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Chapter 9
I laughed until my voice broke, raw and ragged.
“Agnes, do you know what I told myself the moment I heard those words? Do you know what I said?”
She stared at me, eyes wide, brimming with desperate hope. “Wh–what was it?”
I looked at her face–so unchanged from the girl I once knew, yet now masked beneath layers of flawless makeup.
“I said this: I never regretted meeting you. And I was even willing to give you one last chance.”
My voice was calm.
Her entire body trembled, light flaring in her eyes, as if joy and relief had surged through her veins. But before she could speak, I
cut her off.
“But that chance is already gone. You never let go of Nicholas’s hand–not even to apologize. I waited at home after that for two
full hours. Where were you during that time?”
I pressed the call button on the bedside table. The nurse entered, and I spoke with ice in my tone.
“Please escort this woman out of my room. I don’t ever want to see her again. And hand this recording over to the police.”
“Frank, don’t… Please don’t. You need someone to care for you now. You need me!”
Her voice was frantic, but my resolve was steel.
“When you rose to fame, where were you when I drank myself into a stomach hemorrhage? When I bought us a villa to share, where were you? When I prepared to propose to you, where were you?
“Don’t forget, Agnes–this wound, too, I owe to you. So please… get out.”
My tone left no room for argument. At my insistence, the hospital security forced her from the room.
She tried to see me several times after that. I never agreed.
The footage from my miniature camera was irrefutable. Nicholas was sentenced to death.
It took me a full month to recover before I could return home.
Thankfully, the surgeon’s skill was exceptional. My arm healed better than expected. It remained fragile, but it was still
functional if I didn’t push it too hard.
The moment I stepped off the plane, I learned that Agnes was dead.
They said she killed herself after leaving the police station. According to the official report, she had watched the video of Nicholas torturing me, had listened to his frenzied accusations, and finally collapsed into despair.
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My heart no longer knew pain. Yet sometimes, when I thought of the nineteen–year–old Agnes–barefaced, radiant, smiling like Spring–I still felt a dull ache inside.
But now I had wealth. I could finally live for myself.
I sold my company and began to travel the world.
Three years later, I met a woman I could trust, someone entirely unlike Agnes. She never talked about the future; she simply lived
in the present.
The day we became a couple, a familiar fragrance of a cheap bottle of perfume drifted through the bedroom. It was the very first gift I had given to nineteen–year–old Agnes, back when I had finally earned enough to buy her something
She had treasured it, hardly daring to use it. She’d always saved it only for the most important of occasions, spraying just the
faintest touch.
That night, I never saw her. But through the whispering wind, I heard a voice.
“Frank… goodbye. I’m sorry.”
I stood at the window in stunned silence, murmuring into the night, “No matter what became of you later… the nineteen–year- old you never did anything wrong.”
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