Sweet Love ad: 😍What happens next👉Click Here to read on👉

Her cat scratched her face. Not a dramatic wound. Just a line across her cheek that became a morning ritual she didn't ask for: check the mirror, assess the damage, wait for it to go away. It didn't. Not for nine months. What nobody explains is that when your skin barrier takes a hit, it doesn't just heal on a schedule. Inflammation stays. Redness holds. The repair process stalls unless the skin has what it actually needs to rebuild. The barrier isn't cosmetic. It's structural. And most skincare products work around it instead of with it. But there is something that survives extreme climates that can help with that: Arctic plants. Sea buckthorn, cold-pressed from Arctic coastlines, carries a rare concentration of Omega-7 fatty acids that help support the skin's own repair process from the inside out. Wild arnica can calm the inflammation that keeps damaged skin from settling. Together, they don't cover anything. They give your skin the building blocks it was waiting for. A year later, she said she finally stopped thinking about it. That's the only result that matters. If your skin is holding onto something it should have let go of by now, see if this Norwegian small-batch formula is right for you 👇

My mother used to sing in the garden every morning. I want you to hold onto that, because by the end of this you're going to understand exactly what it costs a woman to lose it — and you're going to recognise it, because it's happening to someone you love right now. My name is Claire. My mother is Pat. She is sixty-three years old and two years ago she disappeared in front of me, one small piece at a time, and not one doctor could tell me why. She didn't get sick. There was no diagnosis, no scan, no terrible phone call. It was quieter and crueller than that. She just stopped. Stopped singing. Stopped gardening. Stopped getting down on the floor with my daughter. Stopped sleeping. Stopped being the woman who raised me. And the whole time she smiled and said she was fine, because that is what women of her generation do — they suffer in silence and they call it coping. I am writing this because I almost lost her to that silence. And I am not going to let it take your mother too. — Let me tell you who my mother was, so you understand what was stolen. Pat raised three of us more or less alone after my father's heart gave out. She nursed him through his last two years without a single complaint. She hosts every Christmas, twelve of us round a table built for eight, and she does it on her feet for three days. She is the one the entire family rings when something has gone wrong and nobody knows what to do. And every single morning of my entire childhood, she was out in that garden by eight o'clock, on her knees in the beds, singing. Half the time the radio, half the time nothing at all, just the sound of a woman who was happy in her own skin. I grew up hearing it through the kitchen window. My own daughter grew up hearing it. That sound was my mother. Two years ago it stopped. — It started so small I told myself I was imagining it. A stiffness in her hip in the mornings. "Bit creaky today," she'd laugh. She was sixty-one. Everyone's creaky at sixty-one. That's what I told myself. Then the few minutes of creaky became twenty minutes of not being able to walk straight. Then her hip became both hips. Then her knees, on the stairs. Then her hands — my mother, who could fillet a fish and ice a wedding cake, couldn't open a jar of jam. She'd hand it to me across the kitchen without a word and something in my chest would crack, because she wouldn't ask. She'd just quietly hand me the jar. Then came the night I'll never get out of my head. We were staying over. I got up at four for a glass of water and the landing light was on. I found my mother sitting on the edge of her bed in the dark, both hands gripping the mattress, just sitting there. She'd been awake since two. She couldn't lie on her side anymore — thirty years of sleeping curled on her side and now it sent a bolt of pain through her hip that woke her gasping — so she slept flat on her back, when she slept at all, staring at the ceiling. She looked up at me and she was embarrassed. My mother, embarrassed, in front of her own daughter, at four in the morning, for the crime of being in pain. "Go back to bed, love," she said. "I'm fine." She was not fine. — And then the worst one. The one I have to make myself remember. My daughter — Pat's only granddaughter — had built something out of blocks and she ran to show her nana, the way she'd done a hundred times, expecting Nana to get down on the floor with her the way Nana always had. And my mother didn't. She stayed in her chair. And she said, "Bring it over here, darling, let Nana see it from here." My daughter's face did something small and confused, and then she carried her little tower over to the chair, and I stood in the doorway and watched my mother choose her chair over the floor because the floor had become a place she could no longer get up from. That was the day I understood my daughter was going to grow up with a different grandmother than the one she'd started with. A grandmother in a chair. And I went into the kitchen and I ran the tap so no one would hear me. — So I did what you do. I tried to help her fix it. We tried turmeric — everyone says turmeric. A bottle from the chemist, two a day, three months. Nothing. Collagen. Glucosamine. The big yellow bottle. Nothing. I took her to her GP myself. He pressed her hip, glanced at an X-ray, and gave us the sentence I have come to hate more than any words in the English language: "It's just wear and tear. It's her age. Take some ibuprofen." Her age. As if my mother was a worn-out kitchen appliance you keep until it dies. Physio. Twice a week, four months. Cortisone — two injections, eleven good days the first time, barely a week the second, then the pain came back worse, like it was angry it had been interrupted. Over a thousand pounds. Two years. And my mother got smaller, and quieter, and further away, and the worst part — the part that still makes me furious — is that she started to believe them. "Maybe this is just how I am now," she said to me one afternoon. My mother. Who nursed my dying father. Who feeds twelve at Christmas. Giving up. I wanted to scream at every doctor who'd shrugged at her. Because not one of them — not one — ever told us what was actually wrong. — It took a stranger at my sister's wedding to do that. Seated next to my mother at the rehearsal dinner was the groom's mother, Sheila — early seventies, sharp as a tack, walked to the pub from the next village and didn't mention it. I watched the two of them talk for half an hour, and I watched my mother's face change in a way I hadn't seen in two years. On the walk back, Mum told me what Sheila had said. Sheila had been exactly where my mother was. Stiff, shrinking, told it was her age. Until she found out it wasn't her age at all. It had a name. And once she knew the name, everything changed. The name is hormonal inflammation. When a woman goes through the change, her whole inflammatory system shifts — and in so many women it floods the joints and never switches off. That's the deep ache. That's why it starts in one place and spreads everywhere. That's why it's worst in the morning, because it builds overnight while she sleeps. That's why turmeric and collagen and cortisone and ibuprofen did nothing — because every single one of them was aimed at the wrong thing. None of them touched the actual fire. My mother had been suffering for two years from something with a name, and four medical professionals had handed her ibuprofen and called it old age. — But here is the part that nearly didn't happen, and it's the part I most need you to hear. When Sheila mentioned turmeric, my mother almost laughed in her face. "Tried it. Did nothing." And Sheila said: you tried the wrong one. The turmeric my mother had bought from the chemist — the one nearly every woman buys — is around three percent curcumin. Curcumin is the only part that actually fights inflammation. Three percent. The rest is filler. My mother had spent three months swallowing a capsule that was ninety-seven percent nothing and then concluded turmeric was useless. The version that actually works — the version in the real studies — is ninety-five percent curcumin, with black pepper extract so the body can absorb it instead of flushing it straight out. Not three percent. Ninety-five. My mother hadn't failed turmeric. The chemist had sold her a watered-down imitation of it and let her believe she'd given it a fair go. The brand Sheila used was called She Again — the concentrated version, ninety-five percent, with the black pepper, made specifically for the hormonal inflammation that was eating my mother's joints alive. Two capsules in the morning. That was the whole thing. — I'm going to tell you what happened, because I was the one watching, and I watched my mother come back to life. The first fortnight, nothing. We'd braced for that. Week four, I heard it. She was at the kitchen sink washing up and she was singing. Under her breath, something I didn't even recognise. She didn't notice she was doing it. I had to leave the room. Week six, my daughter ran to show her a drawing, and my mother got down on the floor. She just lowered herself down onto the rug and sat there with my little girl, and got back up afterwards, and nobody made a thing of it except me, standing in the kitchen with my hand over my mouth. By high summer she was back in the garden. On her knees in the beds at eight in the morning, secateurs in hand, doing the roses she'd let go wild for two years. She came in for lunch with soil on her forearms and I realised I'd been grieving that exact sight without knowing it. And then one morning she rang me from her car after a check-up, the bloods all fine, told to carry on exactly as she was. And underneath her voice, on the radio, I could hear her singing along. My mother was back. The chair didn't get her. My daughter has her grandmother — the real one, the one on the floor, the one in the garden, the one who sings. — So now I'm the stranger at the rehearsal dinner. I'm your Sheila. If you are watching your mother go quiet — if she's handing you the jar instead of asking, if she's choosing the chair over the floor, if she's awake at four in the morning telling you she's fine — she is not fine, and it is not her age, and she does not have to vanish into that chair. It has a name. It's hormonal inflammation. And the reason her turmeric did nothing is almost certainly that she was sold the three-percent version, like my mother was, like nearly every woman is. The strong one — ninety-five percent, built for exactly this — is called She Again. It's a smaller company and it sells out, so if it's gone when you look, get on the restock list, because it's worth the wait. Don't let her disappear an inch at a time the way I almost let my mother. Don't wait until your child is carrying a drawing over to a chair. She's still in there. Go and get her back.

Chapter 1 What Is the Gender? Twenty-five weeks pregnant, Sloane Powell caught her husband cheating—right outside the hospital. A tall, striking man in a black overcoat was shielding a soft, delicate-looking girl in his arms. The girl wore a white fox-fur coat. Her cheeks were rosy, her small face tucked into a fluffy wool scarf, her features pretty as a porcelain doll. Sloane clenched her prenatal checkup slip so hard her fingers went white. The cold wind sliced across her face, but it was nothing compared to the stabbing ache in her chest. Jaxson Cole saw her from far away. His expression stayed indifferent, not a trace of shame at being caught. He personally opened the car door for the girl, his demeanor gentle. So the cold, untouchable man at the top of the world could be tender, too. The girl seemed to notice Sloane. She paused, looked at Sloane with confusion first, then turned to Jaxson and asked, “Why is that old woman staring at you? Jaxson, do you know her?” The wind howled in Sloane’s ears. She didn’t know what else the girl said to Jaxson. But from the shape of her mouth, Sloane could clearly make out two words. “Old woman.” That was supposed to be her. Sloane’s lips curled into a bitter smile. She was only twenty-four. But she’d always been a little chubby, with an ordinary face. Wrapped in a black puffer jacket and a black knit hat, her late-pregnancy body was swollen and heavy. Add in the exhaustion on her face, and she really did look like some worn-out woman in her thirties or forties—how could she compare to a young, bright, beautiful girl? Jaxson protected the girl as she got into the car. Sloane stood frozen, watching the vehicle pull away. She and Jaxson had married because of the baby. This forced marriage—to a man like Jaxson, heaven’s chosen—was a stain on his life. The child in her belly was the tool she’d used to corner him. He hated her. And she had loved him in secret for eight years. Sloane knew she never deserved him. All she could do was study harder, keep pushing, take him as her life’s ideal, and chase after his footsteps. Finally, she got what she wanted. She became his assistant. She could stand close to him. But that night destroyed more than Jaxson. It also tore apart every last shred of pride and dignity she’d ever had in front of him. She would never forget the way he’d stared at her afterward—disgusted, like he’d touched something filthy that made him sick. So, of course, only a beautiful girl like that deserved him. A hot tear slid from the corner of her eye. Then her lower abdomen cramped hard. She hurriedly held her belly with one hand and braced the stone pillar beside her with the other. A passing nurse saw her and rushed over, supporting her and taking her into an exam room. It was just the emotional shock—she’d stirred the baby. Once she calmed down… Sloane left the hospital, driving alone back to Emerald Bay Mansion with a body and soul that felt wrung dry. This was Jaxson’s villa. Wren Cole, Jaxson’s grandmother, had arranged for experienced housekeepers from the Cole Estate to look after her. At that moment, the two housekeepers assigned to her were sitting in the warm living room like they owned the place, eating good food and laughing together. When they heard the sound, they turned toward the door. Seeing Sloane back, one of them stood and walked over, asking, “How were the results?” The attitude was arrogant, the tone dripping with contempt. They were supposed to be taking care of her, but they looked more like they were here to watch her and act like the real masters. Sloane only gave the housekeeper a cold glance and didn’t answer, heading straight for the stairs. The housekeeper frowned in displeasure. “I’m talking to you.” Sloane still ignored her. The housekeeper spat toward Sloane’s back. “Fat as a pig. You really think you’re some young mistress of the Cole family? Who are you trying to fool?” Back in her bedroom, Sloane sat on the bed, hollow and lost. Neither Jaxson nor the Cole family had ever accepted her. Wren had been the one to make the decision and force her and Jaxson to get their marriage certificate. But that was only because Noah Cole, Jaxson’s grandfather, had been critically ill. She’d shown up pregnant at just the right time, and they’d arranged the marriage to bring him good luck—two happy events at once. Whether it was coincidence or whether the “good luck” was real, Noah’s condition gradually improved. Only then did Wren’s attitude toward Sloane soften. But everyone else in the Cole family still looked down on her. Today’s hospital visit had been to confirm the baby’s gender. A girl. Mrs. Cole’s side had probably already gotten the hospital’s notice. Just then, her phone vibrated. Sloane pulled herself out of her thoughts. She reached into her bag and pulled out her phone. When she saw the caller ID, she froze—it was her advisor. She picked up. “Professor Grant.” “A spot just opened up for advanced study at Stanford—PhD track. You interested?” At Leo Grant’s words, Sloane went still for a long moment. When she didn’t answer, Leo continued, “If you’re not available—” “I’m in.” Sloane snapped back to the moment and answered with quiet certainty. This time, Leo fell silent. He knew better than anyone how hard Sloane had fought just to be worthy of standing beside Jaxson. Now that she finally had what she wanted—marriage, a baby on the way—how could she possibly walk away? He’d only mentioned the last slot on a whim, testing the waters. “Professor Grant,” Sloane said. Leo replied, “Come by my office tomorrow at ten.” “Okay.” He hung up without another word. Sloane set the phone down and let out a long breath. For the first time in a while, it felt like the clouds had parted, letting a sliver of moonlight through. She needed to wake up. A man who didn’t love you—no matter what you gave him, no matter if you bore his child—would never stay. He wouldn’t even glance back. Her phone rang again. This time it was Wren, asking her to come back to the Cole Estate. Sloane agreed. It was probably about the baby. Now she finally had a bit of energy. She went to the bathroom and took a long, hot shower. Afterward, sitting at the vanity, Sloane studied herself in the mirror—puffy face, dark circles under her eyes, sunken eyelids, cheeks dotted with freckles. Looking this worn down… who wouldn’t be repulsed? How could someone like her ever deserve to stand next to Jaxson? She put on makeup, slipped into a pink puffer jacket, and pulled on a white beanie. She looked much more presentable. She’d planned to drive herself back to the main residence. But the moment she stepped outside, Jaxson called. His voice came through flat and cold. “Come out.” Sloane startled. Wren must’ve told him to come back too. She answered, “Okay.” Outside the villa, his Rolls-Royce sat idling at the entrance. Two hours ago, that same car had picked up another woman and dropped her off somewhere. Sloane took a deep breath, walked over, opened the door, and got in. The moment she sat down, she caught a faint scent—sweet and young. On the seat beside her sat a pink teddy bear, the kind of plushie a girl would adore. When she lifted her gaze, she noticed a hair tie wrapped around the man’s wrist. A quiet claim. Jaxson must really like that girl. Sloane swallowed the sour ache rising in her chest, sat up straight, and buckled her seatbelt. The driver pulled away smoothly. Sloane stared out the window, silent. Before, every moment alone with him had been something to treasure. She’d inch closer, start conversations over and over, even if he looked down on her. Because she’d foolishly convinced herself they were already husband and wife—that they had a child, that there was a long future ahead. If she became a good wife, a good mother… maybe one day Jaxson would finally turn and see her. But in the end, it had all been lies she told herself. The man didn’t care about her feelings. As always, he was detached, asking in a casual tone, “What’s the baby’s gender?” Sloane answered, “A girl.” Hearing that, nothing shifted in Jaxson’s sharp, handsome features. He only said flatly, “After the baby’s born, we’ll get divorced.” The words landed. Sloane’s fingers tightened. It felt like a hand had clenched around her heart, making it hard to breathe. This marriage was never meant to last. She’d always known. But hearing him say it—now, like this—still cut deeper than she’d expected. She bit her lip and answered, “Okay.” Jaxson turned his head to glance at her, as if surprised she’d agreed so easily. Chapter 2 He Came Home Early But he didn’t dig into it any further. Sloane followed up right away. “Tomorrow’s Monday. Do you have time in the afternoon? Why don’t we go to Civil Council early and get it handled? It shouldn’t matter if we do it two months ahead of time, right?” Even after signing, there was still a one-month cooling-off period. And it wouldn’t be long before she gave birth. Jaxson looked at her. She was too calm, too straightforward. Something like scrutiny flickered in his eyes before he pulled his gaze back. “Whenever I call, that’s the time.” Sloane lowered her eyes and didn’t speak again. The car arrived at the Cole Estate. Wren had called them back because of the baby in Sloane’s belly. The Cole family had more men than women. Wren had two sons. The eldest was Ethan Cole. The younger was Julian Cole. Ethan had two sons. The eldest, Felix Cole, had gotten married a few years ago and had a pair of twin boys. They were five this year. The younger, Miles Cole, was twenty-four and still unmarried. Julian only had one son—Jaxson. So when it turned out Sloane was carrying a girl, both Wren and Noah were overjoyed. “It really is good news. The moment our little sweetheart arrives, the old man’s illness is basically cured.” Seeing how much her mother-in-law valued the baby, Lyra quickly echoed her, then added a couple of nice words to Sloane. Sloane sat quietly to the side, hands folded, her posture obedient. Looking at her—plump, head bowed, meek as could be—Lyra found her hard to stomach. But with Wren right there, she kept it off her face. Wren, however, was in high spirits. She gifted Sloane an expensive emerald bracelet. Sloane blinked, flustered, and immediately tried to refuse, pushing it gently back. Lyra Cole, Jaxson’s mother, spoke up. “If Wren’s giving it to you, take it.” So small-town. So timid. Just like someone who’d never learned how to carry herself in public. Sloane stopped protesting and accepted the bracelet. “Thank you, Grandma.” “Take good care of that baby. Give us a healthy, chubby little one.” Sloane smiled and nodded. She knew Wren’s kindness had nothing to do with her. Originally, she and Jaxson were supposed to stay for dinner. Until Jaxson stepped out to take a call. Through the glass door, she saw something shift in his expression—a softness in his eyes, indulgent, almost tender. It sounded like they’d just gotten a pet. Jaxson murmured the pet’s name. Sweetie. If he married the woman he actually loved, she thought, he’d probably make a good father. “Mm. I’ll be right there.” He hung up. When Jaxson turned and walked back in from the balcony, he found Sloane standing just inside. She flinched, slow to react, lifting her gaze to meet his—only to be met with the cold, distant face of a stranger. Her chest tightened. She managed, “Grandma wants you in the study.” He said nothing. Just walked past her. Sloane stayed where she was, heart clenched in a grip she couldn’t loosen. She didn’t know how long she stood there before she finally came back to herself. Jaxson reached the study. Wren and Noah were both inside. “Jaxson,” Wren began, “Grandma knows you don’t have feelings for Sloane. But the baby’s almost here. And Sloane herself is accomplished—top university, well-educated, gentle. What this marriage needs right now is stability. She’s the most suitable partner for raising children and supporting her husband.” Jaxson said nothing. But the faint furrow in his brow—the tension there—spoke volumes. How could Wren not see it? Sloane really was plain. Standing next to her grandson, they just didn’t look right together. Noah cut in. “Right now, your marriage can’t afford any disruptions. If you truly don’t care for her, as long as she doesn’t do anything reckless, keep things steady for a year or two.” Wren added, “Exactly. Too many people are watching you, waiting for a story. Let her raise the child first. Divorce later—it won’t be too late.” Jaxson was quiet for a long moment. His handsome features revealed nothing. Finally, he said, “Grandpa, Grandma. I understand.” When Sloane saw Wren again later, Wren said simply, “Something came up at Jaxson’s office. He had to leave. I’ll have the driver take you home.” Sloane nodded. “Okay.” Before she left that day, Wren reminded her, “Even though you’re pregnant, you still need to exercise more and take care of yourself. Back when Lyra was pregnant, she still had to accompany her husband to events and manage the household. Some things are easy to get, but holding onto them isn’t easy.” Sloane understood instantly what Wren meant. Being a daughter-in-law in Cole family wasn’t easy. If she wanted to secure her position, she had to change herself. And in her current state, she would only embarrass Jaxson. She had thought about getting better—working out, doing yoga, trying to lose weight. But she lacked the drive to keep going. She grew exhausted in body and mind, and her weight only climbed. But Wren was right. She couldn’t keep sinking like this—though not to secure her place. For her future self. “Grandma, I understand.” Night. What surprised Sloane was that the man who’d brought up divorce that morning actually came home. “You…” “Make me a bowl of chicken soup and bring it to the study.” After that, Jaxson went upstairs to the study. Sloane snapped back to herself, went to the kitchen, cooked a bowl of chicken soup, and delivered it to the study. He was flipping through documents in his hand, his features hard and cold, his whole body giving off a distant, untouchable chill. She didn’t disturb him. She turned and left the study. Even if he came back, they still slept separately. He slept in the master bedroom on the second floor. She slept in the guest room on the first. The next day. Because Jaxson was home, the housekeeper prepared a lavish breakfast. He sat at the main seat and didn’t see Sloane. Usually, when he was home, Sloane not only ironed and prepared the clothes he’d wear the next day, she also made his breakfast herself. She really had been a dutiful, proper wife. But that morning, there were no freshly ironed clothes laid out. And breakfast had been made by the kitchen staff. “Where is she?” Jaxson asked, irritation creeping into his voice. Maren didn’t hesitate to unload her grievances. “I went to wake her first thing, and she just refuses to get out of bed. Every day we have to bring meals to her room. She acts like we don’t exist. Ask her what she wants to eat—she won’t say a word. We’re not mind readers. She’s just pregnant, that’s all. When Mrs. Cole was expecting you, Sir, she still serve Mr. Cole well. But this one? She acts like she’s checked into a resort.” Jaxson’s brow tightened. “Go wake her up.” “Yes, sir.” Sloane had actually been awake for a while. She was just waiting for Jaxson to leave. Then the door swung open, and Maren walked in without knocking. Spotting Sloane already seated on the sofa, she let out a sneer thick with contempt. “Oh, look at that. The Young Madam, waiting to be invited out of bed.” Sloane lifted her gaze, her voice cool. “I’m not. Are you?” For months, Sloane had kept her head down, never once talked back. Maren hadn’t expected that. “If you keep forgetting your place, don’t blame me if I tell Wren exactly how you’ve been carrying on.” She was getting divorced anyway. What did she have to lose? With two months left, why keep swallowing insults? Maren’s eyes went wide. “You—” Just yesterday, Lyra had called and told them to take good care of her. Even if it was a girl, this would be the only daughter of the Cole family’s third generation. Sloane was lucky—carrying a girl meant Wren had taken notice. Maren choked back her anger. “The Sir’s waiting for you in the dining room.” Sloane was surprised. She made her way to the dining room. Jaxson was already eating. He glanced up as she entered. She wore a white knit tunic, the fabric stretched out of shape by her swollen body. Her steps were unsteady, her pace slow, her belly so heavy she looked like she’d carried multiple children before. Sloane felt his eyes on her and consciously sat far from him. Then she heard his flat, cool voice. “Maren and the others have been with the Cole family for decades. You can’t expect them to cater to you in everything. You’re only pregnant. It’s not like you can’t move.” Only pregnant? Yeah. To him, this accidental child probably meant nothing at all. This sudden scolding of his had to be because Maren had been running her mouth to him. And it wasn’t the first time. Sloane stirred the porridge in her bowl, her voice even. “If they resent having to look after me, then send them back to the main house. I can manage on my own.” After all, she cooked for herself, washed her own clothes, cleaned her own room. The staff only bothered putting on a show when Jaxson was around. Jaxson’s brows drew together. Sloane recognized that expression—it was his tell. Displeasure. In work and in life, Jaxson was relentlessly controlling. He didn’t tolerate being contradicted. “I’m telling you. I’m not asking for your input.” Sloane lowered her head and fell silent. Jaxson looked at her—that flat, hollow expression—and his jaw tightened. He turned to Maren and the others and told them that from now on, she could handle her own affairs. They didn’t need to wait on her. Sloane’s fingers tightened around her fork. Breakfast ended. Jaxson left. Sloane went to Silverlake University. She arrived at Leo’s office. Behind the desk sat a young man in a tailored suit. His nose was sharp and straight, rimless glasses resting on its bridge, his bearing composed and deliberate. Leo was only twenty-nine—the youngest full professor in Silverlake University’s Finance Department, a near-legendary figure whose name carried weight throughout the financial world. Sloane raised her hand and knocked. Chapter 3 Not a Good Match When Leo looked up and saw the woman standing in the doorway, he froze for a beat. He didn’t recognize her at first—until she spoke. “Professor Grant.” Leo smoothed his expression without a trace and said, “You’re here.” Sloane took off her mask and walked into the office. “Professor Grant. Long time no see.” Leo smiled gently. “Long time no see. I almost didn’t recognize you.” Sloane hooked her lips in self-mockery. “With how I look now, I almost didn’t have the nerve to come see you.” Leo stood and came around from behind the desk. “It’s normal for your figure to change during pregnancy. Once you have the baby, it’ll get better.” “Sit.” Sloane sat on the sofa. Leo poured her a cup of warm water. “Warm up.” Sloane took it. “Thank you.” Leo glanced at her swollen belly. “How many months?” “Twenty-five weeks,” Sloane said. Leo said, “Then when school starts at the end of January next year, you’ll be right at your due date.” Sloane pleaded, “I want to ask you for help, Professor. Can I delay enrollment?” Having a baby was unavoidable, but she really didn’t want to miss this chance. Leo’s face turned serious. “Why do you want to go?” Sloane lowered her eyes. “After the baby is born, Jaxson is planning to divorce me. I don’t want to keep this twisted connection going either. I want to start over and live my own life.” Six months wasn’t long. It wasn’t short. But for her, it felt as long as an entire lifetime. Leo couldn’t help frowning. The sunny, lovable girl from back then had changed beyond recognition in such a short time. You could imagine what kind of torment—body and soul—she’d been through. “I’m relieved you’ve thought it through and decided to pull yourself together,” he said. “You and Jaxson really aren’t a good match. From now on, you’ll definitely meet someone who truly loves you.” Sloane kept her eyes lowered and nodded. Back then, Leo had opposed her going to Jaxson’s side as his assistant. But she insisted. In the end, she crashed headfirst until she was bleeding. She suddenly asked, “In your eyes, Professor Grant, what kind of person is Jaxson, really?” Leo fell silent for a moment, then said slowly, “Someone who will do anything to reach his goals. Profit above everything else. He probably won’t have love.” “Is that so?” Yet the tenderness he showed that girl couldn’t be fake. Maybe only someone who loved to the point of ruin would lower himself like that. Only a beautiful, stunning woman was worthy of him. Sloane didn’t ask anything else. “Since you’ve decided,” Leo said, “when the time comes, I can help you apply to delay enrollment.” “Thank you, Professor.” Leo had her fill out an application form. Sloane finished filling it out. “After the baby is born, will you leave her with the Cole family?” Leo suddenly asked. Sloane tugged her lips helplessly. Even if she wanted to take the child, it would be impossible. She could only be the one who let this child down. “The Cole family should take good care of her.” Leo didn’t press further. “I happen to need an assistant. Just for a month. Want to try?” Sloane agreed without hesitation. “Okay.” Ever since she got pregnant, Jaxson’s side had transferred her to an insignificant position in the secretarial office. Overnight, she fell from CEO assistant to a nobody, and all her effort turned to foam. She really did need a new job to distract herself, to make her life move again. It would also be the perfect way to prepare in advance for further study later. And she’d taken the day off anyway. Sloane stayed on and began working as the professor's assistant. She had been Leo's student originally, and after those months of intense, high-pressure work at Jaxson's side—even though she'd spent the last few months in a fog—she still picked things up quickly. Handling the tasks came easily. For the first time in a while, Sloane felt a flicker of clarity, like she'd found herself again—found the real value of her own existence. Just like Leo always said, she was meant to thrive in a professional setting. Love was never supposed to be the only thing in life. That night. Jaxson didn't come home. Same as always—he only showed up once in a while. Only this time, she didn't care anymore. The next day. She drafted her resignation letter ahead of time. Jaxson oversaw the Cole Group's financial sector, including its banks and investment funds. In an industry soaked in betrayal and cutthroat ambition, where reputation and wealth were everything, the fact that he'd inherited the Cole family's core enterprises—and kept acquiring and expanding without pause—proved not only that he had an exceptional mind and ruthless instincts, but that he also possessed a cold, unyielding heart. Sloane arrived at the office and happened to see Jaxson stepping out of his car. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a sharp suit—devastatingly handsome, commanding. Wealth and status only sharpened his appeal, giving him a mature, almost magnetic presence. "Mr. Cole." Employees lowered their heads in respect as he passed. Sloane snapped out of it and quickly dipped her head too, stepping back a pace. The man walked past as if she weren't there and strode into the building. Sloane handed her resignation letter to Thea. Thea was Jaxson's secretary. She used to be Sloane's subordinate. Funny how things turned out. Now Sloane reported to her. When Sloane had been abruptly demoted, the whole department had been stunned. Right after college, she'd been made the CEO's assistant. That role demanded more than competence—appearance mattered too. And Sloane, whether in looks or figure, was unremarkable. Yet she'd still been chosen, which said something about her ability. The CEO, notoriously hard to please, had even praised her more than once. But Thea knew the real story. Sloane was just a frog dreaming of swan meat—trying to sleep her way up. No matter how capable, she still wasn't decent. That was exactly why. Mr. Cole despised her down to his bones. Thea glanced at the resignation letter, her eyes flicking over Sloane's pregnant belly. Her lips curled. "People should learn their place. Take a good look in the mirror. Don't think carrying a baby buys you a ticket up. Do you even know what kind of family the Coles are? What kind of standing you have?" The fact that she and Jaxson were already legally married—no one in the company knew. Chapter 4 I Don’t Want to Hear Your Excuses “Have the financial report analysis for Vegas Partners done before lunch break ends.” Sloane went back to her desk. Even though she’d been transferred to the secretary department as nothing more than a low-level clerk, Thea still dumped a pile of work on her—tasks that were never supposed to be hers. And Sloane accepted every single one. She stayed at the company like this, working herself to the bone, but it was just her own self-deception. Jaxson was never going to spare her a second glance. After finishing the report analysis, Sloane handed both the electronic file and the printed copy to Thea, then ordered delivery. The company had a cafeteria, but she always brought her own lunch. She didn’t want to go somewhere crowded. She didn’t want people’s eyes weighing her up and down. She didn’t want to socialize. She only wanted to be alone, quiet, and undisturbed. But she hadn’t prepared lunch this morning, so she made do with delivery. While she waited. A couple coworkers returned to the office after eating, walking in while chatting excitedly. “Mr. Cole’s girlfriend is so young—she’s still at college, right?” “Probably. She’s seriously gorgeous, like a doll.” “And the way the CEO looked at her—so soft it was practically dripping. Who knew someone as stern as him could be that devoted? It’s literally the real-life romantic novels!” The two of them talked as they came in, then noticed Sloane at her workstation, sitting there like a stone statue. Ever since she’d been transferred to the secretary office, she barely spoke to anyone outside of work. Lately she’d gotten more and more withdrawn, wearing a mask all day like she couldn’t show her face. It was hard to imagine that just over half a year ago, she’d been the CEO’s glorious, untouchable assistant. After getting the delivery driver’s call, Sloane stood up. When she went downstairs to pick up her food. She happened to run into two hotel staff carrying boxed dishes, asking the front desk for directions. The receptionist swiped a card for the CEO’s private elevator. Sloane saw the bottle of red wine in one staff member’s hand. Just that single bottle cost around two million dollars. Two million—pocket change to Jaxson, money he could earn in less than a minute. She carried her delivered braised pork rice back upstairs. At two in the afternoon. Thea came to her and said, “Mr. Cole wants to see you.” Sloane’s heart jumped. A vague, terrible premonition rose in her chest. And sure enough. The moment Sloane stepped into the CEO's office, the weight of the room pressed down on her like a physical force. She walked to the desk and said, "Mr. Cole." When Jaxson looked up, his handsome face was cold and hard. Without a word, he hurled a file folder at her. It struck her square in the face. The sharp edge of the paper sliced across her cheek. A sting flared instantly. She stared at the documents scattered at her feet—her report from this morning. One hand braced against her stomach as she bent down awkwardly to gather them. The man's dark eyes tracked the way she held her belly, the slow, careful way she crouched. Sloane scanned the report in her hands and spotted several incorrect figures immediately. She said, "Mr. Cole, this isn't the report I wrote." "Enough. I don't want to hear excuses." Sloane's grip tightened on the papers until her knuckles went white. Jaxson knew her capabilities. He wasn't refusing to listen—he was choosing to believe she'd failed. To be hated this much by the man she loved... she was pathetic. A joke. She drew a slow breath, closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them and forced the words out. "I kept a backup. I can send it to you now. After you've seen it, you can tear into me then. It won't be too late." Jaxson's eyes narrowed. Displeasure flickered openly across his face. Sloane's nerves pulled taut. Deep down, she was afraid of Jaxson—the kind of fear you have for someone with power, especially when his expression went cold. She almost never dared to contradict him. But now she forced herself to stay steady. They were getting divorced anyway. She'd give him what he wanted. After this, she'd never set foot here again. She'd stopped hoping for anything from him. So what was there to be afraid of? "You think you've been wronged?" His voice was ice, edged with mockery. Sloane met those sharp, black eyes. Her nails pressed into her palms as her voice came out heavier. "You didn't even ask what happened before you blamed me. Don't I deserve to defend myself?" Jaxson's expression turned arctic. "Then that's something you deserve." A violent pain ripped through Sloane's chest. The color drained from her face. Then. The lounge door opened. A young girl stepped out in a pink satin slip dress. Her long black hair gleamed, her skin almost luminous, her features so delicate they were impossible to look away from. “Jaxson!” Her voice was like a gentle spring rain—soft, warm, and tender. Sloane finally saw the girl’s face clearly. She really was stunning enough to make anyone feel inferior. Sloane only looked once before the man barked harshly, “Get out!” Sloane pulled her gaze back, swallowed the surge of emotion, turned around, and walked out. The moment she left the office. She heard the girl soothing him gently, and the man quickly calmed down. Sloane lifted her chin, forcing the tears in her eyes back down. She went to the deserted stairwell corner. One hand held the railing. Her emotions finally snapped, and tears fell in a steady stream. The pain in her heart twisted so hard her stomach churned. To rip an eight-year love out of her heart completely was no different from carving bone and stripping flesh. But it was fine. Everything would get better. She would forget him completely. She didn’t know how long passed. When she finally calmed down and went back upstairs toward her workstation, she ran into the girl walking toward her. The girl was dressed head to toe in custom designer brands, exquisite from hair to heels—clearly someone raised in luxury and spoiled with love. Adrian escorted her personally. He was Jaxson’s special assistant. Seeing Sloane, the girl smiled and walked over, stopping in front of her. In a gentle voice, she said, “It’s okay now. Jaxson won’t blame you anymore.” As she spoke. She reached into her bag, took out a pearl, then took Sloane’s hand and placed it in her palm. “This is for you. Don’t be sad. And remember to treat the cut on your face. It won’t look good if a girl has a scar on her face.” What a beautiful, kind girl. Compared to someone glowing with youth like her, Sloane felt like a clown living in a dark world. When Sloane didn’t respond at all. Adrian frowned and reminded her coldly, “Aren’t you going to thank Miss Reed?” So her last name was Reed. Liora Reed withdrew her hand. “It’s fine. Let’s go.” The two of them left. Sloane stood where she was, staring at the silver-blue Australian white pearl in her palm—flawless, as pure as that girl. She just didn’t know whether Miss Reed understood the fact that Jaxson was already married. Back at her desk. She printed the original document again and delivered it to Thea. When Thea saw her, there wasn’t a trace of shame on her face—only smug satisfaction. “Did you see it clearly? That’s what a girl who’s worthy of the CEO looks like.” Sloane slammed the materials down in front of her. “So I’m not worthy—and you’re not either. You can only pull trashy little tricks like this. You’ll never have a future in your life. You’re already in your thirties—hurry up and find someone to marry. Stop day dreaming.” Chapter 5 Look Similar Thea’s face changed in an instant. She slammed her palm on the desk and shot to her feet. “Sloane!” Sloane couldn’t be bothered to respond. She turned and walked away. Back at her workstation. Sloane pulled out a small mirror and looked at the faint blood mark on one side of her cheek. It wasn’t deep. She wiped it once with a damp tissue. No need to do anything else. With a face like hers now, what did one more scar matter? And then she thought of that girl again. Somehow, she looked familiar. Near the end of the workday. Sloane got a call from her dad. Ezra was back, and he wanted her home for dinner. Sloane brightened. “Ezra is back? Didn’t you say he’d be home on the fifteenth?” Her father said, “He wrapped up work and came back early.” “Okay. I’ll come home as soon as I get off.” Sloane drove back to the Powell family house. Their place was in a mid-range complex in the west side of the city, a spacious secondhand condo they’d bought earlier this year. Her father ran a mid-sized real estate company. They weren’t some elite dynasty, but they’d always lived comfortably, so Sloane had grown up in a well-off life. But the market had turned cold. More than half a year ago, a failed investment blew a hole through the company’s finances, pushing it to the edge of bankruptcy. When her father found out she was pregnant with Jaxson’s child, he hadn’t forced her to march up to the Cole family and demand an answer. Watching her father grow older and more worn by the day—so desperate he was already selling off assets just to pay debts—Sloane finally made her choice and went to the Cole family. Back then, she’d had her own selfish reasons. It wasn’t only for her father. It was for herself, too. She did get what she wanted. The Powell family cleared the debt because of a huge bride price from the Cole family. But she’d paid the price she was supposed to pay. So the pain she suffered now… it was all her own doing. She couldn’t blame anyone else. Back at the Powell House. Nora came out of the kitchen. “Sloane, you’re back.” When Sloane was nine, her mother divorced her father. Her mother took her brother and left Sloane behind. Later, Nora met her father, but the two of them never got a marriage license. They lived together like partners. At first, Sloane didn’t accept her—she even hated her. But little by little, she felt Nora’s kindness. And Ezra treated her so well. After losing her brother, she’d gained a new one. “Aunt Nora, where are my dad and them?” “They should be on the way. They’ll be back soon. Go rest for a bit first.” “Okay.” Sloane went back to her room. Even though she was married, her father had always kept a bedroom for her, renovated in the style she liked. Back in a place that belonged to her, all the exhaustion and bitterness inside her vanished in a single breath. She sat on the edge of the bed and saw the photo album on the nightstand. She reached for it and opened it. The very first photo was a torn family portrait. The picture was old. She had been eight that year. Her young, handsome father held her in his arms. Beside him stood her brother—he’d been fourteen. On the other side was her mother. She was the one who had ripped the photo. Because she’d hated her mother for taking her brother and abandoning her and her dad. Time had passed, and now that ripping, splitting pain no longer existed the way it used to. She turned to the next page. In the photo, a teenage girl looked bright and beautiful. She wore a long white dress and a light-brown woven little square cap, standing beneath golden ginkgo trees. The sunlight fell perfectly over the girl’s radiant smile. Long black hair. A small oval face. Features that were vivid and striking, moonlit and mesmerizing. Especially those eyes—sparkling like stars in the sky. But later, she’d gotten seriously ill and had to take steroid medication. Her body slowly gained weight. No matter how she tried to lose it, nothing worked. She could only rely on starvation and exercise to keep herself from getting even bigger. All at once, Sloane thought of the girl from today. Her features looked somewhat like the girl in this photo—especially those eyes. Chapter 6 Far Out of Her League Knock, knock, knock. "Sloane, your dad and brother are back," Nora called through the door after knocking. Sloane didn't think much of it. She set the photo album down, got up, and walked out. The moment she saw the two men coming in, her face lit up. "Dad, Ezra." Ezra and Silas Powell both looked at her. "Sloane, I brought you something. Come see if you like it," Ezra said, motioning her over. Sloane hurried toward him, delighted. "What is it?" Ezra carried in several bags and set them on the coffee table. Then he pulled out a designer jewelry box and handed it to her. "Open it." Sloane took it happily. Inside lay a beautifully crafted gold bracelet. "Thank you, Ezra. I love it." "Glad you like it." Ezra reached out and ruffled Sloane's hair with easy affection. He'd also bought Nora a different gold bracelet that suited her, along with skincare sets for both women. For Silas, he brought tea and liquor, plus local specialties. The atmosphere was warm, easy—the way home should feel. Only here did Sloane feel like she could finally breathe. "Sloane, when are you due?" Ezra asked, concern creeping into his voice. Her belly really did look like someone else's late-term pregnancy. "Two more months," Sloane answered. "Sloane must be carrying a girl," Nora said with a smile. Sloane nodded. "It is a girl." "You checked?" Silas asked. Nora seemed to catch something and tensed up alongside him. "Yeah. But Wren cares a lot about this baby," Sloane said. Silas finally let out a breath. "Good. As long as there's a child, you and Jaxson will slowly work things out down the road." Sloane lowered her eyes. Her chest tightened, heavy and aching, and for a moment she didn't know how to respond. Jaxson had already brought up divorce. But she couldn't hide it forever. And she'd already decided to move out of Emerald Bay Mansion and come home. Forget it. She'd tell them after dinner. Nora prepared an elaborate meal. Ezra had partnered with a friend to start a tech company. Two years ago, when the business was just getting off the ground, Silas hadn't hesitated—he'd given Ezra startup capital. The company was doing extremely well now, focusing mainly on AI. This trip had been for a partnership deal, and it had gone smoothly. Silas, meanwhile, was in the process of selling off his own company. Before, thanks to the bride price from the Cole family, the company had managed to stay afloat. But the economy was struggling now, and pivoting had proven nearly impossible. The business simply couldn't survive. He was getting older, with far less energy than before. He believed strongly in Ezra's company. Ezra's company would enter its financing stage by the end of the year, so it was the perfect time to sell his own business and invest everything into Ezra's. Then he shared another piece of good news: Silas was going to officially get the marriage license with Nora. Nora's eyes immediately welled up. Years of standing by his side had finally led to this. Sloane had no objections. She knew her father had held back all these years because, deep down, he still missed her mother. She'd never understood why her mother had divorced and left a man as good as him. But now it didn't matter. On a day like this— She couldn't bear to ruin the mood. But in the end, she still said it. “Dad. Aunt Nora. Ezra.” She forced the words out. “Jaxson is planning to divorce me.” The moment it left her mouth, the dining room went dead silent. Everyone’s expression turned heavy, especially Silas. He lowered his head, his face tight. The result wasn’t exactly a shock. Only the speed of it was. The Powell family and the Cole family had become in-laws, but there had been no wedding—just a marriage certificate. In the past six months, the two families had had no contact at all. Jaxson had never once stepped into the Powell family home. No matter the holidays, the Cole side never sent gifts. Every time Sloane came home alone, Silas and Nora would prepare holiday gifts and have her deliver them to the Cole family. When she brought them over, Wren would accept them politely, but Sloane knew she handed them straight to the staff at Cole Estate. Lyra, on the other hand, had a servant throw them directly into the trash right in front of Sloane, telling her not to let her family send that kind of low-class junk again. Jaxson only reminded her not to do something so pointless. In a marriage that unequal, going their separate ways had always been a matter of time. Sloane pressed her lips together and continued, “But we’ll wait until after the baby is born. And I already agreed to Professor Grant—I’m going to Stanford University for advanced study next February.” Ezra was the first to break the suffocating silence. “Going for advanced study is good. Sloane, you’re so outstanding. You shouldn’t be trapped in a marriage. No matter what you decide, I’m backing you.” Sloane smiled and nodded. “Thanks, Ezra.” Silas sighed—a sigh full of endless helplessness and guilt. “Then divorce. It’s all Dad’s fault. People like us… ordinary folks… we really can’t reach a family like the Coles.” Sloane’s eyes burned red. All the pain she’d endured lately suddenly felt small compared to this. She had her family. They were her shield, her support. With them behind her, there was no hurdle she couldn’t get over. Seeing her like that, Nora quickly grabbed a tissue and wiped at Sloane’s reddened eyes, soothing her. In the end, the family still finished this dinner with smiles. At the same time. In the southern suburbs, at Cloud Peak One—an area that had existed for over twenty years, an old-money neighborhood with aging infrastructure. A Bentley slowly stopped at the gate of Villa 12. This villa was the one the Powell family had sold. The car window slid down, revealing a handsome, flawless profile. He looked into the villa. Inside, the lights were blazing. Warm yellow streetlight fell into his eyes, unable to hide the complexity and loneliness there. He pulled his gaze back and lit a cigarette. Then his phone vibrated. He picked up and answered, his voice gentle. “What’s wrong, Liora?” Liora’s sweetly complaining voice came through. “Declan, when are you getting here? I’m starving. And Jaxson won’t even let me eat first.” Right after that, a low, indulgent male voice sounded on the other end. “Who was it that told me to remind her to watch her mouth? Now she’s blaming me?” Liora huffed. “If you’re hungry, eat first. I’ll be there soon,” he said. He hung up. Declan stubbed out the cigarette. Then, one last time, he looked out the window. He raised the window and drove away from the villa.

My fourth orthopedic surgeon contradicted everything the previous three had told me, and that's when I realized nobody actually knew how to fix my recurring shoulder injuries that never fully healed. "You're just getting older," said the first. "Try rest and gradual return," said the second. "You might need to keep inflammation suppressed," said the third. "Have you ever checked your healing cycle completion?" said the fourth. Four specialists. Four completely different answers. Three ways to manage flare-ups. One explanation for why the same injury kept coming back. One of them had to be wrong. Or maybe all of them were. That's what terrified me most. Six months earlier, it started gradually - not a sudden injury, just a slow breakdown. The mornings came stiffer. The ibuprofen worked weaker. By noon, I'd roll my shoulder and stretch my neck three times, fighting to stay comfortable. By 3 PM, my shoulder felt wrapped in concrete. Figured I'd get it checked before it got worse. My GP referred me to an orthopedist. Took three weeks to get in. He asked about activity, injuries, exercise habits. "Classic overuse pattern," he said confidently. "Rest it. Avoid aggravation. Let it calm down." Six-minute consult. One restriction list. One ‘give it time’ plan. Thirty days later - the pain was back. Back to the GP. New referral. Sports medicine this time. X-rays, questionnaires, expensive imaging. "You're constantly re-irritating it," she said. "You need to keep inflammation down so it can heal." Hundreds of dollars later. Temporary relief. Then the same injury returned - again. By now I was different. Shorter temper. Shorter reaches. My partner said, "You're either guarding that arm or not using it - there's no in-between." Third referral. Pain management specialist. He skimmed my file for maybe thirty seconds. "Sounds like a recurring pain loop," he said. "We can manage flare-ups when they happen." That's when I lost it. "How can three experts have three completely different explanations?" He shrugged. "The body is complex." Complex. Or was nobody actually asking why the injury never finished healing? That night I couldn't sleep. Sitting at my kitchen table at 2 AM, searching "why injuries keep coming back, why healing stalls, why rest helps but never fixes" hoping for clarity. My partner found me at 6 AM, still scrolling. "I don't know what else to do." "Then get another opinion." "What's the point? They'll just tell me something different." But she made me go. Different clinic. Younger surgeon. Research background. And he did something none of the others had done. He didn't start with pain control or activity restriction. He asked for my last imaging, timeline, and what specifically triggered flare-ups. Then he drew a simple diagram of a shoulder tendon. "Everyone's been treating symptoms," he finally said. "But look - your activity's moderate, nutrition's clean, rest adequate. Yet your pain still flares every afternoon. That's not mechanical. That's degenerative." He sat back. "The pain isn't the problem. It's the warning signal." "What's breaking down?" I asked. "Tendons," he said. "The connective tissue between muscle and bone. They're not getting enough blood flow to heal." Then he explained something I'd never heard before. By age 40, your tendon flexibility declines by up to 50%. These tough fibrous tissues develop microscopic tears. They can't get adequate blood supply, can't repair collagen damage, and just slowly degenerate, shutting down your mobility. He explained it like this: "Ibuprofen masks pain. Anti-inflammatories suppress inflammation. But if the tissue is dying, you're just numbing a degenerating structure." "Rest and rehab can support recovery, but they don't restore the tissue." Finally - someone making sense. "So what actually works?" I asked. He pulled out his phone and showed me a research article. "Can't prescribe it directly," he said. "But this peptide's been studied for over 30 years. It triggers tissue regeneration. More than half of the patients I mention this to, stop taking NSAIDs within a month and successfully avoid surgery." BPC-157. Not a painkiller. Not a supplement. A peptide that helps damaged tissue actually repair instead of repeating the same flare-up cycle. "Think of it like this," he said. "Everyone else has been treating the symptoms, inflammation, pain, and stiffness, when the real issue is tissue degeneration. Fix the tissue, everything else heals." He paused. "But there's no money in injuries that don’t come back." That hit me. "No money in injuries that don’t come back?" He smiled faintly. $105 After spending thousands chasing mobility - therapy, injections, procedures. I ordered in the parking lot. Received it on a Tuesday. Week 1: Nothing dramatic. No “miracle relief.” No numbing. But I noticed I wasn’t flaring as hard by the end of the day. Week 2: Morning stiffness was still there - but it faded faster. I wasn’t guarding my shoulder or knees as much without realizing it. Week 4: That’s when it clicked. I made it through a full day without thinking about my joints once. Week 6: I played nine holes of golf. First time in months - and I didn’t pay for it the next morning. Month two: Gardening for hours, no pain, no stiffness. Not medicated. Just mobile. Month three: Physical therapy clinic. Saw one of my old doctors in the lobby. He spotted me. "Hey! How's the pain management plan working out?" "Never needed it," I said. "Oh? What treatment did you end up using?" "No treatment. Just tissue regeneration support. Two capsules a day." He frowned. "That doesn't address chronic tendon damage." "There wasn't chronic damage. It was tissue degeneration. Your protocol masked it. This fixed it." He shook his head. "That's not possible." "I'm walking, moving freely, sleeping better.” He walked away shaking his head. Still arguing with reality. Here's what I learned. Each expert only sees through their training. Orthopedists see inflammation. Pain specialists see pain management. Clinics see procedures. Nobody sees the whole picture. Except the one who admitted the truth. Most chronic shoulder pain isn't mechanical, or just a single symptom. It's degenerative. But my fourth doctor told me something before I even ordered BPC-157 - if you get this wrong, even BPC-157 won't help. When you're choosing BPC-157, it has to work and it has to be absorbed. Most people think purity is all that matters, but that misses the hidden danger. Pharmaceutical-grade, verified BPC-157 can trigger tissue regeneration, but the wrong kind gets destroyed before it reaches your tendons. When you give your body verified pharmaceutical-grade BPC-157 that's orally bioavailable, something remarkable happens. Your damaged tendons wake back up. They start producing new blood vessels. They repair collagen structure. They begin rebuilding like they did when you were younger. Here's why most BPC-157 products don't work - and can actually be useless. Standard BPC-157 was never designed for oral use. It gets destroyed by stomach acid before reaching your bloodstream. You can't fix tissue degeneration when the peptide never makes it to your tendons. What you need is pharmaceutical-grade BPC-157 stabilized with Arginine Salt - patented technology that protects the peptide from stomach acid degradation and ensures 99.9% oral bioavailability. When manufacturing happens in FDA-registered, cGMP-certified US facilities, every batch meets pharmaceutical standards with third-party verification. That means you're not just getting "pure" BPC-157 - you're getting protected, absorbed, proven-effective BPC-157 that actually reaches your damaged tissue. And stability matters as much as purity. Many products degrade from the moment they're bottled. The right product uses Arginine Salt stabilization, is verified by independent labs like ARL Bio Pharma, and maintains molecular integrity. Without those controls, benefits fade fast - sometimes within weeks of opening. My doctor told me there's only one brand that meets all those standards - Zorla. It's the only research-focused company he trusts, because they verify every batch for both purity and bioavailability. They manufacture in FDA-registered, cGMP-certified US facilities, verify each lot with Certificate of Analysis from ARL Bio Pharma, use proprietary Arginine Salt formulation for stomach acid protection, test for 99.9% oral bioavailability, confirm pharmaceutical-grade purity with no fillers, protect integrity with proper storage, and maintain formulation aligned with tissue regeneration research from Johns Hopkins and other institutions. I've taken the right kind every day since I visited the 4th doc. He recommends it to people battling chronic shoulder pain, mobility loss, and that quiet fear that their body is permanently breaking down. When you use 99.9% bioavailable BPC-157, it commands your body's tissue repair cascade. It helps replace multiple expensive treatments by addressing the root degenerative problem instead of masking symptoms. Just 2 capsules a day can help you: 💧 Lift and reach overhead without that sharp shoulder “catch” 💧 Sleep on your side without shoulder pain waking you up 💧 Stop relying on daily anti-inflammatories for shoulder flare-ups 💧 Move your arm naturally without guarding or compensating 💧 Avoid cortisone shots that weaken shoulder tendons over time 💧 Use your shoulder fully without fear of re-injury 💧 Save thousands per year on treatments that never fixed the problem It's backed by over 30 years of published research. It's scientifically validated. And when it's done right, it works. No injections. No surgery. Just real support for your body's natural tissue regeneration. One critical note before you buy anything: most products are ineffective not because they're "impure," but because they're molecularly destroyed by stomach acid - wrong formulation, no protection, degraded before they reach tissue. I've seen perfect-looking certificates attached to products that deliver zero results. To ensure you're getting active, pharmaceutical-grade BPC-157, look for Arginine Salt version, third-party verification, oral bioavailability testing, FDA-registered manufacturing - not just purity claims. My coworker Lisa was on daily ibuprofen pills when I told her about BPC-157. Same story - flare, calm, repeat. She tried Zorla's BPC-157. Two weeks later she messaged me: "It feels like my body finally started healing." My brother-in-law had tried every recovery protocol on the market. Five different plans. Five different setbacks. He switched to the tissue regeneration approach. Canceled all subscriptions six weeks later. Even my old friend, who was running a successful business - the one who lived on ibuprofen - called me one morning. "Did you send me those capsules?" he asked. "Yeah, why?" "I haven't taken pain meds in four days… and I don't need them." Even my physical therapist admitted it when I told her my results. "We make joint health too complicated," she said. "Half the time it's just tissue degeneration." "Why don't more doctors talk about that?" I asked. She shrugged. "There's no money in healing tissue. Only in managing pain." The medical industry wants you to believe chronic shoulder pain needs endless treatments, injections, and complex procedures. But what if they're all looking at it wrong? What if the pain, the stiffness, the limited mobility - are just your body's way of saying its tendons can't regenerate? What if the solution isn't more pain management, but actual tissue repair? Three experts told me to rest more, suppress more, or accept it forever. One admitted the truth. It was never mechanical. It was degenerative. Zorla's Pharmaceutical-Grade BPC-157 proved him right. Independently verified. Orally bioavailable. Protected, absorbed, effective. Two capsules. Pain-free movement. Repeat. My four specialists cost me thousands in appointments, tests, and treatments. Zorla's bottle cost less than one physical therapy session - and it worked. Other solutions created more dependency, more damage, more limitation. This one restored function. If you've been told to "try cortisone," "add more supplements," or "just accept chronic pain," stop. They're treating symptoms through a narrow lens. The real issue is degenerative - tissue breakdown in every damaged tendon. Fix the tissue, and everything starts working again. No painkillers. No injections. No surgery. Just biochemistry that restores tissue, not masks it. Four experts. Four different answers. Thousands of dollars. Only one was right. One tissue regeneration solution in 2 capsules. I know which one actually worked. They're still arguing about why. I'm just moving freely, letting them debate. Your body doesn't need another anti-inflammatory. It needs bioavailable, pharmaceutical-grade BPC-157. Every expert I saw missed that, except one. Don't let yours miss it too. 👉https://zorlaofficial.com/products/body-protection-compound-bpc-157