"Miss Chavez? You're even prettier in person!" The man grinned, his yellow teeth making Emily almost gag.
"Are you Mr. Waleri?" Before coming, she'd researched him—an ex-politician turned businessman with decent success, but his family's complex and scandalous relations were well-known.
Baldwin shrugged. "That's me. Sit down."
His tone was arrogant, utterly lacking in gentlemanly grace.
Emily wanted to turn and leave, but recalling her father's warning, she sat down and forced a smile. "I've heard so much about you, Mr. Waleri. It's an honor to meet you."
"Likewise," Baldwin's gaze swept over her, and he smiled with satisfaction.
Emily stifled her rising nausea, accepted the wine he offered, clinked glasses, and downed it in one gulp.
Minutes later, her vision blurred, and her head spun—she'd been drugged.
"You..." she glared at Baldwin.
He smiled smugly. "Richard knows you well. Miss Chavez, didn't your father tell you that you belong to me tonight?"
Emily was stunned—had Richard sold her?
Baldwin stepped closer, the stench of cigarettes overwhelming. "Join me, and better days await. I just divorced my wife. I'll treat you well... Such tender skin, youth is a gift..."
Before losing consciousness, Emily hated so intensely she wanted to bash her head in, yet she lacked even the strength to take her own life.
When she came to, she was in a hotel room, barely clothed on a sofa. Her mind was blank, her blood seemed to freeze.
Her dress lay scattered on the floor, and her mouth was filled with the repulsive taste of smoke.
She rushed to the bathroom, inducing vomiting until her stomach cramped, but the overwhelming shame lingered.
Emily, a girl who valued chastity, had remained single for years.
Now, her body felt numb, and she was consumed by self-loathing, wanting to jump from the building to end it all.
After vomiting for a long while in the bathroom, her stomach cramped with no relief.
Tears blurred her vision as despair enveloped her in gray.
She never imagined she'd sink so low—once she thought that even if she couldn't marry Blake, countless handsome, wealthy men would line up to propose. With a nod from her, a fairytale marriage would be hers.
But now, the dream had shattered. This agony was more suffocating than a knife wound.
It was Richard!
The foster father she'd trusted and relied on—she'd believed that despite no blood ties, their father-daughter bond would keep her safe.
How ironic now—he'd thrown her into the abyss to be ravaged.
There was no greater calamity than this.
Her body ached, but the pain paled compared to the wound in her heart.
Her phone rang—Richard.
She stared at it, then strode over, grabbed it, and smashed it against the wall.
The screen cracked like a spiderweb, parts scattering. "Why? Wasn't I loyal enough? Why did you do this to me?"
Covering her face, Emily squatted on the floor, her cries filled with hatred.
After her tears dried, she gradually calmed.
Her tragic fate might just be beginning—since Richard had handed her to Baldwin once, there would be a second, a third time. In his eyes, she was nothing but a tradable commodity.
But the survival instinct ingrained in her since childhood as an orphan quickly built a wall around her heart—whoever hurt her would face her revenge, even Richard.
Emily gathered the scattered clothes and dressed piece by piece.
The bruises on her neck and arms made her gag, but she bit down hard.
Back home, she curled up on the sofa—she knew Richard would call again. That cold, merciless man would never let her go.
She turned on the computer and found the cherished video. It showed seventeen-or-eighteen-year-old Blake, in a white T-shirt, riding a bicycle down a grassy path, sunlight outlining his handsome face.
"Blake, look back at me!" her silvery voice from the video rang out. Back then, even her voice exuded pure joy.
The young boy stopped his bike and lazily turned around. His voice, in the midst of puberty, was as clear as a spring, "What are you recording?"
"You, of course! You're much more beautiful than the scenery!" the girl laughed as she ran closer, the lens capturing his flustered attempt to cover his face.
Next were several surreptitiously filmed clips—her at thirteen, reading on the balcony as the camera stealthily zoomed in on his long lashes; another time after she took a knife for him, feeding him water with a look of self - reproach that shook the heart.
Emily watched these scenes over and over, as if clutching the last strand of light in the darkness.
She remembered when Blake had asked why she always filmed him. She'd said it was to preserve beautiful memories. Now, these videos were the proof she was still alive.
"Blake, he's a bad man, you were right..." she murmured, "I'm sorry I once helped him hurt you, but I will atone, I will."