I don't believe there is no parting sorrow in the world
Violet and Vincent’s daughter, Sophie, had been diagnosed with a severe heart condition. Only an organ transplant could save her.
Desperate, Vincent brought home his “godsister”—and her son.
“Violet,” he explained, “Nancy’s boy was born with a congenital heart defect. He doesn’t have long. She’s agreed to let Charles and Sophie… swap hearts.”
“Her only wish is for me to act as Charles’s father—to give him some happiness in his final days.”
For her daughter’s sake, Violet agreed to a pretend divorce.
Soon after, Vincent held a lavish wedding with his first love, Nancy, and they became the picture of a devoted couple.
Not long after that, Sophie and Charles were wheeled into the operating room together.
In the end, Sophie didn’t survive the rejection period. Charles, however, miraculously pulled through.
Violet had believed it was fate—that she couldn’t blame anyone.
Until an anonymous letter arrived, containing all of Sophie’s medical records.
Her daughter had never been sick at all!
The one who needed the transplant was Charles!
Violet’s world shattered.
In the end, the divorce was real.
It was his love that had been the sham.
She needed answers—now.
Clutching the medical report, Violet rushed straight to Vincent’s company.
On the way, she called her mother, Piper, and told her everything.
She expected shared grief and fury, but the other end of the line fell into an unusual silence.
“Mom?” Violet asked, confused. “Are you okay?”
Her mother’s voice came through, eerily calm: *“Violet, where are you right now?”*
Violet should have sensed something wrong, but her mind was chaos. She answered without thinking.
*“Don’t do anything rash. Wait right there.”*
Violet thought her mother was coming to confront Vincent with her. Trying to calm herself, she went to wait at the designated intersection, just as asked.
Her mother never came.
Instead, several burly men appeared. They grabbed her, dragged her, shoved her into a car.
They locked her in a dark, damp basement.
For seven whole days, they tormented her in every way imaginable.
The beatings, the denial of food and water—those were the gentler methods.
They deliberately deprived her of sleep.
Whenever she was on the verge of passing out from exhaustion, someone would bring an electric prod and shock her back to agonizing consciousness.
The pain was unbearable. If not for the hatred burning inside her, she would never have survived until the day she was rescued.
When Vincent finally broke down the door and swept her into his arms,
a pathetic flicker of gratitude stirred in Violet’s heart, softening it against her will.
She felt the warmth of his embrace, and a flood of memories washed over her.
They’d grown up together, from school uniforms to wedding gowns.
He knew her likes and dislikes, remembered her favorite foods, was familiar with every private detail.
For her, he’d lit up half the city with fireworks, planted an entire estate with tulips, slid a diamond engagement ring onto her finger under the Northern Lights…
She had never once imagined he could stop loving her.
Could it be… he had some unavoidable, desperate reason?
Violet wanted to give Vincent a chance to explain.
But her head was splitting with pain, and she was so weak she couldn’t even lift a finger.
Though Vincent called her name again and again, she couldn’t muster a response.
Then she heard his voice turn cold:
“She’s unconscious. Take her to the mental institution now. Get a psychiatric evaluation done in front of the press, then release a statement: kidnapped, suffered irreversible psychological trauma.”
In that instant, Violet’s heart nearly stopped.
The hand Vincent had placed on her arm suddenly felt like a block of ice.
His assistant’s voice chimed in: “Sir, today’s evaluation report is already arranged. But if the… if Mrs Vincent’s mental state is actually fine, and she goes for other tests later, won’t the truth come out?”
Vincent replied lightly, “Then continue the electroshock. Use some drug stimulation too. She was pampered since childhood; she couldn’t possibly have that strong a will.”
His fingers gradually tightened, pressing into Violet’s wounds:
“She’s always been willful, and she cared about Sophie more than anything. Now that she knows the truth about the heart swap, she’ll never let it go.”
“I’m doing this to protect Nancy and Charles.”
“As long as she’s declared mentally unstable, no one will believe anything she says. No matter what.”
“Go inform Violet’s mother as well. Tell her to focus on taking care of Violet these next few days and not contact Nancy’s side. If Violet finds out Nancy is her parents’ real biological daughter, I’m afraid she might take her own life.”
Every word from Vincent was a dagger, brutally hammered into Violet’s mind.
So that was it!
Not only had her lover abandoned her—her own flesh and blood had too!
The pain was so intense Violet felt she was going mad.
In comparison, the seven days of elect
The hospital room door swung open, and a crowd poured inside.
Violet stared blankly, her eyes wide. “Who are you?”
Standing at the center of the group, Vincent stiffened. His voice caught—an uncharacteristic stumble. “…Violet?”
Her gaze drifted past his face, empty and lost, before she shrank further into herself.
“I don’t know you. Where am I?”
A ripple of murmurs spread through the reporters, the shutter clicks growing frantic.
Someone spoke up. “Mr. Vincent, it appears your ex-wife has lost her memory.”
Vincent’s brow furrowed, his scrutinizing stare fixed on Violet.
With an air of innocent curiosity, Nancy tilted her head. “What are the odds? Not that I’m doubting Violet, of course. It just feels so… theatrical.” She clung to Vincent’s arm, her smile gentle and sweet.
Vincent had always said he was drawn to innocent, uncomplicated girls.
Violet had thought he meant her.
Now, looking back, she realized his eyes hadn’t been on her at all when he said it.
He’d fallen for someone else as early as their first year of marriage.
No.
Maybe even earlier.
The Vincents had taken Nancy in as their ward during her high school years.
Vincent had complained to Violet about it countless times, suspecting his father of some shady business—why else take in a girl so suddenly?
Violet had told him not to overthink it. *It’s for charity. A kind thing to do.*
He’d pulled her into his arms, indignant. “Aren’t you even a little worried this ‘foster sister’ might steal me away?”
Violet had laughed. “If you’re that easy to steal, I promise I’ll leave faster than you can blink.”
A joke from years ago, now turned prophecy.
Violet pulled herself from the memory just as Vincent turned to Dr. Arthur. “What’s going on?”
With his secret in someone else’s hands, Dr. Arthur—however reluctant—quickly supplied an explanation.
“It’s a manifestation of post-traumatic stress disorder. The patient is actively erasing painful memories—a self-preservation mechanism.”
“When she woke, Ms. Violet was remarkably calm. She didn’t cry or make a scene. She just kept asking who I was and where she was.”
“All signs indicate she is currently experiencing genuine amnesia.”
Dr. Arthur was greedy for fame and fortune, but he did have skill. He’d happily built himself a minor social media following, becoming something of a medical influencer. His word carried weight.
Most of the room accepted it.
Even Vincent’s skeptical expression began to fade.
Violet looked at him, her fingers curling into a tight fist inside her sleeve. “You’re my ex-husband? Why did we divorce?”
Vincent met her gaze, his dark eyes cold and hollow.
“Violet, even without your memory, the mistakes you made aren’t erased. I won’t hide your crimes for you.”
“If you hadn’t maliciously bullied others, the victim wouldn’t have held a grudge, and this kidnapping wouldn’t have happened. You brought all of this on yourself.”
“You ask why I divorced you? Because you never learned. You still use your status to bully the vulnerable.”
Vincent’s torrent of accusations left Violet stunned.
Her mind reeled. A memory surfaced—before she learned the truth about her daughter’s death, a bullying video from over a decade ago had appeared online. The poster claimed the girl using a curling iron to burn someone was the current Mrs. Vincent.
Though only the perpetrator’s back was visible, the rumor mill was merciless. Nancy had taken plenty of heat.
Now Violet understood.
The bullying was real. So he was desperate to find a scapegoat for Nancy.
Violet, the former Mrs. Vincent, now had only one value left: to take the fall.
She meant to laugh, but tears spilled down her cheeks instead.
Vincent faltered, his brow knitting again.
“Why are you crying?”
“Or… have you remembered something?”
