The video rolled. On the giant screen, Sharon—dressed in a red riding outfit—fisted a handful of Natalie's hair and smashed her head against a rusted pipe. Blood streamed down over Natalie's lashes, dripping like a red curtain. "You filthy bitch. You lived eighteen years of my life in luxury. You should've died, Natalie!" She slammed her head again. And again. Natalie crumpled like a rag doll. Her back was already a mess—skin split open, blood everywhere, barely recognizable as human. Yet again, Sharon lifted that crocodile-skin whip and cracked it through the air. "Go to hell!" “Ah—!” Pain tore through Natalie's body. Her scream vibrated through the speakers, raw and ragged, as she curled in on herself. She crawled forward, dragging her broken body toward the embroidered hem of Quincy's dress. "Mom… please… please save me. You raised me for eighteen years. We were mother and daughter for eighteen years. That has to mean something. I'll be good. I'll be the best daughter in the world, I swear." Blood and tears blurred her face. Quincy didn't even blink. She wrinkled her nose, took a step back, and let Natalie's fingers slip off her silk skirt. Adjusting her bracelet with cool indifference—almost annoyed by the smell of blood—Quincy said, "Natalie, if it weren't for you, our real daughter wouldn't have spent eighteen years suffering outside. If you truly cared about this family, you'd let Sharon vent." "But I'll die like this! Mom—she'll kill me!" Natalie's voice cracked in desperation. "Then die," Quincy replied, voice like ice. "If my daughter is happy, that's all that matters to me." She turned to Sharon with a gentle smile. "Sharon, there's no rush. You can beat her more later. Don't tire yourself out before our family portrait."Sharon scoffed and tossed the whip aside. “Fine. I'll finish her after the photos." She took two steps before spinning back around. "Wait—didn't I hear that salt water disinfects wounds? Bring a whole bucket of sea salt and dump it on her. She won't die from that. I want her alive. And the scars will stay. I want her to remember for the rest of her pathetic life that she was born to be my punching bag." “No! Please—no! Mom, don't let her—!" Natalie tried to crawl away, but she had nothing left. The butler pinned her easily. A bucket of salt water crashed over her shredded back. Her scream tore out of the speakers so violently that the entire audience flinched. Even watching through a screen, it was unbearable. Jensen's fists locked tight. His eyes were blown wide with horror and guilt. He remembered her exactly like that—half-dead, bleeding everywhere—when he'd found her. But the person who did that… had been Sharon?How? He ripped his arm out of Sharon's grip, his expression razor-sharp. "It was you?" “No! No, it wasn't me! That video is fake!" Sharon's voice shot up, trembling. Impossible. Absolutely impossible. There'd been no cameras in that basement. How had that bitch gotten a recording? If Jensen hated her… if the Luke family pulled their funding… the Summers were finished. She couldn't let Jensen feel anything for Natalie. Sharon jabbed a shaking finger toward Natalie. "She faked it! We never had surveillance there! She made that video to frame me and Mom!" "Yes—yes! Sharon's right!" Quincy stepped forward, eyes gleaming with venom and false righteousness. "Natalie, I treated you like a princess for eighteen years! Even after we learned you weren't our daughter, we didn't throw you out. But you kept sleeping around! We had no choice. And now you fabricate lies like this? Tell me—what did I ever do to deserve such ingratitude?" Her eyes shone with crocodile tears. People in the room turned toward Natalie. But Natalie wasn't surprised. She'd understood five years ago—Quincy had never cared about her. Not once. Now, watching Quincy throw her under the bus to protect her precious real daughter, Natalie only laughed. Cold. Sharp. "Mrs. Summers, you're right. There wasn't a camera in the basement. Not at first." She paused, letting the words settle. "But do you remember the night you went down there alone to retrieve something and slipped? No one noticed until I went looking for you. I dragged you out myself. After that, I installed a pinhole camera. Quietly. Just in case it happened again." Quincy's face drained of color. She remembered… vaguely. She'd gone to fetch something valuable, secretly, not wanting the servants to see. She'd fallen. She'd truly thought she might be stuck there till morning.And Natalie had found her. Natalie had saved her. And Natalie had always—always—been good to them. Sharon saw the flicker of guilt in her mother's eyes and seized her hand immediately. "Mom, she's lying, right? A lady like you would never go down there. She's just making up stories, right?" Quincy met Sharon's panicked gaze—and broke. “Yes. Natalie is lying. I would never go into that filthy basement. That's not a place someone like me would ever step foot in." Natalie's nails bit into her palms. The sharp pain was the only thing stopping her from shattering. What now? These two women were so shameless that even a recording of the truth meant nothing. If they wouldn't admit it—how was she supposed to prove what she lived through? Then— A man's voice cut through the tension."Is that so? Then why don't we ask your butler what really happened?" Everything seemed to freeze under the chandelier's glow. The crowd split automatically, like the sea parting. He walked through. Tall—six-foot-two—with a presence like a blade sliding free of its sheath. His brow cast a shadow over eyes dark as a midnight river. A single charming mole sat under one eye, slicing through the coldness with unsettling allure. When his gaze landed on the scars striping Natalie's bare shoulders, his throat moved in a sharp swallow that made her own chest tighten. Power clung to him like smoke. And beneath the cuff of his suit, a faded tattoo curled over his skin—danger wrapped in elegance. A stray thread brushed his lapel. He flicked it off with effortless disdain. The gesture alone made half the cameras stutter and lose focus. He was the kind of man whose contempt was more devastating than most men's affection.