Chapter 2

Old Godfather Paddy was overjoyed. For the first time, when he spoke to me, there was a smile in his voice.

“As long as you leave, Byron will finally put his mind at ease and come back to take full control of the family—no more wasting his time studying those useless medical books for your sake.”

“I’ll have the divorce agreement delivered right away. In a month, we’ll arrange for you to go to a rehabilitation center in Europe.”

Not long after, Paddy’s butler arrived and handed me a document.

I signed without hesitation.

The next day, after yet another so-called innovative therapy arranged by Arin, I was bedridden for three days.

My entire leg swelled up like a steamed bun. Byron massaged it carefully for three full hours before sensation finally returned.

But the moment he left, Arin pushed the door open and walked in.

She ground her teeth, her voice sharp with jealousy.

“Byron rubbed your feet—feeling pretty smug about that, aren’t you?”

Her eyes were bloodshot with rage as she turned the room upside down, searching for something.

A flicker of unease rose in my chest. I asked, my voice trembling,

“What are you trying to do?”

She ignored me completely.

In one hand, she held a thick syringe filled with silvery liquid and a scalpel.

In the other, a hammer.

She looked deranged.

“Today, I’m going to teach you a lesson you won’t forget, you bitch.”

My lower body was half-paralyzed. I couldn’t move at all.

Like a fish laid out on a chopping board.

She stabbed me repeatedly with the thick needle until blood soaked the sheets, then dragged the scalpel across my body, carving wound after wound.

Finally, she raised the hammer, aimed at my freshly de-swollen foot—

—and brought it down with full force.

The pain overwhelmed me instantly, and I blacked out.

When I woke again, my wounds had already been treated. My right foot was encased in plaster.

Byron stood by the bed as always, waiting—but his face was dark and tense.

Before I could speak, he handed me a settlement agreement.

“Arin went a bit too far today,” he said coolly, “but she’s young—too willful. You’re her sister-in-law, and you’re also the Godmother. You should be more understanding.”

“She was taken to the police station because of you. She’s timid—I need to get her out as soon as possible.”

It felt like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over my head, chilling me straight to the bone.

I stared at him in a daze.

I wanted him to see my injuries.

To understand that Arin’s so-called timidity was nothing compared to the pain covering my entire body.

But he failed to read the brokenness in my eyes and took my silence as refusal.

He called out directly,

“Jack—hold her down and make her sign.”

Jack stepped forward, grabbed my hand, and bent it back viciously.

Then, clutching my already broken fingers, he forced my hand to sign my name on the agreement.

Byron frowned in displeasure.

“Arin was right about you—you really are undisciplined. Refusing treatment and getting her arrested.”

I looked up at him in disbelief.

He knew perfectly well that my injuries were caused by Arin—yet he still chose to cover for her.

I screamed uncontrollably,

“It was clearly you two—!”

“Enough!” Byron cut me off coldly. “Eunice, slandering others like this isn’t becoming of a Godmother. Jack—carry out family punishment.”

Jack grabbed me and struck my face hard.

One slap.

Then a second.

A third.

Just as the fourth was about to land—

Byron raised his hand and stopped him.

He gently cupped my face with both hands, his old tenderness returning as if nothing had happened.

“Eunice, I’ve told you before—you’re the Godmother now. You can’t act so recklessly anymore. Let this be a lesson.”

“Consider it an apology to Arin.”

He placed a light kiss on my swollen cheek and let out a helpless sigh.

“I’ll go check on Arin now. That girl must be badly frightened.”

He left in a hurry, never noticing the icy stillness in my eyes.

With the sound of the door closing, my heart delivered the final verdict on our relationship.

Byron, we’re finished.

I spent another three days in intensive care.

After I was discharged, Arin sent me a message.

[Byron said he’s throwing me a birthday party—and you’re invited too.]

[You have to come. We’ve prepared a surprise for you.]

On the day of the party, Byron personally dressed me in a gown, fastened the family heirloom bracelet around my wrist, and even trimmed my uneven hair himself.

To outsiders, it would look as though the Godfather deeply loved his Godmother.

But what I saw was the photo Arin posted on Instagram.

Her gown had been custom-made by a master designer a year ago—commissioned by Byron himself.

The jewelry covering her body was worth at least ten times more than mine.

Byron had a wheelchair brought over and bent down, intending to lift me up.

I instinctively struggled.

For once, he was uncharacteristically firm.

During the struggle, the wedding ring on my ring finger slipped off, clinking as it rolled across the floor and disappeared into the hallway drain.

The sound felt like it smashed straight into my heart, and tears burst from my eyes.

That ring—from the materials to the craftsmanship—had been chosen by Byron himself.

It was proof of the love he once claimed to have for me.

Yet Byron didn’t even turn his head.

“Hurry up. Arin’s been waiting.”

So in his heart, even the symbol of our marriage was worth less than a few seconds of Arin’s impatience.

Bitterness flooded my chest. I no longer had the strength to resist.

Soon, we reached the banquet hall.

There were a few steps at the entrance. The wheelchair couldn’t go up.

Byron bent down to lift me again—

—but the moment he heard Arin’s voice, he froze.

“Byron! It’s my birthday today. How can you hold someone else?”

“They’re such low steps—why can’t she just crawl up by herself?”