Jingshi.
Late March. Dead of winter.
The cold cut straight to the bone, like the whole city had been shoved into a freezer.
Inside the women’s prison workshop.
Rosalind Sinclair, dressed in a prison uniform, sat there sewing shoes.
Her hands were swollen red. Chilblains and blisters had chewed them up so badly that every little movement felt like torture.
Just then, a prison guard walked over and barked, "Rosalind, the Harrington family posted bail. You can leave."
The second she heard "the Harrington family," fear kicked in on instinct. Her mind blanked for a moment, and she didn’t even process what the guard had just said.
Four years ago had been the point where her whole life flipped upside down.
On the day of her eighteenth birthday banquet, she went from the pampered daughter of a wealthy family to a thief overnight.
Because her biological mother had been a nanny who secretly switched her identity with the Harrington family’s real daughter.
The truth only came out because that nanny showed up looking for money from Rosalind, and the whole thing blew wide open.
From that moment on, Rosalind’s world went gray. She watched the family of three from the Harringtons cry as they hugged each other, making up for lost years, pouring out all their longing and pain.
And she just stood there off to the side, stiff, awkward, completely lost.
At that moment, she had no choice but to accept that the daddy and mommy she had called for eighteen years no longer belonged to her.
It took a long while before Mr. Harrington finally noticed Rosalind standing there by herself in embarrassment. After hesitating for what felt like forever, he made up his mind and said, "Rosie, even if Sylvia is back, you’ll always be the Harrington family’s eldest daughter."
"From now on, Sylvia will call you her sister."
Only then did Mrs. Harrington seem to realize she had ignored Rosalind for far too long. She stepped in to soothe her and said, "Rosie, I’ll still treat you like my own daughter from now on."
Back then, Rosalind had believed every word of it, stupidly, wholeheartedly.
But karma hit way too fast.
The Harrington family got invited to the birthday banquet of the Whitfield family's heiress, the number one family in Jingshi.
At the banquet,
they saw with their own eyes Sylvia Harrington steal the Whitfield heiress's priceless necklace.
They saw Sylvia Harrington's so-called best friend point at her on the spot and call her the thief.
They saw the Whitfield heiress completely lose it, furious enough to call the police and have her thrown in prison.
And all of them, almost without a word, made the same choice by instinct—push Rosalind Sinclair out to take the fall for Sylvia Harrington.
She had been naive back then. She begged. She fought. She tried to explain.
But in that moment, it felt like the whole world had turned its back on her.
In the end, she was still the one sent to prison.
That was when she understood.
She had no parents anymore.
"Yo, look who's about to get out and go enjoy life. Girls, what do you think? You think Rosalind Sinclair's gonna forget us after she leaves?" the prison queen sneered, her tone dripping with mockery.
Rosalind Sinclair reacted almost on instinct and dropped to her knees with a thud. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I was wrong. Please don't hit me."
The guard frowned, clearly annoyed. "Rosalind Sinclair, out. Now."
Only then did Rosalind Sinclair finally realize it.
She was being released.
The prison queen, the women in here, none of them would be able to bully her anymore.
Shivering all over, she kept her head down and forced herself to move, one step at a time, under the prison queen's stare.
After finishing the release paperwork and changing into her thin, worn-out old clothes, Rosalind Sinclair was escorted by a guard to the prison gates.
From far away,
she saw a tall, straight figure leaning lazily against a luxury car.
The man wore a black satin shirt, the top buttons left slightly open. His sharp black eyes were cold and heavy, and every inch of him gave off that oppressive, high-and-mighty aura of someone used to being in control.
Rosalind Sinclair looked at him and felt no joy at seeing family.
What rushed over her instead was lingering fear, cold and immediate.
Even her crippled leg started aching again, a dull pain spreading bit by bit.
Sebastian Harrington.
The man she had called her brother for eighteen years.
The same man who, just to give Mrs. Whitfield an explanation, had deliberately arranged for the cellblock queen to give her “special care.”
The source of every bit of hell she had gone through in prison.
The wind cut like ice.
But colder than the winter air was the chill in her heart.
Four whole years had passed.
Rosalind Sinclair had thought her heart was already numb, already dead to pain, but turns out it could still ache, still sink hard enough to make breathing feel rough.