But the woman who lived there was not me.
More than a decade of blood and violence could not withstand the gentleness laid before my eyes.
I endured it again and again, but in the end, I could not.
I cleared the portraits, lit incense, and called a subordinate.
At dawn, a gift box arrived at Samuel's desk containing Serena Rowe's severed finger.
The blood, still wet, shone crimson and blurred the glittering ring.
Samuel's eyes burned with rage.
He bound the subordinate who worked for me and dragged him to me, saying sternly, "Sophia, this is going too far."
"Serena is just a child." "Child?" Those two light words stabbed my chest like a blade. I sneered and shook my head. Our child, our Maggie, is now buried underground. Every night I miss our daughter; every night Samuel is absent, I fear enemies hunting me. I fear Samuel, who hasn't yet returned, will be in danger. I fear he will suffer the same fate as Maggie. But what about him? He holds Serena Rowe and laughs at my frantic, wounded love. I clenched my fists and croaked, "Sign the divorce papers and I'll ...
"I'll cut off her fingers, her ears, her nose."