I loved Pierce for twenty-five years.
He stole my mother’s life-saving heart for his "white lotus" foster daughter.
She died on the spot. Her grave was dug up before she was even cold.
He protected the killer and called me vicious.
In that moment, my love died.
I divorced him, vanished into deep-sea research for ten years, and rose as the world’s top scientist.
When the truth came out, he begged—took a fatal stab for me, died at my feet, pleading for forgiveness.
“Pierce, that one stab won’t repay what you owe my mother.”
Love that comes too late is worthless. We’re done in life and death.
