Flowers fall, love and hate are balanced.

Andrea was the very model of a Capital City heiress—disciplined, proper, flawless.

But in this moment, she was lost in her husband’s relentless rhythm.

Under the warm canopy of their curtained bed, Andrea’s eyes, hazy with pleasure, gazed up adoringly at William as he moved above her with a low groan. In the final instant, he raised his hands and covered her eyes.

His whisper brushed her ear. “Be good. Give it to me.”

Blushing, Andrea arched her back higher, offering herself to him completely.

The next moment, a dagger plunged straight into her chest.

William’s murmur turned vicious. “Be good! This time, give me your heart!”

It was the eighth wound he had inflicted for Sandra’s sake.

“Andrea, this is what you owe her. You have to bear it.”

The haze in Andrea’s eyes vanished. She turned her face away, listening numbly to the flurry of movement in the room, her lowered gaze hollow with despair.

Her voice came out flat. “Is that so? Then my debt is paid.”

Whether it was the life he saved ten years ago, or the tangled disgrace from three.

A decade past, during a city festival, William had rescued Andrea from a kidnapper’s grasp. Still a youth then, he’d been impatient with the little girl’s tears, yet he held her close, his voice gruff but steady. From that day, William was etched into Andrea’s heart. She watched him from afar at banquets, never daring to speak—because Sandra was always at his side.

She saw him pick flowers for Sandra, tuck them into her hair. She saw him keep vigil all night in the Sanctum, praying for her protection. She saw him fly into a rage for Sandra’s sake, offend Prince Logan, and suffer injuries that kept him abed for half a year.

Then, three years ago, a drugged William pulled a passing Andrea into a room.

The girl’s secret longing was laid bare before the world.

Everyone said the young miss of Andrea’s Family Estate was lovesick and desperate, that she’d used a vile trick to climb into the bed of the newly-engaged young marquis—forcing him to break his childhood promise and marry her instead.

Even William believed it. He despised her utterly.

So when Sandra collapsed, vomiting blood, during their betrothal ceremony, William drove a sword into Andrea’s chest without hesitation. A revered Sanctum seer had declared it her punishment for stealing another’s destined match; only a medicine from her heart’s blood could break the curse.

And Andrea accepted it. Though none of it was her doing, the secret joy in her heart filled her with guilt.

She thought one sword thrust had settled the debt. She never imagined it was only the beginning.

Then came the second, on their wedding night. The third, at the Mid-Autumn banquet… up to this, the eighth.

“Young Miss…”

Her maid Layla’s voice, choked with tears, sounded in Andrea’s ear.

Andrea turned her head, offering a smile uglier than any sob. “Tomorrow at the palace, I