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Dylan's eyes widened. He stood up abruptly, shielding Amy behind him, his muscular frame blocking her from Quinn.

But Amy felt the need to stand up at that moment.

She walked towards her fiancé, clutching his shirt with a tender, dependent look that made his heart race.

"Don't worry, Dylan. She wouldn't hurt me," she whispered softly.

She was certain of that.

No matter what she had ever done to Quinn—even when she had purposely arranged for someone to ram into her car, secretly torn her dress, or soiled and dirtied her kitchen purposefully—Quinn had never dared to raise her voice against her.

And that was how it would continue to be.

"Really?" Quinn smirked.

Before anyone could react, she had already closed the distance between them, aiming the vase directly at Amy's stomach.

But Dylan was fast. Fast and strong enough to block her, his face contorted with rage as he intercepted the attack.

Amy froze, her heart racing so fast it felt like it might burst from her chest. Though everything happened within seconds, it felt like an eternity. It was only the warmth of Dylan's embrace that reminded her she was still alive.

With that realization, her gaze turned cold. She stared at Quinn with an icy, deadly glare.

Meanwhile, Quinn had long since stopped thinking rationally. With Dylan gripping her arm tightly, she jerked her knee upward, aiming for the most vulnerable spot between his thighs.

It landed.

Dylan's reaction was delayed by the shock of it—his hands weakly clutching his dear family jewel, his face twisted in agony, a sharp hiss escaping his thin lips.

"Quinn!" Amy shrieked, just as Quinn grabbed the edge of the table and hurled it at her.

Ignoring the searing pain, Dylan spun around, shielding Amy with his body. The table crashed into his back with brutal force.

Quinn's rage surged like a tidal wave. She shoved the table off him with all her strength.

"Arghhhhh!" Dylan grimaced, his eyes squeezed shut as fresh pain shot through him, his back feeling as if it might snap.

But Quinn wasn't finished.

"We can all go to hell, then!" she snarled through gritted teeth, slamming the table against Dylan's back repeatedly.

"Leave, Amy!" Dylan gasped, trying to push her away. He needed to deal with this woman, but he couldn't risk Amy getting hurt-or worse.

Amy hesitated for just a second, her eyes filled with longing. Then she crawled out of his reach.

Quinn's face twisted with triumph as she turned, thinking she finally had a clear shot at her "crazy, bitchy" sister.

But Dylan stood up.

The look in his eyes made Quinn stumble back.

Dark. Furious. Deadly.

But the disgust she felt for him clouded her judgment. She could never see him as anything more than what she believed: a worthless, disgusting bastard.

She opened her mouth to taunt him—

—but Dylan's hand shot to his waistband.

He pulled out a gun.

Quinn's eyes widened, black with shock. Not in her wildest dreams had she expected this.

But he gave her no time to react. His voice was calm, cold, and final as he aimed the gun at her.

"I will never allow you to hurt my woman. Even if she is your sister."

And then he pulled the trigger.

The bullet struck her forehead.

Quinn collapsed onto her back, her wide, blank eyes staring at nothing. They were glassy, filled with shock—and maybe even resignation, and hatred…. Her hand fell limp at her side as blood seeped across the white tiled floor, spreading like crimson ink spilled from a broken bottle.

"Ahhhhhhhh!"

The two wedding planners screamed, paralyzed with horror. The moment Dylan's gaze shifted to them, they clamped their hands over their mouths, trembling with fear.

"We'll never tell anyone!" one of them blurted, her whole body shaking.

The other nodded furiously, like a bobblehead in an earthquake.

Dylan's reputation had always been spotless—prince charming, the dream man of many. But a killer?

That was beyond their wildest imagination.

No one could witness something like this and just walk away. They were terrified for their lives.

Dylan raised the gun again, his expression unreadable.

But before he could pull the trigger, Amy rushed to him, gently taking the weapon from his hand and setting it down on the couch.

She held his arm tenderly, blowing softly on the skin as if soothing an invisible wound. After a few seconds, she looked up at him with gentle eyes.

"Are you okay? Does your hand hurt?"

Dylan shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. His gaze dropped to her stomach, then back to her face. He cupped her cheeks in both hands, his expression turning serious.

"Are you okay, Amy?"

Amy nodded, resting her hands protectively over her belly.

"Yes. And so is our baby."

Dylan's eyes darkened with emotion. He glanced at Quinn's lifeless body, then back at Amy, worried she might be grieving.

But Amy avoided his gaze, silent for a moment. Then she finally spoke.

"She was always horrible. Part of me wished she could've been there for me... given us her blessing. She was my only living closest relative, after all. But I never knew she would try to sabotage us. So maybe she deserves that..." Amy's voice trailed off, a hint of uncertainty in them. She was a great actor. Sh took Dylan's hand and pressed it to her stomach, her eyes burning with fierce determination.

"And I will never allow our baby to be hurt. Not by anyone."

Dylan's tense muscles relaxed. He nodded softly.

"I'm glad you understand."

Amy smiled faintly, then gave him a gentle push.

"I'll deal with the women."

She picked up the gun from the couch, examining it briefly.

Dylan frowned, clearly uneasy with the idea. But he trusted her. He stepped back, giving her enough space.

Amy slowly approached the two wedding planners, whose faces had gone ghostly pale. Fear gripped them so tightly they could barely breathe. Sweat trickled down their temples in thick, trembling beads.

"P-please... don't kill us," they whimpered, their voices barely audible.