Chapter 5

Krystal POV:

That was the day. The day I was stripped of everything-my son, my family, my dignity. They beat me with sticks and stones, their faces twisted with grief and manufactured rage. My body burned with a thousand pains, but it was my heart that felt utterly hollowed out.

I fell, crumpling onto the cold, wet grass. Blood bloomed on my skin, staining the pristine white of my simple dress. They were still screaming, their words like stones thrown at my prone body.

Then, a sudden silence.

Jonathan. He stood there, a towering figure, his face a thundercloud. "Stop!" he roared, his voice cutting through the frenzy. "What the hell are you doing?"

The crowd, startled by his fury, slowly dispersed, muttering under their breath. He knelt beside me, his hand reaching out, then pulling back. He seemed to hesitate, then gently helped me up.

"Come inside," he said, his voice softer now, almost a whisper. "Let me take care of you."

He led me up the stairs, away from the prying eyes, into a small guest room. He got a first-aid kit, his hands surprisingly gentle as he cleaned my cuts and bruises. He dabbed antiseptic on a particularly nasty gash on my forehead.

I looked at him, my eyes cold and unwavering. "Why, Jonathan?" I asked, my voice raw, barely a whisper. "Why did you let them blame me for Leo's death?"

His hands froze. He pulled back, avoiding my gaze. "Krystal, it's... complicated," he mumbled, his voice strained. "Hailey... she's fragile. She was there when it happened. She's a victim too, you know. An orphan. She looks up to me. She needs my protection."

He looked at me then, his eyes pleading. "Can you... can you just take the blame for this, Krystal? Just for a little while? It would save her. And it would save us. You know how the public perceives these things."

He searched my face, waiting for the fury, the tears, the indignant outburst that would usually follow such a request. But there was nothing. Only a desolate emptiness.

"I don't care," I said, my voice flat, devoid of any feeling. "Blame me. Blame whomever you want. It doesn't matter to me."

His face fell. The color drained from his cheeks. My indifference, it seemed, was more terrifying than any rage. He began to ramble, a frantic monologue about his relationship with Hailey, how it was purely platonic, a brother protecting his sister, nothing more.

"I understand," I cut him off, my voice still utterly devoid of emotion. "You don't need to explain."

He flinched. The truth was, when you truly loved someone, you demanded an explanation. You fought for it. But I didn't love him anymore. So, I didn't need to know his lies.

"You can be as close as you want to her," I added, a ghost of a smile touching my lips. "You can tell her everything, share every secret. I wouldn't even ask."

He frowned, a flicker of irritation in his eyes. He was about to speak, when the door burst open. The housekeeper, her face ashen, stood there, panting.

"Senator! Sir! It's... young Master Daniel and Ms. Hailey! They're fighting! Daniel is... he's really hurt!"

Daniel. Jonathan's younger brother. The one he always ignored, the one who bore the brunt of his mother's cruelty. Daniel, who had also lost his own parents tragically, and who hated Hailey with a burning passion, knowing she was the favorite.

Jonathan' s face snapped from anger to panic in an instant. "Fighting? With Hailey? What happened?"

He rushed out of the room, Hailey' s name on his lips, leaving me alone in the silent room. I just stared at the closed door, a bitter laugh bubbling up in my chest. He rushed to Hailey, leaving his own blood brother. The absurdity of it all.

Then, Daniel's heartbroken cries echoed from downstairs, sharp and piercing.

"Why, brother?" Daniel sobbed, his voice choked with pain and anger. "Why do you always choose her? Why do you always treat me like I'm nothing? Why do you always protect her, when she's the one who hurt you the most? Krystal... Krystal knows. She knows you're completely lost to her." His words, though directed at Jonathan, were a chilling echo of my own thoughts.