Cynthia Lancaster never imagined that one day, she would meet Albert Wilson like this—with him on the brink of death, and her saving his life.

In the years since they parted ways, she had often found herself hoping things weren't going well for him. She had even cursed him, wishing he'd disappear from the earth. But now, as she stood here looking at his lifeless body, her heart couldn't muster the same hatred.

Today was the last day of his treatment. After today, his life would no longer be in danger. She could finally go back to Australia with peace of mind.

She walked into the bedroom, gently laying her youngest child down. Removing her hat and oversized sunglasses, her face appeared calm and serene, though there was a hint of sharpness in her eyes.

If you looked closely, her skin was flawless, untouched by makeup. Her features held up to scrutiny, and you'd never guess she was the mother of a four-year-old.

She removed the hat and mask from Olive's small head and pinched her chubby cheeks. Bending down, she softly whispered, "Olive, sit here and be good. Once I finish treating your uncle, we'll be on our way."

Since today was the last day, she had brought Olive along to see the man she should call "Dad." After this, they might never meet again.

She had wrapped both of them up so tightly because she didn't want anyone to recognize them and cause unnecessary trouble. After all, she and Albert had been strangers to each other for years.

"Okay, Mommy, go ahead! I'll be good," Olive's soft, childish voice responded, and Cynthia felt her heart melt.

After placing Olive on the couch in the corner, Cynthia turned to prepare the medicine. But when she returned, she found that Olive had somehow climbed onto the big bed. Cynthia couldn't help but shout, "Hey, Olive! Get down from there!"

At her sudden yell, the little girl on the bed pouted, her large, tear-filled eyes like black grapes. "Mommy, you always tell me to be a lady. So why are you yelling at me? I can hear you just fine!"

Cynthia sighed, exasperated. How was it that her daughter, at such a young age, was already so clever at arguing back? That sharpness... she definitely inherited it from a certain someone.

She knelt down, speaking softly now. "Alright, alright. Princess Olive, Mommy was wrong. I shouldn't have raised my voice. Now... will you please come down from the bed?"

"Mommy, the bed's so big! I won't squish Uncle. I'll just sit here quietly and watch. I won't disturb you!"

For some reason, little Olive was being especially stubborn today. She flat-out refused to get down, so Cynthia had no choice but to give in. Olive lay there, propping her head up with one hand, curiously watching the sleeping figure next to her.

Cynthia expertly removed the bandages from Albert Wilson's back to change his medication. His injury was to his spine—he had been on the verge of paralysis. None of the doctors had dared to take on the surgery, not even with Geraint, the boss of BlackRock, holding a gun to their heads. Nobody wanted the responsibility of paralyzing the Vice President of Wilson Industries.

He Was Her Destiny

Because of his spinal injury, Albert could only lie on his stomach. As Cynthia worked, she glanced at his pale but sharp, determined profile, and an unexpected wave of bitterness washed over her.

Someone once told her that a person only falls in love once in their life; the rest are just infatuations. And she knew—Albert was that one love. He was her destiny, her curse.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Olive's clear, bright voice, bringing her back to the present.

"Mommy, I think this uncle is more handsome than Hardy!"

"And why's that?" Cynthia asked, her tone soft. Olive was her precious gift from heaven, and she never imagined that someone as cold-hearted as her could speak so tenderly.

"Because... Olive thinks his nose looks like Olive's," the little girl said, pointing a tiny finger to tap Albert's prominent nose, her head bobbing as she spoke.

"..."

Cynthia's face fell, completely exasperated.

"Olive, are you just trying to say you think you're pretty?"

Instantly, Olive's little face scrunched up in protest, and her big eyes began to fill with tears once more.

"Aren't I pretty, Mommy? Don't you think I'm pretty?"

"Alright, alright! You're beautiful, more stunning than a goddess, prettier than all the fairy-tale princesses," Cynthia sighed, turning to grab more gauze.

A wave of sadness washed over her. Olive's nose really did come from him—high and prominent, like a finely sculpted work of art. On his face, it looked strong, while on Olive's, it added a playful charm.

"Ah! Mommy, Uncle opened his eyes!"

Olive's small voice suddenly cried out in surprise.

"What?"

Cynthia spun around in shock, only to meet a pair of slightly open eyes. The bottle in her hand fell to the floor with a clatter, and she stood there, trembling, unable to say a word.

He wasn't supposed to wake up yet—not until after today's treatment was finished. But now, what was happening?

"Mommy, Mommy, what's wrong?"

Olive, frightened by her mother's reaction, had never seen her like this before.

Albert Wilson, still in a daze, heard two voices—one big, one small—speaking near him. At first, the noise was overwhelming, but the more he listened, the more familiar one of those voices became. It sounded just like her. He fought against the dizzying fog in his mind, trying with all his strength to open his eyes.

Through his blurry vision, he saw a slender figure standing nearby. He couldn't make out her features, but something about her presence stirred something deep inside him. His heart raced, and he gasped for air, desperately trying to get a clearer look.

"Cynthia—"

He forced the name out, his voice rough, his mind shouting at him that it had to be her. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't see her clearly.

Just then, a clear, childlike voice broke through the haze.

"Uncle, are you calling my mommy? But my mommy isn't named Cynthia—Daddy calls her Kynthia."

Olive's innocent voice jolted Cynthia back to reality. She rushed forward, scooping Olive off the bed and setting her down on the carpet. Without wasting another second, she grabbed the emergency syringe she'd prepared in case something went wrong and quickly injected it into his arm.

She watched in terror as his dark eyes slowly lost focus, finally drifting shut. Only when his breathing steadied did she let out a long, shaky sigh. Hurriedly bandaging his wound, she picked Olive up and fled the room.

The image burned into her mind was the deep pain she saw in his eyes just before he unwillingly closed them.