In the farewell hall of the funeral home, the incense and candles burned in a quiet, steady glow.

The guests had all left. Only Rosa Bloom remained, kneeling alone before her adoptive mother’s memorial portrait.

The woman in the photo wore that same gentle smile. Just three days ago, she had still been holding Rosa’s hand, saying that once the heart transplant was done, she’d be able to watch Rosie wear a wedding dress and have children.

Three days later, she was lying in an icy crystal coffin, never waking again.

Rosa clutched her phone tightly. On the screen was a number she knew by heart.

Seven days.

Vincent Mercer had been completely out of reach for seven whole days.

From the moment her adoptive mother went critical up until today’s funeral, Rosa had made well over a hundred calls. But every single time, all she got was the same thing: powered off, busy tone, no answer.

She drew in a deep breath and, like Cinderella striking her very last match, dialed one final call.

This time, it connected.

Rosa’s fingers clenched hard. The name “Vincent” caught in her throat before she could say it, because a soft, delicate female voice came through first—

“Hello? Who’s this? Vincent’s in the shower. Call back later.”

Rosa’s hand froze around the phone. Her fingertips tightened inch by inch, but unlike the last few times, she didn’t hang up right away.

She knew that voice.

Lydia Weston.

Vincent Mercer’s “white moonlight,” the first love he had kept hidden in his heart for ten years.

“...”

Rosa said nothing. The woman on the other end seemed to realize something too. She let out a light little “oh,” then said in a sweet voice, “Could it be... Rosie? Vincent already said you don’t need to bring the medicinal soup over yourself. You still have to take care of your adoptive mother too. If you wear yourself out, that wouldn’t be good.”

The words sounded polite enough, but beneath them was that tiny, unmistakable note of showing off.

The match went out.

Rosa lowered her eyes. Before the other woman could say another word, she hung up.

In the corner of the funeral home, the incense flickered on and off.

Rosa looked at her mother’s kind, gentle portrait and suddenly felt that these past seven days had been so absurd they were practically a bad joke.

Her mother had been sick for so long, waiting a full eight months for that heart. Vincent was the President, with more than enough top-tier medical resources in his hands. If it hadn’t been for saving her mother, Rosa never would have agreed to that hidden marriage in the first place.

But in the end?

The heart had been switched at the last minute and given to Lydia Weston. Her mother’s condition crashed almost overnight. In less than three days, she was gone.

Rosa had made over a hundred calls. She had begged countless people. She had knelt outside the operating room.

And what did she get in the end?

She got her mother closing her eyes forever.

She got Lydia Weston being wheeled into that very same operating room.

She got Vincent Mercer staying by his first love’s bedside and vanishing for seven days.

And she didn’t even get a single call back.

Rosa faced the memorial portrait and bowed three times, properly and neatly. Her forehead struck the cold tile floor with a dull, heavy thud.

“Mom, I’m sorry.”

She was useless. She had been blind. She had mistaken a transaction for a lifeline, and in the end, she still failed to hold on to it.

***

By the time she got back to the villa, it was already past nine at night.

There was an extra pair of handmade leather shoes by the entryway.

Vincent was back.

Rosa paused halfway through changing her shoes, then her expression went flat again. She set her bag on the shoe cabinet and walked inside, just in time to hear movement from the kitchen.

Vincent Mercer was wearing a dark gray lounge shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, standing by the island and speaking in a low voice.

“...Don’t put goji berries in the pigeon soup. Lydia has dietary restrictions after surgery. Pick the cleanest bird’s nest. She’s picky about that stuff. I sent the flavor list to your phone. Just follow it.”

The cook nodded again and again.

Rosa stood between the living room and dining area, looking at that familiar back.

So it wasn’t that he didn’t know how to take care of someone.

He just cared who the someone was.

The conversation in the kitchen went on, but Rosa could no longer make out the words. She pulled back her gaze and walked straight toward the stairs.

Her footsteps made the man by the island turn around.

“Rosa?” The moment Vincent saw her, his brows drew together almost imperceptibly. “Where did you go tonight? Why are you only getting back now?”

His tone carried that same old displeasure, lofty and naturally condescending.

Rosa stopped at the foot of the stairs, but she didn’t turn around.

“I had something to deal with,” she said.

No explanation. No accusation. She couldn’t even be bothered to let him know what had happened.

Vincent frowned and took two steps closer, about to speak, but Rosa beat him to it.

“The divorce agreement will be sent to you within three days.”

She said it softly, but every word landed clearly.

“Take a look. If there’s no problem, sign it.”

Then she lifted her foot and started upstairs.

“Stop right there.” Vincent’s voice dropped. “What did you just say?”

Rosa didn’t stop walking.

“Rosa!” His footsteps followed, stopping at the bottom of the staircase. His voice took on that familiar pressure he always used. “I’ve been with Lydia these past few days for her follow-up checks. I couldn’t get away, so I didn’t get around to answering your calls. I’ll explain the heart situation to you later. What exactly are you making a scene for?”

Making a scene.

Rosa held the stair rail, and all of a sudden, the man she had spent three years with felt so unfamiliar it was almost ridiculous.

“It’s all written clearly in the agreement.” She kept walking toward the bedroom, her voice calm, flat as still water. “You’ll know after you read it.”

The door shut. The lock clicked.

She never turned back to look at him again.

Outside the room, Vincent stood in the hallway with one hand still half-raised. His knuckles hovered in front of the door for a long while, but he never knocked.

He stayed there, frowning hard, as an odd, hard-to-name feeling slowly rose in his chest.

For three years of marriage, Rosa had always been the one waiting for him.

If he came home after midnight, she would wait at the entrance.

If his stomach hurt, she would bring him warm soup.

If he said something casually, she would remember it the whole day.

Her whole world revolved around him, so tightly it almost left no space to breathe. Sometimes it annoyed him. And sometimes, he just took it for granted.

Vincent stood there outside the door for a long time. In the end, he lowered his hand, turned, and went downstairs.

This was nothing more than the same old trick women liked to use. Cause a fuss, throw a fit, wait for him to think of some way to coax her a little, and naturally, everything would go back to normal.