Sophia rushed into the restroom and locked the door behind her.

She leaned against the door, her chest heaving. Her fingertips turned cold while beads of sweat formed on her palms.

In the mirror, her face was deathly pale.

She turned on the faucet, letting icy water run over her wrists. Droplets splashed onto her face—she couldn’t tell if they were water or tears.

Click, click, click.

The sharp sound of high heels approached.

The door swung open, flooding the space with overpowering perfume.

Isabella sauntered in on her stiletto heels, swaying with practiced grace. She reapplied her lipstick in the mirror, but her sidelong glances kept darting toward Sophia.

"Well, if it isn’t Sophia?" she drawled. "That dress… looks awfully familiar."

Sophia turned off the faucet and dried her hands with deliberate calm.

"Audrey designed it personally," she said, meeting Isabella’s gaze through the mirror. "What’s wrong, Isabella? Running out of original ideas?"

Isabella’s smile faltered before she forced a sugary laugh. "Some people just don’t have the presence to pull off luxury, no matter what they wear."

Sophia chuckled softly.

She turned, looking down at Isabella with cool detachment. "I’m five centimeters taller than you, my legs are three centimeters longer, and my waist is two inches slimmer." A pause. "Audrey’s taste really is superior to some people’s."

"You—!" Isabella’s lipstick snapped in her grip.

Without looking back, Sophia walked away.

Isabella’s shrill voice chased after her: "Sophia! Don’t get cocky! Ethan will be mine sooner or later!"

Sophia froze mid-step.

She turned slowly, a faint smile playing on her lips. "Isabella, you’re the first mistress I’ve met who’s so shameless about it."

The restroom door slammed shut behind her.

Sophia’s smile vanished instantly.

She took a deep breath, straightened her spine, and walked back to the ballroom.

During the cake-cutting, she stood beside Ethan, her face the picture of composure. No one noticed her nails digging into her palms.

"Have the driver take you home first," Ethan murmured beside her.

Sophia nodded obediently. "Alright."

On the way back, she had the car stop at a pharmacy.

The contraceptive pill box felt cold in her hand.

She stared at the pill for a long moment before finally swallowing it with water.

She couldn’t take the risk.

This marriage was already crumbling—she wouldn’t let a child bear the weight of its instability.

Late that night, Ethan spotted the pill box on the dresser the moment he returned.

He picked it up, his knuckles whitening.

The phone’s ringtone pierced the silence.

"Ethan? It’s the middle of the night—"

"If a woman refuses to have a child," Ethan’s voice was hoarse, "does that mean…"

"It means she doesn’t love the man at all," Oliver yawned. "Isn’t that obvious?"

The call ended abruptly.

A crystal glass shattered in Ethan’s grip, dark red liquid mixing with blood as it stained the carpet.

Sophia jolted awake at the noise.

She grabbed the first-aid kit and hurried downstairs—only to hear Ethan’s furious roar:

"Useless! You can’t even find one person?"

"Isabella’s hand won’t go unavenged!"

Sophia stood rooted to the spot.

The first-aid kit thudded to the floor.

She turned and walked back upstairs, each step like walking on knives.

Ethan’s voice carried after her: "Have you caught Scarlet yet?"

Sophia closed her eyes.

So in his heart, Isabella would always come first.