Chapter 361

Olga

I let myself be wheeled to the entrance of the cottage. The nurse helps me stand, and I wave her away. I can walk. I’ve been walking for seventy-three years. I’m not going to stop now.

The door is unlocked. It’s always unlocked. She doesn’t care anymore.

I step inside.

The scent hits me immediately—pungent, overwhelming. Alcohol and turpentine and oil paint, thick in the air like fog. Bottles line every surface. Empty. Some knocked over, their contents long since evaporated into the floorboards.

The room is full of finished canvases. Stacked against walls. Leaning on furniture. Hanging from hooks she installed years ago and never used properly.

Vivienne.

Everywhere I look, I see her.Laughing. Glowing. Pregnant with a child who never drew breath.

Thirty years ago, my daughter was never the same again.

Vivienne died, and Daphne died with her. The body kept moving. The heart kept beating. But the soul that soul left with her.

I walk through the cottage, past the kitchen where they used to cook together, past the bedroom where they held each other at night, past the nursery that was never used.

I find her in the living room.

She’s leaning against the wall, staring at a particular painting with empty eyes.

Her hair is long now, gray streaking through the dark, unwashed and tangled.

Dark circles bruise the skin beneath her eyes. Her cheeks are hollow. Her hands are thin, the bones visible beneath papery skin.

She’s gaunt. Malnourished. Dying.

It breaks my heart.

"Daphne." My voice is soft.

She doesn’t turn. Doesn’t acknowledge me.

I walk closer. Stand beside her. Look at the painting.

It’s Vivienne. Of course it’s Vivienne. They’re all Vivienne.

She’s standing at the edge of the cliff, her yellow dress bright against the gray rocks, her hand on her stomach, her face turned toward something just out of frame.

Me, I realize. She was looking at Daphne.

"She was so beautiful," I say.

No response.

I’m not surprised. She doesn’t speak much. You’re lucky to get a couple of words out of her. A grunt. A nod. Sometimes, if the stars align, a single sentence.

I sigh and start sweeping up the bottles.

The glass clinks against the metal dustpan. There are so many. Wine bottles, whiskey bottles, empty glasses that haven’t been washed in weeks. The smell is overpowering—alcohol and paint and something sour underneath.

I’m one of the only people allowed in this space. The last time I hired a maid, Daphne had one of her fits. The poor girl nearly didn’t make it out alive. I paid for her therapy. She still flinches when she sees anyone who looks like my daughter.

I finish sweeping. The pile of bottles fills two trash bags.

"I’ll be back," I say.

No response.

She’s still staring at the painting. Still leaning against the wall. Still empty.

I sigh and leave, walking out the door.

The sun is setting. The sky is orange and pink, beautiful in a way that feels cruel.

The nurse helps me into the car.

"Same time tomorrow?" she asks.

"Same time tomorrow."

The car pulls away. I watch the cottage shrink in the rearview mirror,smaller and smaller until it disappears behind the trees.

When I get home to the Han mansion, it’s lively. 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝕨𝕖𝗯𝚗𝚘𝕧𝕖𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝕞

The driveway is full of cars. The windows are bright with light. Laughter spills out into the evening air, carried on the wind.

I step inside.

"Grandmother!" A small body crashes into my legs. It’s Jiho, Damien’s youngest, all gap-toothed smiles and boundless energy.

"Grandmother, guess what? Uncle taught me how to play chess and I won!"

"Did you?" I ruffle his hair. "You’ll have to teach me sometime."

"I will! I will!"

He runs off, shouting for his brother.

I walk further into the house.

The main hall is full of people. Damien is in the corner, talking with Alexander, their heads bent close together. They look good together—not passionate, not the way Daphne and Vivienne were, but comfortable. Solid. After thirty years, they’ve built something real.

The house is full of in-laws and children and the kind of chaos that only comes from family.

The children are everywhere. Grandchildren. Great-grandchildren. Laughter and chaos and life.

Damien and Alexander moved to the capital years ago. He’s the vice president now.

I’m glad Bernard didn’t live to see this. He died twenty years ago—a second heart attack, finally the one that stuck.

I settle into my favorite chair, watching the chaos unfold around me.

Life is going well for everyone.

Everyone except my daughter.

***

Daphne

I don’t even notice time moving anymore.

The days blur together—waking, drinking, painting, sleeping. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. The bottles are not doing their job. I can’t believe I’m still alive, still breathing, still here after decades of poisoning myself.

My liver should have given out. My heart should have stopped. Something should have ended this.

But no.

I’m so tired.

I could have followed Vivienne into death. It would have been easy.

But I promised her I would change things for the better in this world. And I keep my promises.

I can’t change the whole world. I’m not naive enough to think that. But I’ve done something.

Stricter punishments for sexual violence against Omegas. Stronger discrimination laws. Suppressants that actually work—ones that don’t fail at the worst possible moment. Omegas who use my company’s product are less likely to have random heats or ruts. They have control.

I opened an Omega-only university. Thirty years ago, that was unthinkable. Now? Thousands of Omegas have graduated. Thousands have careers, families, futures that wouldn’t have existed without me.

I can say I’ve done my best.

It’s not enough. It will never be enough. But it’s something.

Inadvertently, my actions also improved Damien’s public perception. Twenty years ago, he was in deep shit—scandals, corruption investigations, ties to countries with terrible human rights records. But he rebranded. Positioned himself as the "progressive" candidate again. Rode the wave of changes I created.

Now he’s the vice president. Talking about running for president next election.

I don’t care really, let him have his glory.

I stand and move around the room, dragging the heavy chains with me.

No one else can see them. They’re invisible to everyone but me. A consequence of killing Elliot.

Each time I killed him, the fucking world brought him back to life. Over and over. I’ve burnt him alive. I’ve drowned him. I’ve cut him into pieces.

Nothing worked. He always came back.

So now I have these chains. For the next hundred years. Physical manifestation of the world’s punishment.

Thirty years down. Seventy more to go.

I don’t regret it.

When I tried to go the legal route,when I tried to let the legal system punish him—Elliot was let go. Under the guise of mental health. Sent to some fancy facility where he gets therapy and medication and three meals a day.

Justice.

I tried to bribe the judges. I tried to threaten them. I tried everything. But the whole fucking world protects him.

I hate him.

So I gave him something to be crazy about. Using a memory ticket, using all my system points, I’ve made sure he remembers.

Every single time he died. The fire. The water. The knife. Every scream. Every moment of terror. Every second of knowing that I was the one ending him.

He lives in a facility now, catatonic, muttering to himself. The doctors say it’s "trauma-induced psychosis."

I drag my body to the bed. The chains are so heavy. They clank against the floor, against the furniture, against my bones. Some days I can barely move.

I miss you, my beloved.