If she couldn't gather the money in three days…
Isabella didn't dare finish the thought.
She had already lost almost everything—her pride, her home, her engagement. If her mother's life ended because she couldn't pay a bill…
She might truly do something irreversible.
She closed her eyes and forced her breathing to steady.
You can't fall apart now. No one will save you. You're all you have left.
She wiped her eyes, squared her shoulders, and raised her hand again. Her knuckles had barely grazed the study door when her father's voice shot out, sharp and livid.
"What now?!"
She pushed the door open. This time, she didn't bow her head like a scolded child. She stood tall, meeting his glare without flinching.
"I'm here to take the deed for my florist shop," she said, each word cold and deliberate. "It belongs to me. I kept it in the safe in the study. Please hand it over, Mr. Cruz."
She didn't even call him Father anymore.
Ever since Chloe stepped into their house, she had watched piece after piece of her life disappear—quietly, shamelessly.
Before her mother fell ill, Ethan had at least maintained an appearance of being a husband, a father, a decent man. But once Serena lost the ability to stand up to him, he revealed himself fully—weak, selfish, eager to hand the family over to the woman who flattered him most.
Her shop had been her one refuge. The only thing left that belonged solely to her mother's side of the family.
If she sold it, she could pay for Serena's treatment, find a small apartment, and cut ties with everyone here.
She and her mother could finally breathe again.
That was her entire plan.
Her only path forward.
But—
"Your florist shop?" Ethan snorted. "Who told you it belonged to you?"
The floor seemed to shift under her for a moment.
But Ethan wasn't finished. He even seemed to enjoy the shock on her face.
"If you must know," he said proudly, "the deed is gone. I mortgaged it to a partner company already. It's only a tiny 180 square-meter shop. What do you even want it for?"
Her heart cracked open slowly, painfully, like a door she'd held shut for too long.
He stepped forward to close the study door, eager to be rid of her.
But the door didn't shut.
He looked down.
Her fingers—bleeding, pressed flat against the wood—held the door open.
She didn't even flinch.
Her eyes burned with something fierce and raw. b"My mother left that shop to me," she whispered, her voice trembling with anger. "What right do you have to mortgage it?"
Memories crammed into her mind—
Her grandmother secretly gifted Serena the shop after she was cast out of the Valente family…
Her mother was tending flowers inside it because she missed home so desperately…
The way she had refused to sell it even when they no longer needed the money…
The quiet happiness it brought her mother in a life that became harder and harder.
That shop was never meant for Lan Ethan.
It was never his to take.
But he folded his arms and gave a cold, dismissive laugh.
"Your mother? Hah. She's been lying in bed for years. She doesn't get to decide anything anymore. And neither do you."
His words stabbed into her like shards of glass.
The man she once called father stood there looking at her as if she were a stranger who had inconvenienced him.
A burden.
A jinx.
A money-losing thing.
Her fingers trembled against the door—but she still refused to let go.
Because the florist shop wasn't just real estate.
It was her mother's pride.
Her grandmother's love.
Her childhood.
A place full of memories that no amount of money could replace.
And he had sold it like it was nothing.
Isabella's mother had always been a proud woman. Even after being paralyzed, she had insisted that no one outside the Cruz family learn about her condition.
She was terrified that her own mother—the formidable head of the Valente family—would hear of her state and worry herself sick.
Even more than that, she feared the Valente family would come pointing fingers, saying, "See? You abandoned us for this man. Look at where it has gotten you."
Serena had never been one to accept pity.
But now…
Ethan had taken her last possession—their last possession—and mortgaged it behind their backs?
The anger that surged through Isabella was something she hadn't felt in years.
"Why shouldn't I mortgage it?" Ethan snapped. "I'm still legally married to Serena. Her property is mine to deal with. The contract has already been signed—you're too late."
His tone was so casual, so dismissive, that for a moment she wondered if he even realized whose heart he was crushing.
For most of her childhood, she had never thought deeply about her father. He was there, but not present.
He rarely held her, rarely scolded her, rarely praised her.
She had grown up under her mother's gentle love, and she had convinced herself that some fathers were simply introverted.
She believed—naively—that somewhere beneath his aloofness, her father cared.
But when Chloe stepped into the Cruz family and brought Vanessa along… every illusion she had cracked apart.
"Ethan Cruz!" Her voice rose uncontrollably. "My mother is lying in a hospital bed right now, fighting for her life. She needs money urgently. How can you do this to us? How can you do this to her?"
Her body trembled, not with fear, but with a fury that burned straight through her bones.
Ethan stiffened. He hadn't expected her to argue—not today, not ever. His face contorted in rage, and he raised a hand to strike her.
She didn't move.
She simply stared back at him with cold, unblinking eyes, the same way her mother once had.
But before his hand could fall—
A calm, unfamiliar voice spoke from inside the study. "Mr. Cruz, it appears I've walked in at an inconvenient moment."
Everything froze.
Ethan's arm hung awkwardly in the air before he forced it down. Then he turned, plastering a sycophantic smile onto his face so quickly it made Isabella want to laugh.
"No, no—of course not! Mr. Han, you may come anytime. It's always an honor for Steele's Group to visit."
The tall foreign man stepped out of the study, his expression polite but distant.
"The transfer procedures are complete," Steve Han said. "From today on, the two-story florist shop on No. 99 Street is officially under Steele's Group's name. Though the process was… messy"—his eyes flicked toward Ethan—"the result is acceptable. I'll hand the contract to our president personally."
He extended his hand. Ethan rushed to grab it with both of his.
Isabella's chest tightened.
The shop wasn't just mortgaged—it was gone.
Sold.
Transferred.
And Taken.
Steve Han turned. For just one second, his gaze brushed over Isabella, and then he nodded politely and left the villa.
Ethan hurried after him, bowing and scraping in a way he had never done for his own family.
The moment he stepped outside, Isabella quietly slipped out the back door, circling around the villa until she spotted the sleek black car parked near the street.
Her breath caught.
She quickened her pace.
The back window of the car slid down with a soft hum.
Inside sat Victor Steele with a lazy expression as if he was mocking her.
"Well, Miss Cruz," he drawled, tapping his fingers against the car door, "you are certainly a busy woman. One must wait an awfully long time to receive a phone call from you."
Heat shot straight to her cheeks.
She had been so overwhelmed earlier—her mother, Brandon, the hospital bills—she had completely forgotten about the one call she was supposed to make.
She checked her watch.
4:30 PM.
She had missed his 3 o'clock deadline by more than an hour.
She lowered her gaze, embarrassed. "I…I'm very sorry. I didn't mean to forget, I just—"
Her voice trailed off.
Because his eyes had narrowed.
And that smirk had vanished.
What replaced it… was a look that made her stomach drop.