Chapter 2

"No... You're lying. I even bought a stuffed bear for our daughter. She'd have loved it—such a cute little bear."

Connor's voice trembled as his gaze locked onto Iris.

"Our daughter is still here, isn't she? Tell me you're lying, Iris…"

"Enough!"

Iris closed her eyes, a single tear slipping down her pale cheek. Her voice was ice-cold, sharp as frost, slicing through the air and chilling Connor to his core.

"It's true. Our daughter is gone. I'm sorry, Connor."

"No..."

Connor crumpled to the floor, his eyes bloodshot, his body shaking like a broken machine. His trembling fingers dug into his flesh, his nails pressing so hard into his palms that blood began to seep through his clenched fists.

His daughter—his precious, innocent daughter—had never even had a chance to take her first breath. And now she was gone.

Across the room, the entire Goldwyn family watched, sneering. Not a trace of sympathy lingered in their eyes, only contempt and disdain.

"Why?" Connor's voice cracked into a hoarse roar, echoing with the anguish of a wounded animal.

"I'll tell you why," Sandra said, stepping closer and towering over him with a smug superiority.

"This is the peak of Iris's career. If she had gone through with the pregnancy, it would've ruined everything she worked for."

Her lips curled into a smile as cold as the devil's.

"That child was a burden, just like you. Another obstacle to Iris's success. So we made sure to get rid of it. And yes, it was me who took her to the clinic."

Minutes passed. Connor finally pushed himself off the floor, his face eerily calm, his eyes hollow, as if all warmth had been drained from him.

He walked over to the divorce agreement, picked up a pen, and signed his name with cold, precise strokes.

Then, without a word, he bent down to retrieve the fallen stuffed bear, cradling it in his arms as though it were his entire world.

Watching him, Iris felt a pang of guilt twist inside her chest. "Connor, I can compensate you," she offered softly. "Take anything you want from the house. If it's money you need…"

She pulled out a checkbook and held it toward him. "Write whatever amount you want."

"Iris, what are you saying?" Sandra snapped. "Our family worked hard for everything in this house! This loser doesn't deserve a damn thing! We've already done more than enough for him, feeding and housing him for three years. He doesn't deserve a cent more!"

"Mom, stop it." Iris frowned but couldn't silence her mother's tirade.

Connor shook his head. His voice was flat, stripped of any emotion. "I don't want your money. I don't want your things. I just want the clothes from the wardrobe."

Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked into the bedroom. The wardrobe was stuffed with tiny garments—each one carefully handmade by Connor himself, each stitch a labor of love for the daughter he had dreamed of holding.

He bundled the clothes together with the stuffed bear, wrapping them in a bedsheet and slinging the makeshift bundle over his back.

Before leaving, his turned his gaze on the exquisite pendant hanging around Iris's neck.

"That pendant is mine. Give it back."

Without hesitation, Iris removed it and handed it to him.

Reaching into his pocket, Connor pulled out a document. "This was meant to be my anniversary gift to you," he said quietly, tossing the paper onto the floor. "A contract with Drakhar Inc. But it no longer matters."

Turning on his heel, he walked toward the door, his steps heavy, as though each one dragged the weight of his broken soul.

"Mom, doesn't he look just like a stray dog with its tail between its legs?" Michael sneered.

"Exactly like one!" Sandra laughed loudly.

Just as Connor reached the door, he stopped. He turned suddenly, his gaze sweeping over each member of the Goldwyn family before finally resting on Iris.

"I'll remember this," he said, his voice low and unwavering. "You will regret this. I will make sure my daughter's injustice is avenged."

His eyes, cold as steel, blazed with determination—a fire so fierce it made Iris's heart involuntarily skip a beat.

"Ha! Regret?" Sandra scoffed. "That bastard dares to threaten us? What a joke. I've never been happier in my life!"

Michael bent down and picked up the discarded document. His eyes widened as he read the title.

"A contract with Drakhar Inc?"

"Drakhar Inc?"

The name hit Iris and Kurt like a bolt of shock and surprise.

Drakhar Inc was one of the top conglomerates in Vaelwyn city. Recently, they had launched a series of multi-billion-dollar projects in Abnerhaven. Companies across Abnerhaven were vying desperately for a chance to collaborate with them.

For Iris, divorcing Connor had been the first step toward a more lucrative future, one that could lead her to Drakhar Inc.

"It's fake," Kurt scoffed, barely glancing at the contract. "Iris, your useless husband sure knows how to put on a show. He's even forging contracts now."

Iris's brow furrowed, her eyes narrowing. Was this Connor's so-called gift? A fake contract to win her favor?

The guilt she'd felt about pushing for the divorce evaporated in an instant. Now, it seemed her decision had been the right one after all.

"Iris, now that you're divorced, everything will fall into place. I'll start by getting you into the Vaelwyn Circle." Kurt adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, his air of wealth practically radiating from him.

"The Vaelwyn Circle!" Iris's family perked up at the mention, their eyes lighting with eager anticipation.

The Vaelwyn Circle was an exclusive private organization, chaired by none other than Christina Astor, the celebrated heiress of the Astor family. Drakhar Inc was, after all, part of the Astor family empire, and Christina personally oversaw the billion-dollar projects in Abnerhaven.

Membership in the Vaelwyn Circle was a mark of unmatched status and influence. But perhaps the most important requirement for entry? Singlehood—one of the primary reasons Iris had pushed for the divorce.

"Kurt, you're so thoughtful," Bobby said smoothly, his tone laced with flattery. "As the heir to Celestmere Corporation, your connections are priceless. With your help, Iris's career will soar."

"Exactly!" Michael added, his voice dripping with praise. "Kurt is lightyears ahead of that useless Connor. If Iris had married you instead, she'd already be the wealthiest woman in Abnerhaven!"

"You flatter me," Kurt said modestly, though the satisfied smirk tugging at his lips betrayed his true feelings.

His gaze wandered across the room, landing on a framed piece of calligraphy hanging in the corner. He moved closer, his casual interest shifting into genuine admiration.

"This is exquisite," he murmured, his fingers lightly brushing the frame.

Michael scoffed. "That piece of crap? What does it even say? Toss it out—it's just bad luck hanging there in our living room."

"No, wait. It's 'Spring's Grace'!" Kurt's voice sharpened, his eyes lighting up as he studied the calligraphy.

As his gaze dropped to the signature, his expression shifted. "This... this is Lior Everhart's work!"

"Lior Everhart?" Bobby asked, confused.

Kurt nodded, his tone serious. "Lior Everhart is a reclusive calligraphy expert right here in Abnerhaven," he explained, but seeing the blank stares around him, he simplified. "His pieces go for 150,000 dollars per word at the current market rate."

"What?"

Sandra stared in disbelief, her jaw hanging open. Bobby froze mid-sip, his tea trembling in his hand. Even Iris lost her composure, her surprise obvious.

"Kurt, you're kidding, right?" Iris asked after a moment, clearly stunned.

"Not even close," Kurt replied firmly. "My dad's the vice-chairman of the Abnerhaven Calligraphy Association, and I'm a member too. Lior Everhart's pieces are rare gems. Just a few days ago, a businessman from Grandspire city spent 300,000 dollars on one of his works, and it only had two words! That means each word was worth 150,000 dollars."

He paused, taking in the enormity of it. "How on earth does your family have an authentic piece by Lior Everhart?"

For a long moment, silence hung thick in the air. Then Iris, her voice soft and dazed, spoke the words that made the room colder still.

"This… this was written by Connor."