I don’t know how long I sat on the floor until Martha knocked on the storage room door. "Bella? Darling, are you okay?" Her worried voice came through the door.

I struggled to stand up, my legs numb and prickling from being curled up for so long. I opened the door and tried to force a smile that looked worse than tears. "I’m fine, Martha, just a bit low on sugar."


A lie. My life has been completely wrapped in one lie after another.

I stumbled back into the empty restaurant and picked up the phone. My fingers trembled uncontrollably, barely able to press the right numbers. The phonebook flipped rapidly in my mind. I needed a lifeline, any lifeline would do. The first person who came to mind was Sally. That solid, warm, rock-like man by the shore.

The phone was picked up after just one ring. In the background were the hissing sounds of welding and the cries of seagulls. "Bella?" Sally's voice, even through the electric current, carried that reassuring depth.


"Sally..." My voice broke the moment I spoke, uncontrollably trembling, "I... I..."

"What's wrong? What happened?" The noise on the other end of the line vanished instantly, and Sally's voice immediately turned tense. "Did someone hurt you?"


"No, it's not that..." I was incoherent. I couldn't tell him the truth. I couldn’t drag him into this mess. "I just... I feel terrible, Sally. I’m so scared. I’m alone... I don’t know what to do."

There was silence on the other end, except for the sound of his heavy breathing. Then, I heard him speak, his voice resolute and decisive: "Stay at home, lock the door, and don’t go anywhere. I’m coming right now."

After hanging up the phone, I felt like I had grabbed onto a piece of driftwood, but the fear in my heart didn’t lessen in the slightest. Sally could fight, he could fix anything, but could he stand against a woman like Victoria, who could easily wield money and power? I needed more security, I needed someone who understood the "rules of the game."

My fingers, as if guided by some mysterious force, dialed another number. A number from another world, one I had only seen on the business card Professor Finch left behind.

The phone rang for a long time before it was answered.

“Bella?” The voice of Alistair Finch sounded somewhat lazy and hoarse, carrying a magnetic quality of someone just waking up. In the background, classical music flowed—Bach’s Cello Suite.

“Professor… sorry to disturb you,” I said softly. In front of him, I always felt an instinctive sense of inadequacy and awkwardness.

"No matter when you call, it's never a disturbance, my dear muse." His voice carried a hint of a soft chuckle, that affectionate address warming my cheeks and deepening my shame, "What's wrong? You don't sound quite yourself."

"I..." I didn't know how to begin. I could show vulnerability to Sally, for he had seen all my flaws. But in front of Finch, I had always strived to maintain the image of a genius artist, full of contradictory beauty. Revealing my current fear to him was like exposing my ugliest side.

"I just... feel uneasy," I struggled to articulate, "There are... some strangers in town. I live alone, and I'm a bit scared."

There was another brief silence on the other end of the line. I could even imagine how he looked at that moment, perhaps leaning back in his leather sofa, his slender fingers caressing the rim of the wine glass, those gray-blue eyes gleaming with scrutiny behind his glasses.

"I understand," he finally spoke, his voice devoid of emotion but carrying an undeniable authority. "Don’t be afraid, Bella. Didn’t I tell you to keep painting, to not stop? A true artist cannot be defeated by such a vulgar emotion as fear. Stay in the studio, wait for me."

Another command. But this time, the command gave me a strange sense of security. As if once he arrived, all problems would be effortlessly resolved.

After making these two calls, I felt as if all my strength had been drained. I collapsed into the chair, gasping for breath. They would come. One represented solid ground, the other the distant sky. I had placed my hopes on these two entirely different men.

I don’t know whether my actions have secured myself with double insurance or if I’ve ignited two fuses that will eventually blow me to pieces.

——————

Meanwhile, at a private airport hundreds of kilometers away from Sea Breeze Town, a Gulfstream G650 landed smoothly on the runway. The cabin door opened, and a man in a tailored black suit stepped out, his figure tall and upright. His face resembled an ancient Greek sculpture, with cold, hard lines and deep black eyes that, even under the bright sunlight, seemed like unfathomable ice.

Damian Blackwood.

Behind him followed his all-purpose assistant, Philip. Clutching a folder, Philip quickened his pace to keep up with Damian as they boarded a black Bentley that had been waiting for them.

"Boss, here’s all the information you requested," Philip respectfully handed over the folder.

Damian didn’t speak, he simply took it. His slender fingers opened the folder, which contained all the records of Isabella Rossi’s life in Seabreeze Town over the past few months, down to the details of what time she went to work at the restaurant, what time she returned home to paint, and which neighbors she had spoken to.

His eyes quickly scanned the text, his face expressionless. Until his gaze landed on the forged "widow" identification document and the latest long-lens photograph he had received this morning.

In the photo, Bella stood in a small, rundown yet tidy courtyard he had never seen before. She was wearing an oversized T-shirt, her abdomen visibly swollen, impossible to conceal with clothing. She looked down, one hand gently caressing her belly, her profile bathed in sunlight, radiating a soft, serene glow that Damian had never seen on her face before.

Damian’s pupils constricted sharply in an instant.

The air inside the car seemed to vanish in an instant, the pressure so low that Philip could barely breathe. He saw his boss's hand holding the photo, the knuckles turning white from the force, veins bulging on the back of the hand. The face, flawlessly handsome, was shrouded in a cold, ominous gloom, as if a storm were brewing.

Pregnant?

The thought struck his brain like a bullet.

His Bella, that stubborn, impoverished little artist who trembled and cried beneath him but never begged for mercy—was she actually pregnant?

Had she left him because of this? Was she willing to hide in this remote, backwater place, pretending to be a ridiculous widow, carrying her belly while waiting tables at cheap diners, rather than return to his side?

A mix of betrayal, anger, and an unfamiliar emotion he couldn’t quite identify surged like molten lava in his chest. He was almost certain the child was his. The timing matched. But how dare she? How dare she take away what “belonged” to him without a word?

Did she think she could escape?

“This ‘deceased husband’,” Damian finally spoke, his voice frighteningly low, as if emerging from beneath the ice, “Investigate.”

“Already done, sir,” Philip replied cautiously, “There’s no such person. The identity is fabricated.”

“Good.” A cold, emotionless smile curled at Damian’s lips. He tossed the photo back into the folder, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes. The sunlight from outside the car window fell on his face but couldn’t melt the bone-chilling coldness.

His little painter was far bolder than he had imagined. And far more foolish.

Did she really think she could take his child and completely disappear from his world?

——————

Victoria Sterling sat on the terrace of the penthouse suite in the seaside hotel, leisurely stirring a Bloody Mary in front of her. She had just ended a phone call with a local figure of considerable "influence" in Seabreeze Town, whom she had found through her family connections.

"It's simple," she said into the phone in a sweet yet icy voice, "an accident. Make her fall, or give her a scare. I don’t want her life, I just want the little trouble in her belly to disappear forever. When it’s done, this much." She held up two fingers.

The person on the other end of the line immediately understood and agreed.

Victoria hung up the phone and downed the crimson liquid in her glass. A trace of tomato juice lingered on her red lips. She extended her tongue, elegantly licking it away, and a satisfied smile spread across her face.

Isabella Rossi. That ungrateful little sparrow. Since she refused the toast that was offered, she would have to take the punishment she was asking for. She shouldn't blame her for being ruthless. She had given her a chance.

——————

Sally was driving his semi-old pickup truck, almost speeding along the coastal highway leading to Seagull Town. He pressed the accelerator to the floor, and the old engine roared under the strain. Bella's sobbing, fearful voice on the phone was like a hand tightly gripping his heart.

He didn't know what had happened, but his beast-like intuition told him that Bella was in grave danger. His mind flashed to that professor named Finch, who appeared refined and scholarly but gave him an intense sense of discomfort. He also thought of the fleeting fear in Bella's eyes when she occasionally mentioned her "ex-boyfriend."

Whoever it was, if they dared to lay a finger on her, he would make them pay.

When he finally parked the car outside Bella’s familiar little courtyard, the sky was already dimming. He jumped out of the car, rushed to the door in quick strides, and knocked forcefully.

"Bella! It's me, Sally! Open the door!"

The door opened quickly, and Bella stood behind it, her face pale. When she saw Sally, tears welled up in her frightened eyes, like a lost child finally finding the way home, and she immediately threw herself into his arms.

"Sally..." she hugged him, trembling all over. "I’m so scared..."

"Don’t be afraid, I’m here." Sally clumsily patted her back. His tall frame, like a wall, completely shielded her petite body in his embrace. He could clearly feel her trembling and smell the scent of fear and tears on her. His heart ached as if gripped by a hand.

"What happened?" He cupped her face, forcing her to look at him.

Bella shook her head, tears falling like broken strings of pearls, yet she couldn't utter a single word.

Sally didn't press further. He helped her into the house, settled her on the sofa, and then carefully checked all the doors and windows, confirming they were locked. His hands, rough from years of labor, now radiated a comforting strength.

He poured her a cup of warm water and handed it to her. "It's okay now, I'm here, no one can hurt you," he said softly, kneeling in front of her.

Bella held the cup, her cold fingers finally feeling a trace of warmth. Seeing the unmistakable worry and determination on the man's face, her heart, which had been hanging in mid-air, slowly settled back into place.

Just then, the sound of a car engine echoed from outside the gate. A dark gray Jaguar silently pulled up behind Sally's pickup truck.

The car door opened, and Alistair Finch stepped out. He was still impeccably dressed, wearing a black turtleneck sweater and a long camel-colored coat over it. His gold-rimmed glasses reflected a cold gleam under the streetlights in the twilight. He glanced at the shabby pickup truck, which stood out starkly against its surroundings, and his brow furrowed slightly.

Then, he saw Sally emerging from the house.

Sally saw him too. It was only their second encounter, but the man exuded the same hostility as before.

Two men: one tall and burly, radiating the raw pheromones of sunshine and sweat, like a grizzly guarding its territory; the other elegant and upright, exuding the aura of intellect and power from the upper class, like a leopard surveying its domain.

They stood facing each other in Bella's small yard, separated by just a few steps.

The air instantly froze.

"Mr. Sullivan," Professor Finch spoke first, breaking the silence. His voice remained as gentle as ever, yet carried a hint of condescending scrutiny, "What a coincidence to see you here as well."

"Professor Finch," Sally’s reply was brief and stiff. He took a step forward, subtly blocking the door behind him more firmly, "Bella has already gone to sleep. She wasn’t feeling well today and didn’t want to see anyone."

This was the most direct way to ask someone to leave.

The smile on Professor Finch’s face faded slightly. He adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose, his gray-blue eyes peering past Sally’s shoulder toward the interior of the house. Even through the door, he seemed to sense the presence of the woman who fascinated him.

"She sounded quite uneasy on the phone," Finch said, his tone filled with an undeniable concern, "As her mentor, it is my duty to ensure her safety—both physically and… mentally."

He deliberately emphasized the word "spiritually," as if to imply that only he could understand Bella's complex, artist's inner world. And Sally, this simple-minded manual laborer, could only provide the most superficial physical protection.

Of course, Sally sensed the condescension and provocation in his words. His fists, long accustomed to gripping tools, quietly clenched by his side.

"What she needs now is not some spiritual mentor," Sally's voice was low and filled with warning. "She needs peace. And someone who can make her feel safe. And I'm right here."

As soon as the words fell, Professor Finch suddenly laughed. It was a laugh full of mockery and disdain.

"Safe?" he repeated the word, as if savoring a funny joke. "Mr. Sullivan, do you really think that with your muscles, you can give her 'safety'? You know nothing about the world she's facing."

He took a step forward, closing in on Sally, his eyes, sharp and piercing behind the lenses, fixed squarely on him.

"And I happen to know."