The Price of His Cruel Experiment

Introduction I loved Tristan for six months. For him, I even turned down an admission offer from Cambridge. I pinched every penny and worked multiple jobs just to support him, believing that as long as we worked hard together, we could build a future. Until that day, when I heard him tell his friends with my own ears: "Elena was just a tool to get Lauren to break up with her boyfriend. It was just a game. Who would take her seriously?" It turned out that his acting broke and struggling alongside me was merely a show for his adopted sister, Lauren. He wanted her to see how miserable poverty truly was, hoping to force her to leave her broke boyfriend. And I was nothing more than his carefully selected lab rat. When I learned the truth, I didn't cry, scream, or confront him. Instead, I accepted an invitation from a professor at New York University, agreeing to join a five-year, strictly classified research project. Five years from now, when I return with an entirely new identity, will he still be laughing? Elena's POV "Professor Miller, I've made up my mind." Standing in the tiny rental apartment, I held my phone tightly, my voice unnervingly calm. "I accept the classified, five-year research program." On the other end of the line, Professor Miller, a top scholar at NYU, paused for a moment. Once it sank in, he cautioned, "Elena, you need to think this through carefully!" "It's a completely sealed, five-year project. Once you enter the facility, your contact with the outside world will be strictly restricted until the project ends. More importantly... what about your boyfriend, Tristan? Didn't you just turn down an offer from Cambridge for him?" Hearing that name—once so tender, now so alien—made my eyelashes tremble. My gaze drifted to the cracked couple's mug sitting on the worn wooden desk. I had bought it with the cash I earned handing out flyers on street corners. It only cost a few bucks, but back then, Tristan held it with a bright, dazzling smile, promising he would keep it for the rest of his life. "It's fine... I'll settle all my personal affairs before I report. Don't worry," I said, lowering my eyes and forcing down the sharp ache in my chest. "I'll be at the facility early next month. Thank you for holding the spot for me, Professor." I hung up. Before the screen went dark, a notification popped up. Tristan: [Elena, I accidentally broke a piece of expensive equipment at my part-time shift today. The manager won't let me leave until I pay three hundred dollars in damages. I don't have a dime left on me. Can you wire it to me? It's an emergency!] Reading his text, my throat tightened. I opened my banking app and checked my balance: $320.50. That was my entire living budget for the month, plus next month's rent. If I sent him three hundred, I wouldn't even know where my next meal was coming from. Yet, I didn't hesitate. I didn't even ask for details. With numb fingers, I tapped the screen and transferred exactly three hundred dollars to him. When the green confirmation checkmark lit up the display, my strength gave out, and I leaned back against the peeling wall. A wave of hunger cramps twisted through my stomach, but I didn't even have the energy to stand up and pour a cup of warm water. How pathetic. I tilted my head back, staring at the dim, yellowish bulb hanging from the ceiling. My eyes burned with dryness, but not a single tear fell. I had truly believed he was working exhausting part-time jobs for us. I believed he was fighting beside me for our poor yet hopeful future. But what was the reality? My mind was pulled back to three days ago. It was pouring rain that evening. To earn an extra five bucks, I took an Uber Eats order heading to an upscale private lounge on the west side of the city. Riding through the storm, my cheap raincoat snagged on a metal railing, tearing a huge hole that let the rain pour right through. By the time I arrived, I was soaked to the bone. Walking into the lavish lounge, I felt like a stray mutt wandering into a palace. Farther down the hallway, the door to a private VIP room was cracked open, and bursts of laughter drifted out. I was about to knock when a voice stopped me dead in my tracks. Clear, lazy, and dripping with easy arrogance. "Tristan, man, how much longer are you going to keep up this charade?" a man asked, laughing lightly. "Watching you cram into that dump of a studio with that broke college girl every day makes me feel bad for you. Since when does the heir to the Vance family live like a street rat?" "Almost done," Tristan's voice replied, careless yet utterly composed. "My adopted sister, Lauren, has been fighting with that broke kid, Julian, nonstop lately. She grew up with a silver spoon; she has no concept of how brutal life is without money. If I don't get myself a cheap girlfriend and act out all the misery of being broke right in front of her, how else will she learn to back off?" The room fell quiet for a split second before erupting into even louder laughter. "Brilliant! Turning your own relationship into a social experiment just to scare off your sister. You're ruthless, Tristan. That Elena girl is so damn unlucky, picked as your lab rat. But seriously..." Tristan chuckled faintly. "What else could I do? I've loved Lauren since we were kids." "Too bad she fell for a nobody like Julian." "So I had to show her the true power of poverty." His friend paused, his tone turning probing. "That girl's actually gorgeous, though. And she loves you enough to die for you. After spending so much time together, do you really not feel anything for her?" Standing outside the door, I heard every single word with brutal clarity. I bit down hard on my lower lip. The edge of the takeout bag dug so deep into my palm that it left bloodless white marks. Rain dripped silently from my soaked hair onto the plush carpet. In the dark hallway, separated by a single door, I held my breath and listened, waiting for the final verdict. The VIP room went silent for several seconds. Then, I heard Tristan chuckle softly. His voice was light, dismissive, and utterly certain. "No feelings whatsoever." "She's nothing more than a prop to prove a point to Lauren. Fine as a little toy for a while, but who'd ever take someone like her seriously?" I couldn't remember how I left that place. All I remembered was the heavy rain slashing against my face, stinging sharply—yet it couldn't compare to the tearing pain spreading through my chest. That "no feelings whatsoever" was like a rusted spike driven violently into my heart. With every beat, it ripped the wound wide open. Right then and there, my heart died completely. Snapping out of the memory, I looked down at the new message Tristan had sent: [Thanks, babe, you're the absolute best.] Words that once made me blush and walk on air for days now only made my stomach churn with disgust. I tossed my phone aside, bent down, and dragged a dusty suitcase out from under the bed. I wasn't going to confront him face-to-face. I wasn't going to waste my breath on pointless arguments or screaming matches. When dealing with a man who had calculated your entire existence from day one, every word and tear was just another form of self-humiliation. All I needed to do was pack up and walk away cleanly and with dignity before his cruel little game reached its finale.Elena's POV At eleven-thirty that night, light footsteps echoed down the hallway outside. The key turned twice in the lock, and the door pushed open. Tristan stepped inside, carrying the late-night chill with him. He wore a faded, washed-out t-shirt, his hair slightly disheveled, and his face painted with just the right amount of exhaustion. "Elena, I'm home," he said as he kicked off his shoes by the door, his voice raspy. I sat on the worn fabric couch, holding an open book that I hadn't read a single word of. Hearing him, I stood up just like I had countless times before and walked toward the tiny kitchenette. "Dinner's on the stove, and I left fresh clothes outside the bathroom. Eat first." Tristan walked over to the small dining table and looked down at the meager meal: a plate of steamed greens and two slightly charred slices of toast. No meat in sight. His brow furrowed faintly, but he smoothed it out almost instantly. He picked up his fork and took a couple of bites, subtly tracking my expression from the corner of his eye. After swallowing, he asked casually, though an undercurrent of calculation lingered in his tone, "You sent me three hundred today. How are you going to manage the rest of the month? Did you... ask Lauren to lend you some cash?" My hand paused against the counter as I wiped it down. Turning around, I looked at Tristan under the dim light. His face was still the handsome face I had fallen for, but now, beneath that mask of tender weariness, I saw his true motives plain as day. He was waiting. Waiting for me to break, waiting for me to abandon my pride and beg Lauren for help. He was waiting for Lauren to see with her own eyes just how pathetic and desperate a woman became when stripped of wealth and forced to face the world alone. "No," I replied flatly, without a hint of emotion. "I still have savings. I don't need to borrow from Lauren." Tristan's fork froze mid-air. He looked up, a flash of pure shock and disappointment crossing his eyes. Unable to completely conceal the frustration of his failed plan, he slammed his fork onto the table. "What savings could you possibly have? I know exactly how much you make at your shifts! Elena, we can barely afford to eat right now. Why are you tormenting yourself? Lauren is your best friend. What's wrong with asking her for a little help?" "I told you, I can handle it. You don't need to worry about it." I turned away, ignoring him, and went back to wiping the already spotless counter. Tristan didn't say another word, but I could feel his dark, brooding gaze burning into my back. He pushed his plate away after barely eating, his face icy as he stormed into the bathroom. Less than three minutes later, a loud crash came from inside, followed instantly by the roar of violently gushing water. "Shit!" Tristan cursed from within. Expressionless, I put down the rag and walked to the bathroom door. Pushing it slightly ajar, I saw the water heater's inlet pipe completely severed. Water was pouring down like a torrential waterfall, instantly flooding the tiny bathroom ankle-deep. Tristan stood drenched in the middle of it, looking disheveled as he turned to look at me. "The heater broke again. This dump is always falling apart." This was the third time this month. I stood outside the doorway, staring at the murky puddle spreading across the floor. My fingernails dug so hard into my palms that they left deep, bruised impressions. I knew this playbook all too well. At the end of last month, the first time the water heater broke, Tristan had volunteered to fix it. He "accidentally" ruptured the pipe, and scalding water poured over the back of his hand, raising horrific, angry blisters. That night, my heart broke for him. I ran through the cold to three different 24-hour pharmacies just to find burn ointment. I didn't sleep a wink, sitting beside the bed all night, crying quietly while gently blowing on his wounds. Seeing his face twisted in pain, I wished with everything in me that the hot water had hit me instead. The next day, faced with medical bills and repair fees we supposedly couldn't afford, a pale, frail-looking Tristan held my hand and said: "Elena, please go ask Lauren. It hurts so bad... I can't take it." Because of those words, I—a girl who guarded her pride with her life—swallowed my dignity and knocked on the door of Lauren's luxury apartment. I got the money, but it was the most humiliating moment of my life. When I took Tristan to the clinic with that borrowed cash, Lauren happened to rush over to visit. Right in front of her, Tristan casually laid out all my struggles—like how I woke up in the middle of the night to hand-wash laundry just to save on the utility bill. I would never forget the shock and pity in Lauren's eyes, nor would I ever forget the subtle, mocking smirk playing on Tristan's lips from behind her back. And now, he was running the exact same play. "Really?" My voice was colder than ice. "Another accident? Tristan, don't you think your accidents are happening a little too often?" Tristan froze, clearly caught off guard by my pushback. He scowled, his tone turning hurt and defensive. "What are you trying to say? You think I broke it on purpose? Elena, I took shit from my boss all day at work, and I come home just to be interrogated by you?" "I'm not saying anything." I looked away and turned toward the bedroom. "Since it's broken, we'll hire a plumber tomorrow. Don't shower tonight." "A plumber costs money!" Tristan raised his voice behind me. "Then fix it yourself." The door clicked shut softly, cutting off the sound of his heavy, irritated breathing. I leaned against the door, sliding slowly down the wood until I hit the cold floor. Burying my face in my knees, my shoulders trembled violently, but I didn't let out a single sound. It turned out that watching someone systematically tear you apart while knowing the truth was a thousand times more agonizing than living in the lie.Elena's POV Morning sunlight filtered through the small, grimy window, unable to dispel the damp, musty stench hanging in the air. The water from the bathroom had seeped past the threshold and spread across the living room floor. Tristan sat on the couch with a dark expression, glaring at the puddle. Seeing me step out of the bedroom, he spoke up immediately, his tone laced with non-negotiable authority. "This pipe has to be fixed today, or the neighbors downstairs will complain. Call Lauren and borrow a hundred bucks." Ignoring him completely, I walked straight to the toolbox and pulled out a rusted crescent wrench. "I told you, I'm not borrowing anything." Rolling up my sleeves, I stepped barefoot into the freezing, murky puddle without even putting on shoes. I looked up at the water heater. The threading on the connector had clearly been twisted with violent, deliberate force. This was the masterpiece of his "accident" last night. "Elena, are you out of your mind?" Tristan stormed into the bathroom, grabbing my wrist with a tight grip and a deep frown. "What do you think you're doing? If you break it, we're in worse trouble! Is borrowing money really that hard? Is your damn pride more important than having a normal life?" "Let go." I looked at him coldly, without a trace of warmth in my eyes. "Since when does your definition of a normal life depend on bleeding my pride dry?" Tristan flinched at my icy glare, his fingers instinctively loosening. He gritted his teeth, letting out a dry sneer. "Fine. You think you're so capable? Fix it yourself then. Let's see how far you get." He took half a step back, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe to watch the show. I didn't spare him another glance. Standing on tiptoe, I clamped the wrench around the valve and pulled with all my strength. The rusted bolt wouldn't budge. I clenched my teeth, beads of sweat forming on my forehead, the veins on the back of my hand bulging with the strain. "You're turning it the wrong way," Tristan suddenly snapped impatiently. He pushed forward and ripped the wrench from my grasp. "Move. Let me do it." The moment he took over, I watched his wrist clearly. Instead of applying pressure to shut the valve, he intentionally yanked it in the exact opposite direction. A dull snap echoed through the small space. The already compromised pipe burst completely. Accompanied by a shrill, high-pressure screech, a geyser of scalding hot water exploded outward, blasting directly onto my exposed right forearm before I could dodge. "Ah!" A strangled gasp escaped my lips. The sheer force of the spray knocked me back two steps, slamming my spine hard against the tiled wall. Blinding agony erupted across my arm, feeling as though the flesh was being violently peeled from the bone. Clutching my arm, I slid down into the flooded floor, my face turning deathly pale as heavy drops of cold sweat rolled down my temples. Tristan stood frozen. Staring at my arm, which had instantly flushed bright red and blistered up, a flicker of genuine panic and distress flashed across his eyes. He dropped the wrench and reached out toward me. "Elena! Are you okay? Let me run some cold water on it..." His outstretched hand froze abruptly in mid-air. Then, slowly, he pulled his hand back. Looking down at me as I shivered on the floor in agony, his voice snapped back to that cold, matter-of-fact detachment: "See? I told you that you couldn't fix it. Now you're burned. Between the doctor's visit and the repairs, a hundred won't even cut it. Call Lauren right now. Tell her you got hurt and have her send five hundred." Leaning against the frigid tile, I looked up through the rising steam at the man standing over me. The pain had reached such an unbearable peak that I actually felt an urge to laugh. Cradling the arm that was already blistering and peeling, I pushed myself slowly to my feet. The dirty puddle soaked the hem of my clothes, but I didn't care. I just stared at him and asked softly, "Tristan... did you break the pipe on purpose, and then burn me on purpose, just so I'd humiliate myself in front of Lauren? Just to prove to her that being with a broke guy means you can't even afford to treat an injury?" Tristan's pupils shrank violently, his face draining of color. "What the hell are you talking about? Who burned you on purpose—" Buzz... Buzz... His desperate defense was cut short by the frantic ringing of his phone inside his pocket. Annoyed, he pulled it out. The instant he saw the caller ID, the dark cloud on his face vanished, replaced by an overwhelming tenderness and anxiety. Without even bothering to turn off the water, he answered immediately. "Lauren? What happened?" Through the receiver came the sound of Lauren sobbing hysterically, accompanied by the distant clatter of shattered glass. "Tristan... Julian picked a fight with me over some stupid project! He actually yelled at me for an outsider... I feel awful. Is Elena with you? Can you two come over? I'm scared to be alone..." "Don't cry. Don't be scared, we're coming right now!" Tristan's voice was impossibly gentle and soft, as if he was terrified of shattering the girl on the other end. In the eight months I had known him, I had never once been treated with such tenderness. He hung up, turned around, and his expression instantly snapped back into an urgent, commanding mask. "Lauren and Julian got into a huge fight. She's completely broken down. Go change your clothes; we're going over to her place." I stood rooted to the spot. Slowly, I lifted my horrific right arm, clear fluid already seeping from the raw burns. My voice was as faint as a dying breeze: "I'm hurt. It hurts so bad." Tristan's eyes lingered on the wound for a split second, his eyebrows knitting tightly together. He stepped forward to pull me along, but I pulled away. He sighed, softening his tone as if humoring a stubborn child: "Elena, I know it hurts. But Lauren is devastated right now. What if something happens to her while she's alone in that penthouse? You're her best friend; do you really have the heart to leave her crying alone? Just do this for me, okay? Let's go comfort her first. The second she calms down, I swear I'll take you straight to the clinic." Giving me no chance to refuse, he seized my uninjured left wrist and dragged me toward the door. The apartment door slammed shut with a heavy thud, locking the flooded chaos—and my shattered dignity—behind it.Elena's POV A luxury high-rise penthouse downtown. The moment the door opened, Lauren—barefoot and with red, swollen eyes—flung herself forward, wrapping her arms tightly around Tristan. Tristan smoothly patted her back, murmuring soothing words while grabbing a pair of custom, plush pink slippers from the cabinet with his free hand, bending down naturally to slip them onto her feet. I stood frozen outside the doorway, sharp, burning agony throbbing up my right arm. I watched Tristan's lowered profile, watched him carefully pull out a tissue to dab the tears from Lauren's lashes with the delicate precision one would reserve for an exquisite antique. "Stop crying. Don't waste your tears on someone like Julian. He isn't worthy of you," Tristan coaxed softly. The ache in my chest completely drowned out the physical agony of my burned flesh. It felt like a rusted saw dragging back and forth across my nerves. So he did know how to care for someone. He did know how to be gentle. It was just that his tender, protective instinct had never belonged to me. Sniffling, Lauren lifted her head. Looking over Tristan's shoulder, she caught sight of me standing outside the threshold, my face as white as a sheet. "Elena..." Lauren started, but her eyes locked onto my right arm. The skin was bright red and shiny, covered in dense blisters, with raw patches peeling at the edges. "Oh my god! What happened to your arm?!" Lauren pushed Tristan aside, rushing over in horror to gently take my hands, her tears spilling over again. Before I could say a word, Tristan stepped in, his tone light to the point of utter coldness: "It's fine. The pipe broke at home and she insisted on fixing it herself. A little hot water splashed on her. It's just a scratch. She'll be fine in a few days." "A scratch?! This looks like it's going to get infected!" Lauren glared at Tristan in utter disbelief, turning to pull me toward the elevator. "No way, we're going to the ER right now. Come on, I'm driving you." "Lauren!" Tristan blocked the doorway, a venomous flicker passing through his eyes. He let out a weary sigh, putting on a helpless, defeated act right in front of her. "It's not that I don't want to take her, but... we don't have the money. We can barely make rent next month. How are we supposed to afford an emergency room visit for a burn?" The air froze instantly. I snapped my head up, staring at Tristan in raw disbelief. Even now, he refused to let go of an opportunity to use me. In front of my best friend, he stripped away every last shred of my dignity, stomping me mercilessly into the mud of "poverty." Lauren froze, stunned. "Tristan, are you even a man? You can't even afford to take your own girlfriend to the hospital?!" Enraged, Lauren grabbed Tristan by the collar, dragging him forcefully into the bedroom and slamming the door shut with a loud bang. I was left completely alone in the lavish living room. Standing stranded at the edge of an expensive Persian rug, the physical pain was growing numb, but the despair inside was absolute. The bedroom door wasn't soundproof. Or rather, the two inside didn't care to lower their voices. "Are you insane?! Look at how much pain Elena is in!" Lauren's furious voice pierced through the door. Immediately, Tristan's cold, calculating retort fired back: "I'm not insane, Lauren—you are! Do you see it now? This is what life is like for broke people!" There wasn't a trace of the humble, helpless boyfriend left in his tone. Only the haughty cruelty of an elite: "You think love can pay the bills? Look at Elena out there! Look at how miserable she is with me! To save a few lousy bucks, she tried to fix a pipe, got burned, and can't even afford a hospital visit. She has to suck it up and suffer! That's the life you're choosing if you run off with Julian! You think your little spat today is bad? If you marry that broke loser, one day you won't even dare to see a doctor when you're sick. You'll just wait to die like a beggar, exactly like Elena! Is that really the life you want?!" Outside, I slowly closed my eyes. Tears finally slid down my pale cheeks, dripping onto my freezing hand. My injuries, my blood, the burning agony tearing through my flesh... to him, it was all just a vivid "teaching demonstration" to scare Lauren straight. The bedroom went silent for a long time. Finally, Lauren spoke, her voice laced with defeat. "Fine. I agree. I'll attend the Vance family gala this weekend as the family heir. I won't see Julian anymore. In exchange, you take Elena to the hospital. Right now." When the bedroom door opened, Tristan stepped out, a satisfied smirk curling at the corner of his lips. He turned to look at me, his eyes carrying the relief of someone who had just checked off an annoying chore. "Let's go, Elena. Lauren lent us the money for the clinic." I didn't look at him. I turned around, straightened my spine, and dragged my stiff legs toward the door, step by painful step.Elena's POV The emergency room of the private hospital. Harsh white fluorescent light bounced off the stainless-steel medical tray, casting cold reflections. Wearing a mask, the nurse dipped a cotton swab in Betadine and began cleaning the wound on my arm. When the swab grazed the ruptured blisters, the searing pain made me flinch violently. "Hold still! It's a deep burn, the skin has peeled away. Try to endure it," the nurse said, glancing up and looking around the empty cubicle with a scowl. "Why are you here dealing with a severe burn all by yourself? Where's your boyfriend? Wasn't he just here paying the bill? Where did he go? He should be here holding you still." Staring at my raw, bleeding arm, my voice was as flat as a stagnant pond: "He's busy." "Busy? What job is more important than his girlfriend getting hurt like this?" the nurse muttered under her breath. Her touch softened slightly, but the agony of debriding the dead tissue was still sheer torture. I bit down on my lower lip until I tasted iron. I knew she was trying to stand up for me, but I knew better than anyone that Tristan wasn't busy with work. Ding. The phone on the chair beside me lit up with a text from Tristan. [Elena, a quick gig popped up, so I had to head out. Take the bus back home after you're bandaged up. Don't wait up for me tonight.] I glanced at the screen and didn't bother to reply. Once the dressing was complete, I collected my antibiotics and painkillers from the pharmacy. Stepping out of the hospital doors, the biting evening wind sliced right through my thin jacket, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. My phone vibrated again, this time with an incoming call. The screen showed the manager of the Michelin-starred restaurant where I worked weekend shifts. "Elena, why aren't you here for your shift?" Mrs. Jenkins asked, sounding frantic. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Jenkins. I burned my arm and just left the ER..." "Oh, goodness! Can you still make it tonight? A high-profile client booked out the entire private banquet hall and demanded top-tier service. Someone called in sick at the last minute, and we're desperately short-handed. You'd only need to carry trays and pour champagne—no heavy lifting at all! I'll pay you triple your hourly rate! Can you make it?" Hearing "triple the rate," I hesitated. I only had twenty dollars left in my account, not even enough to buy tomorrow's painkillers. "Yes. I'll be right there." Half an hour later, I was changed into the restaurant's crisp black-and-white server uniform. To hide the thick gauze wrapping my arm, I wore a long-sleeved dress shirt. Even though the stiff fabric rubbed against the raw wound with every breath, sending sharp spikes of pain through my body, I gritted my teeth and pushed through it. "Move fast, people! Champagne service in the main hall!" the manager barked down the hallway. Balancing a heavy silver tray, I followed the line of servers into the opulent banquet hall. The moment I stepped inside, the swelling notes of a live cello and the blinding brilliance of crystal chandeliers washed over me. This was the city's most exclusive venue, a universe away from my damp, crumbling rental. Keeping my head down, I carefully wove through the guests. "Mr. Vance, I heard your little performance is almost over?" A teasing, fawning voice drifted from just a few yards to my right. The name "Mr. Vance" struck like a needle against my raw nerves. My hands gripping the tray seized up, and I instinctively lifted my gaze toward the sound. Just ten feet away, sitting dead center among the crowd, was the man holding court. It was Tristan. He wasn't wearing that faded, ragged t-shirt, nor was he sweating through a grueling minimum-wage shift for a few bucks. Right now, he was dressed in a bespoke black Italian suit I had never seen before—impeccably tailored, making him look towering, poised, and dripping with old-money elegance. He lounged casually on the leather sofa, his long legs crossed with lazy confidence, swirling an expensive flute of champagne. The chandeliers caught the face of the Patek Philippe on his wrist, throwing off a blinding glare. "Almost," Tristan said, taking a sip of champagne, a cool smirk playing on his lips as he chatted with the wealthy heirs around him. "Lauren saw firsthand today what happens to broke people when they get sick. She promised me she'd bring Julian over tonight to officially break things off in front of the family." Flattering laughter erupted around him. I stood frozen in place, feeling the blood drain completely from my head. The banquet hall was warm, but I felt as if I had been plunged into an icy grave. This was the "quick gig" he had to run off to. His "shift" was simply stepping back into his true, aristocratic skin, turning my agony into cocktail chatter to entertain his rich friends at a gala I didn't even have the right to attend. A sickening mix of absurdity and heartbreak pressed down on my lungs, suffocating me. I gripped the edges of the tray so hard my knuckles turned stark white, every breath tasting of copper. Just as I turned to flee this suffocating nightmare, my eyes drifted downward—and the moment they caught Tristan's breast pocket, my entire body locked up, my pupils dilating in shock. Poking out of the pocket was a delicate silver chain.Elena's POV The ballroom was warm, but I felt entirely frozen. Hidden in the shadow of a Roman pillar near the hall's perimeter, the edge of the tray bit into my palms. My roughly bandaged right arm throbbed under the gauze, but that physical agony was nothing compared to the sight before me. A few yards away, Tristan lounged on the leather sofa, surrounded by wealthy heirs. His black Italian suit was a limited bespoke piece, the Patek Philippe on his wrist gleaming with cold luxury, and even his dress shoes were hand-crafted pairs that took six months to reserve. I stood rigid, tallying the brutal math in my head. Any single piece of his outfit was worth six months—maybe a year—of my backbreaking labor. And yet, just hours ago, this very man had stood in our leaky studio, coldly demanding I beg Lauren for a hundred dollars to fix a pipe, even deliberately burning my arm to make his little act look convincing. And that silver chain sticking out of his pocket... it was far too old, far too cheap, looking completely out of place against his designer clothes. It was the only keepsake my late mother had left me. Last month, Tristan claimed he had gotten into trouble with loan sharks and desperately needed three thousand dollars to save his skin. I cleaned out every bank account, borrowed from classmates, and finally pawned that heirloom necklace under the pitying gaze of the pawnbroker, handing every cent to him. I thought he had used it to clear his debt; I thought the necklace was long gone. Yet here it was, completely safe in his pocket. I was shaking. Rage and humiliation flared into a blazing inferno, burning away my last shred of composure. I set the tray down on a nearby table, ready to storm over and ask him if trampling my heart into dust was really that amusing. Before I could take a single step, a pure white Samoyed bounded happily out from the adjoining parlor, wagging its tail and lunging straight for Tristan. Tristan chuckled, bending down to pet the dog's head. As he leaned over, the loosely tucked silver chain slipped from his pocket, landing squarely across the Samoyed's fluffy neck. One of his friends laughed. "Mr. Vance, your dog sure knows how to pick jewelry." Tristan glanced dismissively at the cheap silver chain, not even bothering to take it off. Instead, he casually adjusted it on the dog's collar, scratching behind its ears with a lazy grin. "If you like it, you keep it." Something inside my brain shattered into a million pieces. The heirloom I treasured more than my own life, the "ransom money" I had sacrificed everything to get... was nothing more than a cheap trinket to him, only fit to be a collar for his dog. Trembling violently, my feet rooted themselves to the floor. I couldn't take another step forward. Just then, a commotion stirred near the grand entrance. Lauren, dressed in an immaculate white couture gown, walked in with Julian on her arm. Though Julian came from a humble background, with Lauren's unwavering support, he stood tall, showing no sign of cowardice. Looking nervous yet radiant, Lauren led Julian toward the Vance family patriarch, boldly introducing the man she loved to high society. Julian could be brought before her family with pride, receiving their scrutiny and their blessings. And what about me? I looked down at my cheap server's uniform, at the rough gauze seeping with blood on my right arm, and then at my mother's heirloom hanging from a dog's neck. I didn't even have the right to confront him. Because in this grand social experiment, I was merely the most pathetic, laughable guinea pig. The heavy scent of perfume and alcohol in the hall turned my stomach. Clamping a hand over my mouth, I stumbled toward the terrace doors, desperate for a breath of fresh air. Pushing open the glass doors, the cold night wind rushed against my skin. Before I could catch my breath, Tristan's voice drifted from the shadows around the corner. He had stepped outside for a smoke, on the phone with someone, his voice dripping with unrestrained mockery: "...It's honestly pathetic. The girl is dirt poor. The other day I bought her a cheap, five-dollar bracelet off a street cart, and her eyes actually welled up with tears. She wears it every day like it's a treasure. Women like that are so easy to manipulate—toss them a little garbage, and they fall head over heels." The person on the other end said something, prompting a short, mocking laugh from Tristan. "Feel bad for her? Me? Tristan Vance feeling bad for a plaything? The experiment is basically over. Once Lauren announces her engagement, I'm kicking her out." I gripped the freezing stone balustrade, my knuckles turning white. Tears broke free, cascading down my cheeks and splashing onto my hands, blurring the world into darkness. This was the man I had loved unconditionally for a whole year. A sharp ache tore through my chest, making it nearly impossible to breathe as darkness crept into the edges of my vision. I turned to flee this sickening place, but my foot slipped on the wet terrace steps. Weightlessness overtook me, and with a loud splash, the freezing water of the courtyard pool swallowed me whole.