“Lola, marriage is the most important decision of your life. I won’t let you throw it away,” Jessica said, her voice trembling. She knew exactly why her daughter had agreed to this—it was a ransom for their freedom.

Dolores busied herself with the food, setting it on the bedside table and handing a portion to her mother. “It’s not like I’m marrying a stranger, Mom. He’s your best friend’s son.”

“She’s been gone for years. I know nothing about the man he’s become,” Jessica argued. “Even if it means breaking a dead woman’s promise, I’d rather you marry for love. Please, don’t use your life as a bargaining chip. I’d rather stay in this hospital forever.”

Someone I love? Dolores thought, her gaze dropping to the floor. Even if she met someone in the future, she felt she no longer had the "right" to a clean, simple love. That bridge had been burned the night she sold herself in that hotel room.

It didn't matter who the groom was. What mattered was reclaiming every cent her father had stolen from them.

Jessica couldn't sway her daughter’s iron will. The next day, they touched down in their home country.

The air was familiar, but the welcome was cold. Randolph, disgusted by their presence, refused to let them step foot inside the main Flores estate. Instead, he tucked them away in a small rented house nearby. Dolores didn't mind; she had no desire to see the woman who had dismantled her mother’s life. It was a mercy to stay away from that house of lies.

Still, Jessica’s anxiety gnawed at her. “Lola, if this were truly a 'good' marriage, they wouldn't have handed the opportunity to you on a silver platter, friendship or not.”

Dolores cut her off, her voice weary. “Mom, please. Just eat something.”

Jessica sighed and went silent. She knew Dolores was sacrificing her future for the sake of the family, and the guilt was a heavy weight in the room.

Dolores picked up a fork but only pushed the food around her plate. The very thought of her father turned her stomach.

“Are you feeling alright?” Jessica asked, noticing her daughter’s pale complexion.

“Just jet lag,” Dolores lied, forcing a smile before retreating to her room.

Once the door was shut, she leaned her head against the cool wood and placed a trembling hand on her stomach. She had watched her mother go through pregnancy; she knew the signs. The sudden nausea, the total loss of appetite—it was exactly what she was experiencing now.

It had been a month since that night in the hotel, and her period was nearly two weeks late. She didn't want to think about it. That night was a scar she wanted to hide, a humiliation she had endured only for her mother and her dying brother.

“You’re pregnant. About six weeks along.”

The doctor’s words from her secret clinic visit echoed in her skull. She was paralyzed by a whirlwind of emotions—shame, frustration, and a strange, terrifying spark of instinct. Should I keep it? Should I end it? Her hand rubbed her belly almost unconsciously. Despite the circumstances of its conception, the thought of being a mother brought a flicker of hope into her hollow world.

Later that afternoon, Dolores hid the ultrasound photo in a drawer just as Randolph burst into the house. Her mood soured instantly at the sight of him. He looked impatient, as if her existence was an inconvenience he was forced to tolerate.

“Go change your clothes,” he ordered coldly.

Dolores frowned. “Why?”

“You’re marrying the heir of the Nelson family. You have to meet him eventually.” He looked her up and down with blatant disdain. “Are you planning to wear those rags and embarrass me in front of them?”

The words stung. Dolores wondered why she could still feel pain after everything she’d been through. He had exiled them to poverty, ignored her pleas for help while her brother was dying, and now he had the audacity to mock her clothes?

She clenched her fists. For a split second, Randolph seemed to realize he’d crossed a line, and he turned away. “Let’s go. The Nelsons are waiting. We can't be late.”

“Lola…” Jessica called out, her eyes full of fear. She didn't want the money anymore; she just wanted her daughter safe from the complicated, shark-infested waters of the elite.

“I’ll be fine, Mom,” Dolores whispered, giving her a reassuring look.

“We’re leaving!” Randolph barked, giving her a small, impatient push toward the door. Any bond they might have had had withered into ash over the last eight years.

Since she was meeting the Nelsons, Randolph stopped at an upscale boutique to find her something "presentable." He pushed her inside and grunted at a salesperson, “Find her something she can wear.”

The salesperson gauged Dolores’s thin frame with a judgmental eye. “Follow me.” She handed Dolores a long, light blue dress. “Try this on in the changing room.”

As Dolores headed toward the stalls, she heard a muffled, emotional voice from a nearby room.

“Matthew... must you really marry that girl from the Flores family?”

The mention of her family name made Dolores freeze. Through a small gap in the VIP suite door, she saw a woman with her arms draped around a man’s neck.

“Can you not just marry me instead?” the woman pleaded.

Matthew Nelson looked at the woman—Helen White—with a flash of helplessness. This marriage had been his late mother’s final wish, and he couldn't bring himself to betray it. But he also felt a heavy debt to Helen.

“Did it hurt... that night?” Matthew asked softly.

A month ago, while investigating a case in a developing country, Matthew had been bitten by a snake whose venom acted as a lethal aphrodisiac. Without "venting" the heat, he would have died. He believed Helen had been the one to save him that night.

He remembered how intense and uncontrolled he had been. He’d heard that a woman’s first time was painful, and in his fevered state, he hadn't been gentle. He remembered the woman trembling in his arms, the silent endurance of her pain, and the blood on the sheets the next morning.

Helen leaned her head against his chest, letting out a soft, shy moan. She had been Matthew’s secretary for years and was head over heels for him. She wasn't a virgin, but she knew Matthew valued tradition. That night, she had found a local girl—a virgin in desperate need of money—and paid her to take her place in the dark. After the girl fled, Helen had slipped into the bed to claim the credit.

“If you like the clothes here, buy whatever you want,” Matthew said, stroking her hair.

“That’s the VIP area. You can't go in there!”

The salesperson’s sharp voice snapped Dolores back to reality. The woman chided her for lingering near the VIP lounge and pointed her toward the standard rooms on the right.

Dolores ducked into the smaller changing room, her heart racing. Matthew? The man in the room was Matthew Nelson?

The man she was supposed to marry... was the same man from that night in the hotel?