One week earlier.

When the phone rang, Isabella was cleaning a dust-covered early nineteenth-century edition of "Wuthering Heights." Sunlight filtered through the bookstore's ancient glass windows, turning suspended dust particles into golden flecks, everything quiet and slow, as if time had solidified into amber. Her bookstore, "Literary Sanctuary," was a small haven she had carved out for herself in this bustling city.


Richard's name flashed on the mobile screen, and she answered with a smile, her fingertips still bearing the unique dry, fragrant scent of old book pages.

"Hey," her voice carried the languid contentment of the afternoon, "I was just wondering what you'd like for dinner tonight. I saw some really fresh..."

"Bella."


Richard's voice cut her off—flat, calm, without a trace of warmth, like a smooth piece of ice, instantly freezing the smile on her lips. This wasn't the Richard she knew, not the man who would bake bread for her on weekend mornings, who would gently kiss away her tears when she read sad passages.

"We need to talk," he said.


Isabella's heart sank. She put down the soft cloth in her hand, gripped her phone and walked to the window, watching the sparse pedestrians passing on the street. "Talk about what?" she asked softly, although a terrible premonition had already wrapped around her throat like a vine.

On the other end of the phone was a brief silence, with only muffled office background sounds—the tapping of keyboards and distant conversations. Then, Richard's voice rang out again, clear and cruel, like a coldly gleaming surgical scalpel precisely dissecting her four years of love.

"Bella, you're nice," he paused, as if choosing the least hurtful yet most fatal words, "but you're too... boring. Your world is like beige wallpaper—safe, but without any surprises. I need more... I need color, I need passion. I'm sorry."

"Beep——beep——beep——"

The call disconnected.

Isabella remained frozen, phone pressed against her ear, as if she could hear some chance for reconciliation in those cold busy tones. Beige wallpaper. Safe. No surprises. These words circled in her mind like bloodthirsty vultures, tearing apart everything she had prided herself on.

She slowly lowered her arms and gazed around her small kingdom. Rows of dark cherry wood bookshelves stood neatly filled with rare volumes she had collected from around the world. The air was permeated with the mingled scents of paper, leather, and bygone times—a fragrance that once gave her immense comfort but now suffocated her like the smell of preservatives. In the corner, the old grandfather clock's pendulum swung methodically back and forth, "tick-tock, tick-tock." What had once been the steadiest rhythm in her heart now sounded like a countdown to her mundane life.

Her gaze fell upon herself. She wore a cotton dress of soft oatmeal color, her hair casually pinned up in a bun. Comfortable, proper, safe. Boring.

Richard's words were like a poisoned thorn, precisely piercing the deepest fear in her soul—the fear of mediocrity. She had always believed that this love for tranquility and order was a kind of elegance, a clarity that remained after washing away all superficiality. Now she understood that in others' eyes, this was merely synonymous with boredom. She wasn't a fairy detached from worldly concerns; she was just beige wallpaper forgotten in a corner, unnoticed because it lacked any distinguishing features.

An unprecedented panic seized her. She felt the bookshelves tilting toward her, those silent books seemingly mocking her with wordless language, ridiculing her for hiding behind these yellowed pages, evading the real, vibrant, colorful world. She abruptly pushed open the bookstore door and rushed out, even forgetting to hang the "Temporarily Closed" sign.

The afternoon street was bustling with traffic, the sunlight so glaring she could barely keep her eyes open. She wandered along the sidewalk like a ghost, not knowing where to go or what to do. Everything around her was so vibrant: couples kissing at street corners as if no one was watching, children running past with ice cream and laughter, even the siren of an ambulance was filled with the pulsing force of life. Yet she was completely out of place amidst it all.

She took out her phone and scrolled mindlessly. On the screen, her college friend Emily had just updated her status. It was a short video taken in a nightclub, with dazzling lights flashing wildly, powerful music pounding. Emily wore elaborate, heavy makeup, holding a glass of champagne, laughing at the camera with her friends. Her eyes sparkled with excitement and wildness. The caption read: "Cheers to a crazy night! #LivingInTheMoment"

Living in the moment.

These four words hit Isabella like a heavy punch to her chest. Emily's world was colorful, glittering with light, full of unknowns and adventures. And her world? It was beige.

The stark contrast corroded her sanity like sulfuric acid. A destructive, desperate rebellious impulse suddenly surged from the deepest part of her heart. Why? Why should she be defined as "boring"? Why should she suffocate to death in this beige tomb?

No. She wouldn't.

A crazy idea formed in her mind. She turned and strode toward the nearest bank. Her steps were firm and hurried, her high heels striking the sidewalk with crisp, resolute clicks.

"Hello, ma'am, what service do you need?" the teller asked politely.

"Withdrawal," Isabella's voice trembled slightly, but her gaze was unusually determined. "I want to withdraw all the money from my account. Everything."

When that thick stack of brand-new bills with the scent of fresh ink was placed in her hands, she felt a strange power. This wasn't just money; it was her entire savings, proof of her cautious, methodical life over the past few years. And now, she was about to use this proof to purchase a complete betrayal.

She clutched tightly at the envelope filled with cash, her palm sweating from the pressure. She walked along the streets as the lights began to come on, contemplating the urban legend that circulated only among select circles.

"Nocturne."

It was said to be the most luxurious and mysterious bar in the city. It had no sign, no advertising, only word of mouth. According to legend, as long as you could afford the price, you could buy any experience you desired there. No matter how crazy, how forbidden, how unorthodox that experience might be.

"Nocturne" was a playground for the rich, an exchange for desires, the antithesis of all that was conventional and proper.

This was exactly what she needed. She wanted to declare war on the world that had labeled her as "boring" in the most brutal, most direct way. She wanted to buy a night, a night sufficient to thoroughly dye her beige life black and red. She wanted to prove that flames also burned within her soul, only that no one had ever given them a chance to burn.

Following the legendary address, she found a secluded back alley. At the end of the alley was a heavy black iron door without any markings. A man as massive as a mountain stood at the entrance, wearing a well-tailored black suit, expressionlessly scrutinizing everyone who approached.

Isabella took a deep breath; the air mixed with the damp earthy smell after rain and a faint sweet scent of alcohol and perfume wafting through the door cracks. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest, half in fear, half in morbid excitement.

She walked to the doorway. The man merely glanced at her, his gaze sharp as a knife, as if he could see through all the timidity and pretense in her heart.

She didn't back down. She took out the thick envelope from her bag and handed it over somewhat awkwardly.

The man didn't take it, only gesturing with his chin toward the door. The door silently slid open, creating a narrow gap.

Isabella clutched the cash in her hand; that stack of bills was her only courage at the moment. She could hear the bass rhythm coming from behind the door, muffled by the thick walls, like a giant, beating heart. She knew that once she stepped through this door, there would be no turning back. She would bid farewell to her safe, beige self and welcome a completely unknown fate that might lead to irreversible consequences.

But she didn't hesitate at all.

She lifted her head, straightened her back, and with all her strength, took that step. The door slowly closed behind her, shutting out everything from the outside world. Dense darkness and ambiguous lighting instantly engulfed her as she walked into an adult fairy tale—that dangerous yet enchanting wonderland where anything could be purchased with money.