Isabella Carter was dead.

She had been brutally murdered—shot multiple times, her tendons mercilessly severed, her body dumped into the Eight Trigrams Soul-Sealing Well at an ancient temple.

Her soul, bound to her lifeless body, was cursed to remain trapped in the well, forever denied the cycle of reincarnation.

Until one day, the sun broke through. The stone cover of the well, infused with pure yang energy, was pushed aside, and a single beam of light illuminated the abyss beneath.

Then she saw him—Ethan Sinclair, haggard and on the brink of madness.

It was him. How was it him?

“...Isabella, I’m sorry. I came too late.”

Ethan's voice cracked, hoarse and trembling with emotion. His gaunt frame knelt in front of the well, his bloodshot, dark eyes clouded with anguish and despair.

“Ethan Sinclair!”

Isabella opened her mouth to call out, stunned and overwhelmed by this unfamiliar version of him.

In her memories, Ethan Sinclair had always been aloof, ruthless—a man trapped within his severe lack of empathy. His passion for her was nothing more than physical, confined strictly to their time spent in bed.

The two had agreed on a three-year arrangement—mutually beneficial, no strings attached. Yet within a year, Isabella had broken it off, choosing to protect herself after falling for him against her better judgment.

When she left, Ethan hadn’t tried to stop her. When she left the estate, Ethan Sinclair was as cold and indifferent as always, acting like he didn’t care and could find someone new in the blink of an eye.

And yet…

The dirt around the well was dug up by machines.

They worked all night.

By the time dawn broke, fog shrouding the earth, Ethan Sinclair stood down in the deep pit, dressed in a black suit. That same emotionless Ethan Sinclair was holding a woman's cold, blood-stained corpse, his head buried in her neck. He cried.

The helicopter landed.

Ethan removed his suit jacket and carefully draped it over the body in his arms.

Then he held her close, so gently it was like she was something priceless. He pressed a kiss to her ice-cold forehead.

“Bella, let’s go home.”

...

For the next six months, Isabella Carter’s soul stayed by Ethan Sinclair’s side.

Ethan lost his mind.

Completely deranged—he slept beside her every night, her body preserved in an ice casket.

He kissed her, held her, bought her jewelry, diamonds, cars, wine—everything she loved when she was alive, as if she were still here.

But during the day, Ethan would return to being his usual composed self.

He dug into the truth behind Isabella’s death, set up traps, baited them, and eventually took down the international assassin group that conspired to kill her—all in one sweep. That day, Ethan Sinclair carried Isabella Carter out of the ice coffin, stubbornly pressing his bloodstained lips to her frost-covered, pale ones, forcing them to appear red.

It wasn’t really red.

It was his blood.

Ethan’s organs had already depleted beyond repair.

Holding Isabella close, he walked down to the basement’s third level.

The underground room was filled with over a hundred top-tier assassins, tortured and chained. Every single person involved in killing Isabella, including Ethan himself, was here.

“Bella, it’s my fault too. I shouldn’t have let you go. I love you.”

With blood staining his thin lips, he smiled faintly, tenderness glowing in his eyes as they fixed on the lifeless body in his arms. Tears of anguish welled and finally spilled, expressing the confession he had suppressed for so long.

Hovering helplessly in the air, Isabella felt as though her heart were being ripped apart. Even now, after these six months, she truly understood Ethan. She’d misjudged him in so many ways before.

“No! Stop it!”

When Isabella saw him pull out a small bomb detonator, she screamed with desperate urgency, lunging toward him.

But she couldn’t touch anything.

“Bella, I’ve avenged you. Now I can finally come find you.”

“Don’t be scared, Bella.”

In the very last moment of his life, Ethan covered the corpse’s ears tenderly and pressed the detonator in his hand.

“Boom—!”

The explosion roared to life. The grandiose estate collapsed in an instant, flames soaring into the sky, reduced to ruins.

...

"Ethan Sinclair!"

Isabella jolted awake, her chest tight with the weight of unspeakable sorrow. She sat halfway up, the dim bedroom wrapped in shadows as tears shimmered in her crimson fox-like eyes.

This was...

Her gaze swept across the room. Even without the lights on, her unnaturally sharp eyesight recognized it immediately — Ethan’s estate.

Then the physical aches hit her — the soreness, the lingering sting under her skin, and the faint, medicinal scent of ointment mixed with blood. A jolt of panic ran through her as she threw the blankets aside and scrambled out of bed.

In the mirror.

A woman wearing a black silk camisole stared back at her. Despite her stunningly beautiful face, her exposed skin bore marks as if she’d been mauled by a beast.

And there it was — a deep, bruised, unmistakable bite on her slender neck.

Raising her hand, Isabella lightly brushed over it. Memories of Ethan pressing his face against her neck, drawing blood, his emotions spiraling wildly, flashed vividly in her mind.

Anger, hatred, pain, desperation — all mixed into one uncontrollable storm.

She had been reborn.

Back to the night she had proposed breaking the contract with Ethan.

Tonight, when Ethan had agreed to end it all. Isabella's thoughts snapped back as she curled her lips into a faint smile, her damp, crimson fox-like eyes tilting slightly upward. Her chest ached, a bittersweet warmth spreading through her heart.

Everything could still change!

This lifetime, she wouldn’t leave Ethan, wouldn’t misunderstand him again! She’d never let him endure all that pain alone!

Anyone who hurt Ethan, everyone in that assassin group that condemned her to die miserably in that dried-up well—this time, Isabella planned to make them pay!

Suddenly, Isabella’s ears caught the faint sound of a car pulling into the estate.

Ethan was back!

An idea flashed in Isabella's mind, and without hesitation, she dashed out barefoot toward the door.

But she wasn’t rushing to greet him.

She was headed for the study—to confirm something.

During the six months her soul wandered, inseparably trailing Ethan, she’d uncovered plenty of his secrets—among them, his chilling coldness.

Moving swiftly, Isabella arrived at the study, heading straight for the desk.

She pulled open a drawer and, under a neat stack of contracts and files, found a small bottle with no label.

Pouring out a single white pill, she pinched it between her fingers and crushed it into powder.

She tested it—a sharp bitterness spread across her tongue in seconds. Isabella's gaze darkened instantly, her suspicion confirmed: it was a type of sedative for calming the nerves.

Ethan, he... Isabella's chest tightened painfully. Hearing footsteps ascending the stairs, she quickly returned the medicine bottle to its original place, closed the drawer, and restored everything as it was.

Before Ethan Sinclair reached the second floor, Isabella slipped through the window and crouched on the balcony outside his study.

The lock clicked, and the door to the study was pushed open.

The room was pitch dark and icy cold.

Ethan didn't bother turning on the lights. Guided by faint moonlight, he walked straight to his desk.

His movements were precise, practiced. He pulled open a drawer, dumped out a few pills, and swallowed them dry—like candy—completely unfazed by the bitterness.

He pulled off his tie, unhooked his watch with one hand, and tossed it onto the desk without care. Then, reaching into the pocket of his suit trousers, retrieved a pack of cigarettes.

The lighter clicked open with a crisp "snap," and the small flame shone briefly in his sharp, cold almond-shaped eyes, capturing an air of tired detachment and chill aloofness.

As the smoke curled upward, time ticked away second by second. Ethan leaned listlessly against the desk, eyes half-lidded as he smoked, drowning in an aura of icy indifference and deep, bleak weariness.

Around twenty minutes later, the medicine's effects kicked in. Ethan lifted his gaze, extinguished the glowing cigarette butt in the ashtray, and strode out of the study.

From the balcony, Isabella's petite, nimble frame darted swiftly back into her bedroom without a sound.

Just over a minute later.When Ethan Sinclair switched on the bedroom wall lamp, the warm yellow light fell on the sleeping woman on the bed.

He stepped closer. Her skin, partly revealed outside the thin blanket, was marked with faint bruises and even scratches that had started to bleed. His gaze darkened, and his brows knitted tightly together.

Standing at the edge of the bed, he stared at Isabella Carter's delicate face for a long moment, as if trying to etch every detail into his memory. His lips curved into a bitter smile.

From the beginning, he had known—light, you can't hold onto it.

It was time to put an end to this.

“Isabella…”

The moment Ethan spoke, Isabella’s damp, red-rimmed eyes slowly opened.

As if waking from a nightmare, her usually composed, alluring fox-like eyes sparkled with tears. She threw off the blanket and flung herself into Ethan’s arms.

Holding the stunned and motionless man tightly, her voice cracked and trembled softly. “Ethan.”