In the farewell hall of the funeral home, the incense and candles burned in a quiet, steady glow.

The guests had all left. Only Rosa Bloom remained, kneeling alone before her adoptive mother’s memorial portrait.

The woman in the photo wore that same gentle smile. Just three days ago, she had still been holding Rosa’s hand, saying that once the heart transplant was done, she’d be able to watch Rosie wear a wedding dress and have children.

Three days later, she was lying in an icy crystal coffin, never waking again.

Rosa clutched her phone tightly. On the screen was a number she knew by heart.

Seven days.

Vincent Mercer had been completely out of reach for seven whole days.

From the moment her adoptive mother went critical up until today’s funeral, Rosa had made well over a hundred calls. But every single time, all she got was the same thing: powered off, busy tone, no answer.

She drew in a deep breath and, like Cinderella striking her very last match, dialed one final call.

This time, it connected.

Rosa’s fingers clenched hard. The name “Vincent” caught in her throat before she could say it, because a soft, delicate female voice came through first—

“Hello? Who’s this? Vincent’s in the shower. Call back later.”

Rosa’s hand froze around the phone. Her fingertips tightened inch by inch, but unlike the last few times, she didn’t hang up right away.

She knew that voice.

Lydia Weston.

Vincent Mercer’s “white moonlight,” the first love he had kept hidden in his heart for ten years.

“...”

Rosa said nothing. The woman on the other end seemed to realize something too. She let out a light little “oh,” then said in a sweet voice, “Could it be... Rosie? Vincent already said you don’t need to bring the medicinal soup over yourself. You still have to take care of your adoptive mother too. If you wear yourself out, that wouldn’t be good.”

The words sounded polite enough, but beneath them was that tiny, unmistakable note of showing off.

The match went out.

Rosa lowered her eyes. Before the other woman could say another word, she hung up.

In the corner of the funeral home, the incense flickered on and off.

Rosa looked at her mother’s kind, gentle portrait and suddenly felt that these past seven days had been so absurd they were practically a bad joke.

Her mother had been sick for so long, waiting a full eight months for that heart. Vincent was the President, with more than enough top-tier medical resources in his hands. If it hadn’t been for saving her mother, Rosa never would have agreed to that hidden marriage in the first place.

But in the end?

The heart had been switched at the last minute and given to Lydia Weston. Her mother’s condition crashed almost overnight. In less than three days, she was gone.

Rosa had made over a hundred calls. She had begged countless people. She had knelt outside the operating room.

And what did she get in the end?

She got her mother closing her eyes forever.

She got Lydia Weston being wheeled into that very same operating room.

She got Vincent Mercer staying by his first love’s bedside and vanishing for seven days.

And she didn’t even get a single call back.

Rosa faced the memorial portrait and bowed three times, properly and neatly. Her forehead struck the cold tile floor with a dull, heavy thud.

“Mom, I’m sorry.”

She was useless. She had been blind. She had mistaken a transaction for a lifeline, and in the end, she still failed to hold on to it.

***

By the time she got back to the villa, it was already past nine at night.

There was an extra pair of handmade leather shoes by the entryway.