How did she even survive it all? What kind of hell had she endured—how much pain, how much agony—to withstand that kind of relentless abuse and violence?

The more Jamison thought about it, the more mysterious the woman before him became. There was something about her—an aura that drew him in, tempting him to dig deeper, to uncover the truth behind those eyes.

He found himself staring for so long his eyes started to sting, and he blinked instinctively, finally snapping out of his reverie. As his gaze dropped, he noticed her hand, trembling slightly without her even realizing it.

His expression darkened. Without thinking, he reached out and slid his hand into hers, gently clasping her small, shaking fingers with his own.

Her hand was warm, soft, almost delicate—a beautiful hand, pale and graceful. But the way it trembled unsettled him. Why was she shaking like this?

Perplexed, Jamison began to massage her fingers, kneading them carefully as if to coax the tension from her bones.

The movement woke Ivy. She blinked herself awake, and their eyes met. Only then did Jamison realize he was still holding her hand. A flush crept up his cheeks.

“Uh—your hand was cramping. I just wanted to help you relax.” He hurried to explain, not wanting her to get the wrong idea. Even as he spoke, he quickly plucked two slender silver needles from her forearm. Maybe it was the acupuncture.

“Yeah… My left hand’s never been quite right. Sometimes it shakes or seizes up, but it usually isn’t this obvious. Maybe the needles hit a nerve today…” Ivy lowered her eyes, glancing at her left arm, her tone even.

Jamison frowned, concern knitting his brow. “Lasting damage? Was that from when you were… taken?”

She nodded. “There was one time I pretended to give in, tried to escape. When they caught me, they beat me so badly… One of them smashed my wrist with a brick.”

She recited the words calmly, almost as if it had happened to someone else. But for Jamison, every word was a punch to the gut. He stared at her, a storm brewing just beneath the surface of his gaze.

He parted his lips, hesitated for a few seconds, then asked, “Are you sure it was Emma who set you up to be kidnapped all those years ago?”

Ivy’s eyes narrowed, searching his face, puzzled by the sudden question—and by something else. Why was she even telling Jamison all this today?

She’d never shared these details with anyone, not even her closest friend. The scars ran too deep; every mention just tore them open again. People who didn’t care about her would never feel sympathy—some might even gloat. And those who did care? She’d never want to burden them with so much pain.

So why was she telling Jamison? Was it just because he’d helped her again and again, and some part of her had started to see him as a friend?

Still tangled in her thoughts, she heard his question and her face darkened.

“What’s that supposed to mean? You think I’m framing her too?”

“No, that’s not what I mean.” Jamison’s voice was low, but resolute. “If you have real evidence, you should go to the police. She should be held accountable.”

Ivy stared at him, wide-eyed, her beautiful almond eyes round with surprise. He believed her. He was even willing to help her take on Emma.

“But… she’s your nephew’s girlfriend. Aren’t you supposed to stand by your family?” she asked, incredulous.

Jamison rose to his feet, removing the last needle from her arm, his movements unhurried but firm. “Precisely because Micah is my nephew, I can’t let him walk straight into disaster.”

A woman like Emma—cruel, lawless, venomous—what kind of future could she bring to the family? Why invite a ticking time bomb into their home?