Sophia Grant was Emily Harper's master strategist, and her core tactic was simple: relentless pursuit. She knew men inside and out—especially the ones who acted tough but crumbled under genuine vulnerability.
Beautiful women who took the initiative to chase, apologize, and humble themselves? Most men couldn't resist that forever.
Sophia feigned surprise as she stepped back into the villa. "Jeff, look—Emily's out there kneeling again. She says she won't get up until you forgive her."
She glanced toward the window. "I just checked the forecast. Heavy rain's coming any minute. Why don't you forgive her now? You really want her out there getting soaked? You took care of her for three years—she never even caught a cold. You wouldn't let her get sick, would you?"
Sophia knew exactly how to hit Jeff's soft spot. He *would* feel sorry for Emily if she fell ill.
But pity wasn't forgiveness.
Betrayal was a line in the sand. Forgiving her this easily would make the price of her actions laughably low.
Jeff remembered the sky had been clear and starry when he arrived home. He didn't believe the rain would come. "If she wants to kneel, let her kneel."
With that, he turned and climbed the stairs to his third-floor bedroom, expression hard.
Sophia stepped back outside, pretending to coax Emily one last time. Before walking away, she whispered fiercely, "Keep going, girl. You've got this."
Ten minutes later, thunder cracked overhead. Jeff walked to the bedroom window. The stars were gone. The sky had turned an ominous, solid black.
Splash. Splash. Splash.
Raindrops began to fall, slow at first, then faster.
Jeff stared out. "Weirdest weather I've ever seen," he muttered. The morning forecast had shown clear skies all night. No mention of rain.
A dark part of him wondered if the heavens themselves were punishing Emily for what she'd done.
The drizzle quickly soaked her hair, her flawless face, her expensive designer dress. Under the courtyard lamp's glow, Jeff could see every detail even in the dark.
He watched his ex-wife get drenched without a flicker of pity—in fact, a cold sense of vengeful satisfaction settled in his chest.
"You reap what you sow, Emily. Kneel all you want. I'm not coming down."
The rain intensified. Wind howled. Torrents lashed her body, soaking her to the skin in minutes.
Her perfectly styled hair plastered flat against her scalp. Mascara ran in black rivers down her cheeks. The hour she'd spent on makeup before coming over? Ruined.
And yet…
Even drenched, disheveled, and miserable, Emily Harper remained breathtaking.
Jeff's breath caught for a second. "A once-in-a-millennium beauty," he thought. "Even like this, she's unreal."
No wonder he'd fallen so hard years ago. No wonder the regret still lingered—not about the divorce, but about never truly having her.
Like the Xi Murong poem on his wall said: he had never asked for her whole life. Just one moment. One passionate chapter.
But that chapter had never come.
Staring at her exquisite, rain-streaked features, a wicked thought flickered through his mind: *What if I played the villain? Pretend to forgive her, let her stay the night… then cut her loose tomorrow?*
The idea vanished as quickly as it came. Jeff wasn't that man. He wouldn't stoop.
He turned away from the window before the temptation could grow.
An hour passed. The rain eased but didn't stop.
Jeff checked again. She was still there—kneeling, unmoving.
He sighed. Maybe he should go down and make it crystal clear: no amount of kneeling would change anything.
But he feared she'd cling again, beg again, unravel his resolve.
Another hour dragged by. Jeff kept watch from the shadows of his room, half-expecting her to cheat, to sit, to give up.
She never did.
"Emily…"
He knew she was a pampered princess, not built like Victoria Lang, who could endure anything. This kind of exposure would wreck her.
Sure enough, two minutes later, her body swayed.
With a dull thud, she collapsed sideways onto the wet stone, unconscious.
Jeff was down the stairs and out the door before he could think.
"Emily! Emily!"
He dropped to his knees, patting her cold, wet cheek. No response.
Years on the battlefield had taught him the difference between faking and real collapse. This was real.
He scooped her into his arms—her body limp, soaked, and surprisingly light—and carried her back inside.
For the first time in three years of marriage, Jeff Sterling finally held his wife.
The irony burned.
"Young Master." A servant appeared from the staff quarters.
Jeff took the towel she offered and began gently wiping rain from Emily's face and hair. "Call 911."
"Yes, Young Master."
The ambulance arrived fast. Paramedics loaded her onto the stretcher.
Before they left, Jeff pulled a female EMT aside. "When she wakes up, don't tell her I carried her in. Say you found her outside the gate."
The woman blinked, confused, but nodded. "Uh… okay."
Jeff gave them the Harper family's contact info.
Half an hour later—Riverforge Affiliated Hospital.
Emily was on an IV, already awake. Mild hypothermia and a budding cold, nothing life-threatening.
Sophia arrived with the rest of the Harpers. The family barely asked about her health.
Susan Harper leaned in first. "So? How did it go with Jeff?"
Emily's lip trembled. "He's so heartless! I knelt for two hours straight, and he still won't forgive me!"
Sophia shot her a quick look, then turned to the nurse who'd been on the call. "When you picked her up… was she inside the villa or still in the yard?"
The nurse hesitated. She'd seen Emily's tear-streaked face, the IV drip, the way the family treated her like a pawn instead of a patient.
She thought of the orders from that cold, rich man.
*Rich doesn't give you the right to make a woman kneel like that. Not when she looks this broken.*
The nurse lifted her chin. "She was right outside the gate. We found her collapsed in the rain."
Emily's eyes widened slightly—hope flickering.
Sophia hid a small, satisfied smile.
The game wasn't over yet.