Anabelle quickly recalled her dream, uneasily brushing a stray lock of hair from her cheek. “There’s nothing between me and your brother,” she replied.

“Really?” Bounty asked, her skepticism evident. It wasn’t a lack of trust in Anabelle, but rather a profound distrust of her brother. She knew him well—this was a predator who wouldn't miss an opportunity.

“Anabelle, I don’t care what happened between you and my brother. Get me his divorce papers, then break it off. I won’t let him—or our family—be destroyed because of you. Stay away from us!”

Anabelle remained silent. She wouldn't return to Alpha. She couldn't. His restored health—his calm, upright bearing, his vitality—reassured her about his heart condition.

Looking up at Bounty, Anabelle said, “Bounty, I will deal with your brother, but I need to explain what happened. Kory and I weren’t what you think. I can’t explain the surveillance footage from that year; I have no memory of it, as if I were being controlled.”

Bounty, unusually calm this time—a stark contrast to her former volatile reactions—had actually invited Anabelle to hear her side of the story. Reflecting on Olive’s recent revelations, she realized how many strange inconsistencies surrounded those years.

Bounty frowned. “Controlled? You mean… the Augustine family was somehow involved?”

Anabelle considered this, searching her fragmented memories. “I was unwell that night. The last person I saw was… a little girl…”

A little girl? Could it be Naomi Scott? Bounty had long supported impoverished mountain children, and Naomi was her favorite. Bright and studious, Naomi had spent that summer vacation with Bounty, visiting the bustling Imperial city. On Bounty's birthday, the entire Augustine family had gathered at the mansion, Naomi included. Naomi was very young then, almost insignificant, and the chaos of war had blurred the memory.

Anabelle's mention of the girl sparked images in Bounty's mind. Anabelle and Rory were in a room; someone shouted, alerting everyone. Bounty remembered—that person was Naomi. Then, disoriented, she’d stood on the stairs, her nine-month pregnant belly straining, seemingly seeing Naomi again.

Naomi! Could Naomi be connected to the incident? Bounty recoiled, dismissing the idea as mere coincidence. Yet, the coincidence felt significant, unsettling.

“Bounty! Bounty, what’s wrong?” Anabelle’s voice cut through Bounty’s thoughts.

Bounty regained her composure. She wanted to speak, but a sharp headache and ringing in her ears struck again.

“Bounty, you look terrible. I’ll call a doctor.”

“No need,” Bounty said, pausing. “Anabelle, go. I need to verify something. I’ll call if there’s news.”

Anabelle, seeing Bounty’s determination, nodded and left.

Alone, Bounty clutched her head, fighting to stay awake. Something was wrong with Naomi! Days ago, she’d seen Naomi, with Elvis. Naomi’s proximity to Elvis—and her reappearance—felt deliberate. Was Anabelle and Elvis the target? And Bounty, the unwitting victim?

Oh, God! A horrifying conspiracy had enveloped the Augustine family for years.

Frantically, Bounty reached for her phone, intending to call Olive—her most trusted confidante, whose sharp intelligence could unravel the family's curse. But before she could dial, a voice echoed, “My lady, who do you want to call?”

Bounty jumped, dropping her phone. Betty’s face loomed.

“Betty, why didn’t you knock? You scared me!”

Betty’s eyes fell on the phone, displaying “Olive.” She picked it up, switched it off, produced pills and water. “Headache again, my lady? Take these.”

Bounty sensed something was wrong. Betty’s intrusion, the medicine—and the small, red bell at Betty's waist, the source of the agonizing ringing—confirmed it.

“You’re not Betty. Who are you?” Bounty demanded coldly.

Betty’s unsettling smile widened. “Who I am doesn't matter. Know this: Olive can’t save you!”

Bounty’s suspicions crystallized. She’d been so foolish, so slow to realize the truth. Using her fingernails, she drew blood, writing “Naomi” on the sofa back—a message for Olive.