Julian's palm burned like a branding iron.

Chloe's hand, along with the cold pearl earring, was firmly trapped within his grasp.


Her mind went blank with a deafening boom.

He didn't let go. After that suffocating silent car ride, he'd brought her to this cold apartment that belonged entirely to him. When she stood shocked at seeing a space devoid of any feminine touches, he'd taken out the velvet box, and the moment she reached for the earring, he'd closed his palm, trapping her completely.

How long had this gone on? One minute? Ten?


Chloe had lost all concept of time. She only knew her hand remained trapped in his grip, unable to move.

Julian didn't speak either. He just stood there, looking down at her, his gaze dark like a deep sea with turbulent undercurrents, churning with emotions she couldn't begin to understand.


Finally, he moved.

He didn't release her. Instead, with his free hand, he picked up a slim tablet, walked to the coffee table, leaned down, placed it on the surface, and slid it toward her.

Throughout this process, he firmly gripped her hand, like holding a pet that couldn't escape.

"This is your weapon," Julian's voice was like a persuasive devil's. "The best divorce lawyer in New York, Arthur Hamilton. I've already made an appointment for you tomorrow at 10 AM. He'll help you get back everything you deserve, and more."

He was "helping" her.

Chloe stared at the photo on screen, her mind caught in an enormous, incomprehensible whirlpool.

Why?

Why does he want to help me?

This man had shown her no warmth for five years. That night, in the hotel bed, he'd possessed her like a ferocious beast, yet never uttered a single tender word—not even false ones.

After her hasty escape, he hadn't pursued her or contacted her, as if that night of passion was merely an insignificant, one-sided release.

But now, he appeared like an all-knowing god, placing the "weapon" before her.

Chloe's heart ached sharply. Unbidden, fragments of chaotic memories flooded back.

Before she turned eighteen, Julian had always been the "uncle" who took the best care of her. He would discreetly defend her when her father scolded her, remember she only liked rose-flavored macarons from Ladurée, and offer professional suggestions to improve her portfolio for university applications.

But from her eighteenth birthday, everything changed. He began deliberately keeping his distance. He no longer saw her alone, and even at family gatherings, his gaze would quickly move away as if avoiding something toxic.

That sudden estrangement was like a thorn, piercing her with pain and confusion.

Finally, at her twentieth birthday party, encouraged by alcohol and stubbornness, she mustered all her courage. She called Julian to the terrace by the pool, and under the brilliant city lights, awkwardly confessed her feelings to him.

"Julian, I…" her voice trembled with nervousness, "I like you. Not the way a child likes an elder, but the way a woman likes a man."

And Julian had just silently listened. He didn't look at her, but instead gazed toward a woman nearby holding a champagne glass—a bombshell in a fire-red high-slit dress, with curves and an aggressive kind of beauty.

Then, he slowly withdrew his gaze and looked at her with an icy, almost cruel expression she had never seen before, pointing toward that woman.

"Do you see her, Chloe?" His voice was soft, yet like a poison-laced blade that flayed her alive. "That's the type I like."

After saying this, he didn't spare her another glance. He turned and walked straight to that woman's side, intimately whispering something in her ear that elicited coquettish, victorious laughter.

That laughter, like a public execution, crushed her self-esteem and pride to pieces. From that day on, she learned never to expose even the slightest genuine emotion to this man again.

And now, he was back.

He reached out again, in a more sophisticated, more irresistible way. This web of "help" looked tempting, but she knew what lay behind it.

Once she accepted it, she'd be handing him the knife to flay her alive again.

Thinking of this, Chloe slowly raised her head to meet his unfathomable eyes. All the panic, shame, and pain in her heart wrapped tightly in cold armor called "stubbornness."

"I don't need your help, Julian," her voice, even to her own surprise, was calm and indifferent.

Then, to thoroughly cut off all his retreats, she added, word by word:

"My business has nothing to do with you."

This was her most violent emotional rejection. She no longer struggled physically, but used words to push him away. Not satisfied with this, she looked at his instantly cold face and, with an almost self-destructive tone, asked the question she'd always feared but now had to voice.

"I just want to know one thing, Julian. Why?"

She saw his pupils dangerously narrow at her question.

"That night…" her voice trembled slightly from suppressed emotion, "was it because you pitied me? A poor woman betrayed by her husband and her own brother?"

She tugged at the corner of her mouth in an extremely pale, self-mocking smile. "Or did you think a drunk woman who couldn't understand the situation would be easy to handle?"

"Treating me as a… disposable, cheap substitute," her gaze like poison-dipped knives piercing straight into him, "does it give you a sense of achievement?"

These words hit harder than any slap.

She degraded herself to dust, just to draw an insurmountable chasm between them.

"Substitute?" Julian finally spoke, his voice deep as muffled thunder before a storm. "Chloe, do you know what you're saying?"

The atmospheric pressure around him suddenly dropped. That intimidating anger that made business titans tremble was released without disguise. He was thoroughly enraged—not because he was offended, but because she had so precisely, in the cruelest way, misunderstood and trampled on feelings he'd hidden for years, ones he himself dared not acknowledge.

He grabbed her hand and forcefully pulled her toward him, roughly yanking her entire body forward, almost pressing her against his chest.

He wanted to interrogate her, to pry open her head and see what was inside, to tell her just how foolish she was…

However, in the moment before he spoke, he clearly saw her face.

Although she stubbornly, even defiantly, stared back at him, her beautiful eyes had filled with tears. Those tears swirled like fragile morning dew ravaged by a violent storm, teetering on the edge, yet obstinately refusing to fall.

Her lower lip bore a shallow, blood-red mark where she'd bitten herself.

She was afraid.

She was using every ounce of strength to feign courage, but her tear-filled eyes and slightly trembling body betrayed all her fragility and fear.

In that instant, all his anger was extinguished as if doused by a sudden downpour.

All that remained was overwhelming, suffocating heartache.

He saw himself in her eyes—a grotesque figure intimidating her with rage and power, an absolute bastard.

Look at what you've done, Julian, he roared at himself internally.

She stood there like a small animal cornered at the edge of a cliff, baring immature, harmless claws and fangs, mustering all her courage to confront you. And you only wanted to use your greater strength to crush her completely.

How are you any different from Daniel and all those others who hurt her?

That rage, powerful enough to burn away his sanity, receded like a tide, replaced by deeper, more powerless pain and self-loathing.

Slowly, he released the hand that had been tightly holding hers.

The movement was gentle, as if afraid of disturbing a dream.

The moment he let go, the pearl earring, warmed by their palms, slipped from Chloe's limp fingers with a soft plop, falling onto the cold floor with a crisp, lonely sound.

That sound, like a switch, completely shattered all the hard shells she'd used to disguise herself.

Julian looked at the earring that had rolled into the corner, then at her face—pale as paper and filled with shock and pain. He couldn't stay any longer; he feared that if he stayed one more second, he would do something more out of control, more irreversible—like desperately taking her into his arms and telling her the whole truth.

He turned abruptly, his back to her, and walked to the huge floor-to-ceiling window. He needed that cold cityscape to cool his burning, nearly out-of-control emotions.

He didn't say "get out," nor did he say anything else.

The room fell into a deathly silence.

This silence, more than any fierce argument, made Chloe feel helpless. She had anticipated his fury, his mockery, even his possessing her again. The only thing she hadn't anticipated was… this sudden, silent retreat filled with powerlessness and frustration.

She stood in place, looking at his straight, lonely silhouette, then glanced at the abandoned earring on the floor.

In her mind, the tumultuous waves of anger and panic gradually subsided, revealing beneath them a deeper, more unsolvable… confusion.