That brief yet decisive phone call, which could determine a person's lifelong glory or downfall, had ended. Damian casually slipped his phone back into his pocket, as though he hadn’t just ordered the destruction of a prominent family enterprise in New York’s upper society, but merely canceled an insignificant dinner reservation. The two thugs in the room had already collapsed in terror, silently dragged out by the bodyguards like two bags of trash.

The room fell back into suffocating silence, leaving only the four of us—and three futures so heavy they could crush me.


The black armor woven from anger and killing intent that Damian wore seemed to melt away quietly after he hung up the phone. He turned around, and his eyes, which had just been burning with the fires of hell, were now staring fixedly at me. Gone was the icy judgment they once held, replaced by a searing and complex flame I had never seen before. In that flame was a kind of resolute finality, as if the dust had settled, and there was also a trace of... an almost fragile, unguarded longing.

He walked toward me, each step seeming to tread upon the rhythm of my heartbeat. He stopped before me, his towering figure once again completely enveloping me. This time, instead of looking down from above, he slowly, deliberately, knelt on one knee, bringing his deep, fathomless eyes level with mine as I sat in the chair. This gesture, performed by Damian Blackwood, shocked me even more than the devastating phone call earlier. His face, as perfect as a Renaissance sculpture, was now within arm’s reach. I could even see the shadows cast by his thick eyelashes and the turbulent black ocean in the depths of his eyes.

“Come with me, Isabella.”


His voice was no longer a command, no longer a proclamation, but something deeper, more primal. It was hoarse, low, carrying a hint of a plea that perhaps even he himself had not noticed. His hand, the one that moments ago held the power of life and death over others, now hesitated slightly before gently resting on the back of my hand, which lay cold on my knee from fear. His palm burned hot, the heat searing through my skin, all the way to my heart.

"I can give you and the child the best," he continued, his eyes burning into mine as if to etch this promise directly into the depths of my soul. "The best education, the best environment, the best protection. No one will dare harm you again—never. You won’t need to wait tables at restaurants anymore, worry about art supplies, or live in this shabby place that anyone could barge into. If you want to paint, I can build you the finest art studio in the world. Everything you desire... I can give it to you."


His words were like the sweetest poison, each one precisely targeting the most vulnerable and desiring parts of my heart. Safety, prosperity, dignity...these things I had struggled for half a lifetime to attain seemed effortlessly laid out before me, as if within reach. My heart swayed violently, and the shame born of a transaction for money seemed less important under his burning, possessive yet slightly clumsy and tender gaze. I saw a future full of challenges but also deadly temptations, a future bound to him, wrapped in gold and power.

"Bella, don't listen to him!"

A heart-wrenching voice abruptly pulled me out of the golden mist. It was Professor Finch. He stepped forward and stood by Damian's side, his usually gentle face now filled with disappointment and anxiety. The way he looked at me was as if he were gazing at a perfect work of art about to be covered in dust.

"That is not the world you want!" he pleaded, his voice trembling with emotion, "That world is filled with the stench of money and transactions. It will corrupt your soul and stifle your talent! Do you remember your father? Do you remember why you chose art in the first place?"

Father... The word pierced my heart like a needle.

"Stay, Bella." Professor Finch's gaze became profoundly sincere. He reached out to me but restrainedly stopped mid-air, not touching me like Damian did. It was a gesture befitting a mentor—one filled with respect yet equally brimming with longing. "We could leave New York, go to a quiet place, somewhere no one knows us. I can give you a pure artistic environment. We could study painting together, create together. As for the child..."

He took a deep breath, as if making a tremendous decision. His wise eyes glimmered with a nearly sacrificial, idealistic light. "We could raise him together. I would love him as my own, shelter him from this filthy world, and let him grow up in an environment rich in art and knowledge. We could have a spiritually rich home, Bella. A home truly yours, far from the noise of the world."

This is an idealized spiritual world, an ivory tower tailor-made for me. The future depicted by Professor Finch is what I once dreamed of, the goal I thought I would strive for throughout my life after my father's death. Pure, clean, and filled with the sacred brilliance of art. My heart was shaken once again. I looked at Professor Finch and saw a haven that could shield me from all pain and shame, a spiritual home that would bring me back to my初心.

"No, Bella!"

Another hoarse cry rang out, this time with a sob. Sally, her eyes red, rushed over desperately. She shoved Damian, who was still kneeling on one knee, aside and tightly grabbed my other hand. Her palm was drenched in cold sweat, and her grip was so strong it almost crushed my bones. Those once sky-blue eyes, now bloodshot, were filled with despair.

"Come home with me, Bella... Forget all this, please, forget all this!" He choked, pressing his forehead against my knees like a lost and helpless child, "I don't care! I don't care about anything! I don't care whose child it is, I swear! I'll treat him as my own, I'll love him, protect him, I'll give him everything I have!"

His tears fell on the back of my hand, scaldingly hot. I could feel his entire body trembling violently, the kind of deep pain and love that surged like a tide, overwhelming me.

"We can go back to our town, back to the place where we grew up," he said, raising his head, his eyes brimming with tears, his voice humble to the core. "We can live an ordinary but happy life. I will work hard, and I will make sure you and our child live well. Maybe not rich, maybe not... great, but it's home, Bella. With me, with you, and with our child... we can be together every day, we can live simply and happily, just like before. Please, come with me..."

What Sally offered me was the past. A past that I once had but cast aside with my own hands—a stable and warm past. His promises held no grand future, no lofty ideals, only the most sincere and genuine love and companionship. That acceptance, free of grudges and regrets, was like a gentle knife, cruelly cutting open the deepest guilt in my heart. I looked at his pained face, and my heart felt as if it were being tightly clenched by a hand, aching so much I could barely breathe.

Three men, three entirely different lives.

One is Damian Blackwood. He kneels before me, weaving a lavish yet perilous golden cage with power and wealth. He represents a future filled with unknown challenges, yet offering the strongest shelter for me and my child. His world is both an abyss and a pinnacle. Choosing him means completely severing ties with my past self, becoming a part of his vast empire—a possession marked as his property.

One is Alistair Finch. He stands by my side, building an ivory tower far from worldly hustle with art and ideals. He represents a pure and noble spiritual world, a sanctuary that allows me to escape reality and purify my soul. Choosing him means upholding my father's legacy and my artistic faith, but perhaps it also means forever living in an escape from reality.

One is Sally O’Connell. He lies on my knees, paving a path back to the past with his humble yet burning love. He represents stability and the ordinary, a forgiven past and happiness within reach. Choosing him means I can shed all my disguises and burdens, returning to the simplest life. But where should I place that ambition, the one that drove me to leave the small town because I refused to settle for mediocrity?

I feel like a prisoner standing on the edge of a cliff, faced with three completely different paths. One leads to a palace ablaze with fire, one to a secluded monastery, and the last back to my warm yet cramped hometown, which I had already fled.

The air seemed to freeze, and time lost its meaning in this moment. I could feel the gazes of the three of them, like beams of light at different temperatures, all focused on me, awaiting my judgment. Damian's gaze was scorching, carrying an indisputable sense of possession; Finch's gaze was hopeful, filled with gentle guidance; Sally's gaze was shattered, laden with a desperate plea.

I knew I had to make a choice. This choice would not only determine my fate but also shape the future of the unborn child within me. It would irrevocably alter the trajectories of all four of our lives.

Slowly, I withdrew my hand from Sally's tight grasp and gently pushed away Damian's hand resting on the back of mine. I looked at the three of them, at those faces etched with different emotions yet equally existing for me. I saw the futures they had painted for me, the paths they had laid out.

Then, I saw myself. That Isabella Rossi, struggling in poverty, sinking in shame, constantly torn between the sanctuary of art and the filth of transactions. What do I want? What do I truly want? A stable life, pure art, or... that terrifying power that allows me to look down upon the world?

I took a deep breath, the cold air mixed with the scent of tobacco, paint, and the saltiness of tears filled my lungs, making my mind clearer than ever before.

My gaze finally went past Professor Finch's disappointed face, and past Sally's shattered eyes, directly and fearlessly meeting the man who was still kneeling before me, his eyes swirling with a black storm.

I looked at him, and with every word clear and distinct, I said:

"I'll go with you."