Shards of glass littered the ground, refracting blinding sunlight.

The construction worker's eyes widened as he pointed at the fragments. "You owe me for that window!"

Victor Sullivan grimaced in pain, gesturing to his ruined designer loafers. "You owe me for these shoes!"

"You walked right into it!" The worker grabbed his sleeve. "Now I have to recut the glass and delay the client's installation. Can you take that responsibility?"

Victor shook him off, limping toward his car.

His driver scrambled to open the door.

"Stop right there!" The worker chased after him. "Think you can skip out just because you're dressed fancy?"

Victor whirled around, hand raised to strike.

"Mr. Sullivan!" The driver intervened hastily. "Think of the company's reputation."

Clenching his jaw at the thought of his business empire, Victor yanked out his wallet and flung several bills. "Get lost!"

The worker counted the money and protested, "This isn't enough!"

Victor threw two more bills before slamming the car door shut.

Inside, he examined his injured foot—bruised, swollen, and bleeding. The burn on his face stung fiercely beneath its glossy ointment.

"Devil's own luck today," he muttered through gritted teeth.

His phone rang. Theodore Valentine's voice exploded through the receiver: "Isabella's being discharged, and not a single Sullivan shows up?"

"I offered compensation. You refused it."

"How dare you put a price on my daughter's innocence?"

Rubbing his temple, Victor countered, "Adrian's willing to take responsibility. Isabella's the one who declined."

"Then have Ethan marry her!"

"Impossible." Victor's tone turned glacial. "That ended long ago."

Something shattered on the other end. "This isn't over, Victor!"

The call ended with Victor's expression darkening like gathering storm clouds.

Returning to Sullivan Manor, he froze at the sight of Theodore and Isabella waiting at the gates. The young woman sat slumped in a wheelchair, her vacant eyes accentuated by a lurid forehead scar.

"What happened to—"

"Don't play dumb," Theodore sneered. "Post-accident complications. The doctors suggested celebratory stimulation for recovery."

Victor's stomach dropped. They were trying to dump their problem on his family.

Over tea in the parlor, Theodore elaborated, "The physicians recommended joyful surprises to trigger her healing."

"A marriage cure?" Victor nearly laughed. "What century is this?"

"Ask her specialist yourself."

Victor smirked inwardly. This wasn't about healing—it was a ploy to trap Ethan. He called both sons immediately.

Meanwhile, Ethan Sullivan stood at a jewelry counter selecting a diamond ring. Imagining Sophia Laurent's delighted expression, his lips curved unconsciously.

"Sir, this is our newest proposal design," the sales associate offered eagerly.

Ethan shook his head. "I need a custom piece. At least ten carats."

His father's call interrupted the moment. After hanging up, he cast a longing glance at the display before leaving.

One step into the manor's parlor, Ethan understood everything. He paused at the threshold, his icy gaze sweeping over Isabella's wheelchair.

"You summoned me for this?"

Victor rubbed his hands. "Isabella needs—"

"Why don't you marry her yourself?" Ethan's laugh was razor-sharp. "Weren't you two always kindred spirits?"

Victor's face drained of color. Theodore's teacup shattered against the floor, spraying tea everywhere.