Chapter 1On our seventh anniversary, Dashiell and I decided to tattoo each other's names on our chests.
When I groggily woke up after the session, I looked down—
[SLUT NO.1] was burned into my skin.
The tattoo artist, Sloane, covered her mouth with her hand, giggling.
"This tattoo suits you perfectly!"
I grabbed the cup beside me and hurled it at the floor.
Glass shards exploded toward her.
In a flash, Dashiell threw himself in front of Sloane, shielding her completely.
"Sloane's young! It was just a joke. You're seriously losing it over this?"
My eyes locked onto Dashiell's open collar.
Where my name should have been, "Sloane Fairmont" was clearly branded on his skin.
Sloane peeked out from behind him, sticking out her tongue, her voice dripping with fake sweetness.
"Dash said my name was pretty last time."
"I was just kidding around. You're not actually pressed about this... are you?"
...
My face went cold.
Before I could say anything, Dashiell's friends strolled in, all smiles.
"Man, you and Thalia are still going strong, huh?"
"Obviously. Remember when Dash proposed? Dude bought like a hundred thousand roses and turned that whole estate into a freaking rose garden."
"Seven years married and you're still getting matching tattoos? Dash, you're such a romantic."
"Wait, what'd you guys even get?"
Mid-sentence, their eyes landed on my exposed collarbone.
The laughter died instantly.
Their smiles froze. Eyes went wide.
The entire room fell into dead silence.
Only Sloane let out a soft laugh.
Dashiell frowned, pulling Sloane behind him.
"Sloane. Apologize."
She rolled her eyes and tossed out the words like they physically pained her.
"Sorry. Happy?"
She glanced at me and rolled her eyes again, muttering under her breath, "It was just a joke. Why's she being so extra?"
"Old bitch needs to chill."
Dashiell gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze.
Then turned to me with that calm, reasonable look he always wears when he's about to gaslight me.
"Sloane knows she messed up. Just let it go."
"She's only twenty. She doesn't have a filter yet. That's how kids are."
"You've always been mature about stuff like this. Don't make this a thing."
Every word was a soft knife wrapped in velvet.
Dashiell just stood there, playing peacemaker while openly taking her side.
I almost laughed at how absurd it all was.
"An apology?"
"I'm not accepting it."
I slowly pulled my collar closed, covering those humiliating words.
My nails dug into my palms.
It hurt.
But not even a fraction as much as the pain tearing through my heart.
I looked Dashiell straight in the eye.
"Since you clearly can't handle this."
"I'll deal with it myself."
With that, I turned and walked out.
As the door clicked shut behind me, I heard muffled voices inside.
"Did you see the look on Thalia's face? Legit got chills. She's a Hartwell—been spoiled rotten her whole life. There's no way she's letting this slide."
Someone else chimed in hesitantly: "Thalia's not the forgiving type. This isn't over."
Then came Dashiell's voice, calm and assured.
"She won't do anything. I know her. She's just upset. She'd never actually hurt Sloane."
He paused, then added, "Besides, I'll protect her. Thalia can't touch her."
One of them quickly played along: "Of course. Sloane's the one you actually care about now."
I stood outside the door, let out a cold smile.
'Won't do anything?'
Then I wouldn't be a Hartwell.
I slid into my car and made a call:
"Midnight tonight."
"Bring Sloane Fairmont to me."
"And have the skin graft equipment and medical team on standby."
Chapter 2
Just before eleven, my phone lit up.
A message from my brother.
[Security's bringing Sloane over. She'll be at the estate in twenty.]
Before I could reply, my friend sent me a video.
I tapped play.
Sloane's face filled the screen, grinning ear to ear.
"So today I gave a special design to some washed-up socialite hag."
She waved her tattoo gun at the camera.
"Wanna guess what I gave her? 'SLUT NO.1!'"
"You should've seen her face. She's like thirty-something and still wearing low-cut tops."
"God, her skin was so loose the needle barely held. I went over it three times on purpose. That shit's permanent now! Hahaha!"
The comments exploded with "queen behavior" and "icon energy" and strings of laughing emojis.
Sloane's smugness only grew.
"I've seen women like her a million times. They throw daddy's money around, sip fancy lattes at Bluestone Lane, and chase after rich guys. Not like me—I built my own business at twenty with my own two hands."
She sighed dramatically.
"But no matter how hard old hags try, they're still just... old. Even their husbands don't want them anymore."
"Next time I'll go live on TikTok and show you how I teach gold-digging parasites a real lesson."
The video ended.
I actually laughed.
Sloane Fairmont, you've got some nerve.
Slut. Old hag. Parasite.
When she was throwing those labels at me, did she ever think about what her own name used to be?
"Trash."
That's what she was called before I saved her.
Five years ago, I went to rural Georgia for a charity education project. Found her in a shack with a leaking roof.
She was sixteen. Curled up on a straw mat, covered in bruises.
Her face was gaunt and sallow. Her body was frail. Her eyes carried shame and despair she couldn't hide.
She grabbed my sleeve, "Miss, please help me. Take me with you..."
That same day, I brought her back to New York.
Took her in as my sister and changed her name to Sloane Fairmont.
She'd suffered? I gave her the best life money could buy.
She wanted an education? I sent her to Parsons.
She wanted to start a business? I invested without blinking and showed up in person to cut the ribbon at her tattoo studio's grand opening.
And now?
She used the skills I paid for to carve those words into my chest.
To humiliate me online.
And worse—she set her sights on my husband.
But what shocked me most?
Dashiell was protecting her.
A loud commotion snapped me out of my thoughts.
Dozens of security guards in black suits filed in, moving in perfect formation.
Two of them dragged Sloane forward and dumped her on the floor.
Like trash.
Like her past.
She struggled to lift her head, eyes blazing with fury.
"Thalia! All you know how to do is use your family's money to bully people. What else are you good for?!"
Then something seemed to occur to her.
She sneered.
"When Dash finds out what you did, he's gonna lose his shit!"
"And once he dumps you, you really think the Hartwells will want a daughter the Wilsons threw away? You'll be nothing!"
I looked down at her and smiled.
"When Dashiell was chasing after me, he didn't even know I was a Hartwell."
Her smile froze.
I crouched down, tilting her chin up with one finger.
"You're right about ONE thing."
"You're twenty. Young. Skin's tight and smooth... Perfect for covering up this ugly tattoo on my chest."
Her pupils instantly dilated in terror.
"What do you..."
"As for using my family's money..."
I cut her off, let go, accepting a sterilized towel from my butler, and carefully wiping my hands.
"You've got it wrong."
"In New York, I AM THE MONEY."
Chapter 3
The surgical lights flared to life.
The sharp sting of disinfectant hit me like a slap.
Suddenly, I saw eighteen-year-old Dashiell as clearly as if he were standing in front of me.
He always sat in the front row, spine rigid, posture perfect.
His collar was so worn the threads were coming loose.
Once, he missed three days of class with a fever.
I tracked him down to a construction site in Queens.
He was hauling bags of cement in the July heat.
I stuffed five grand in cash into his backpack when he wasn't looking.
But he chased me down three blocks to return it, voice cracking:
"Take it back. Please... I need my dignity."
So, after that, I just "happened" to bring an extra breakfast. "Accidentally" lent him my notes.
Then came the first snow.
I don't know how he found out my apartment address, but he just stood under the streetlight waiting until I went back past midnight.
"Dashiell..."
He pulled two cups of hot chocolate from inside his jacket—still warm—and handed them to me.
The first thing he said wasn't an explanation for why he came.
He just asked: "Thalia, can you wait for me?"
The wind whipped snow into my eyes, making tears spill down my cheeks.
"Of course."
Years later, he built his company from nothing. Took it public.
That night, he held me so tightly, voice breaking.
"Those years I only slept three hours a night."
"I was terrified I'd never catch up to you. That you'd realize I had to save for a week just to buy you a damn coffee."
I wrapped my arms around him, holding him like he was a child who needed comfort.
"Yes, you did it."
Then came the day he met my parents.
He walked into our living room and saw my father.
That's when he realized who I really was.
That night Dashiell told me:
"Everything I've killed myself for doesn't even touch where you started."
But that didn't break him.
If anything, it fired him up even more.
He became a total workaholic—absolutely relentless.
He threw himself into deals, into projects, burned himself out to claw his way into New York's elite circles.
Then he proposed with nearly a hundred thousand roses covering an entire private estate.
What did he say back then?
He said the only reason he existed was to become someone who deserved me.
The anesthesia started wearing off.
A dull ache pulsed in my chest.
Dashiell's love for me.
Grand and brilliant.
But too bad—it burned out fast.
Vows only sound good the second they leave your mouth.
A lifetime together couldn't even survive seven years.
"Miss Hartwell?"
I snapped my eyes open.
Wiped the tears.
"Mr. Wilson is back."
I looked down at my chest. The skin had been perfectly replaced.
The new patch was slightly pink but smooth and flawless. Like nothing ever happened.
Dashiell walked in carrying shopping bags, his usual easy smile in place.
He set down a Tiffany bag and reached out to touch my face.
"Thalia, Sloane went too far today."
"I got you a new necklace. Don't hold it against her, okay?"
The medical team had already left the estate.
Only a few security guards remained.
So, Dashiell didn't notice anything unusual.
He opened the jewelry box with a grin. The diamonds inside sparkled brilliantly.
"I promise I won't let Sloane act up again."
When he mentioned Sloane, his tone went soft. Gentle. He didn't even realize it.
I stood still, just watching him.
The Dashiell Wilson in front of me now wore a Patek Philippe worth tens of millions.
That frayed collar from years ago had been replaced by one with custom mother-of-pearl buttons.
Even the scent clinging to him—gardenia—was identical to Sloane's perfume.
I looked at him in all his polished, expensive glory and suddenly remembered that snowy night when he was eighteen.
Standing in the snow in a cheap puffer jacket with loose threads...
"Thalia?"
When I didn't respond, he stepped closer.
The gardenia scent got stronger.
Sloane suddenly burst out, stumbling into Dashiell's arms.
"Dash!"
"She had people pin me down and literally cut the skin off my body!"
"You said you'd always protect me. It hurts so bad!"
Dashiell's breathing stopped.
He looked at the gauze on her chest, then at my smooth, unmarked skin.
His throat bobbed hard.
"Thalia, what... happened to you?"
"How did you become so cruel?"
Sloane sobbed softly in his arms.
But when she looked at me, her eyes sparkled with victory.
"She's so young. She's gonna have a scar for the rest of her life. What's she supposed to do now?"
His voice got harsher. "She apologized! Did you have to destroy her to feel better?!"
I watched the way he shielded her.
And I thought of eighteen-year-old Dashiell.
He used to hold me so carefully, like I'd break if he squeezed too hard.
And he made his first vow—that he'd protect me for the rest of his life.
I forced down the bitter ache climbing up my throat.
"So, did you ever think about what I'm supposed to do with those words tattooed on my body?"
"SHE branded me. I took a piece of her skin. We're EVEN."
Dashiell opened his mouth but said nothing.
Seeing him go silent, Sloane burrowed deeper into his arms and suddenly let out a shrill scream.
"Dash! I'm pregnant with your baby!"
"You can't let her treat me like this! Take me away! Please just take me away!!"
