I don’t know how long those two men stood facing each other outside, but the air inside the room felt like solidified lead, suffocating me. Professor Finch’s voice, even through the door, carried his trademark elegance and icy sharpness—each word like a finely honed ice pick, stabbing at Sally and piercing my heart.

"And I happen to know."


When Professor Finch finally entered the room, he carried with him a cool breeze tinged with the scent of the sea and an undeniable authority. Sally followed behind him, his tall frame like a volcano ready to erupt, every pore radiating suppressed rage and vigilance.

One of them sat on the single sofa across from me, legs crossed, as graceful as if attending an academic seminar; the other stood straight beside my sofa like a guardian statue, arms crossed in front of his chest, the taut lines of his muscles clearly visible through his thin T-shirt.

I curled up in a corner of the sofa, feeling like a trembling rabbit trapped between two fierce beasts.


"Bella," Professor Finch was the first to break the suffocating silence. His gaze, gentle yet unyielding, fell on my face over the rim of his glasses. "I won’t ask what exactly happened. Artists need secrets, just as flowers need soil. But I need to know what you plan to do next."

His voice had a peculiar soothing power, as if he truly understood all my struggles and pain.


"I..." I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. Plans? I had no plans. My world had collapsed hours ago, and the only thing I could do now was breathe.

"She will come with me." Sally's low and resolute voice rang above my head, like a boulder thrown into a calm lake, stirring up countless waves. "Back to my farm. It's safe there, no one will find her, and she can give birth to the child in peace."

Professor Finch raised his eyebrows slightly, looking at Sally with a hint of undisguised contempt from the upper class. "Farm?" he repeated the word slowly, as if savoring an utterly absurd joke. "Mr. Sullivan, I admire your kindness, but you seem to have misunderstood the situation. Do you think hiding her will make the problem disappear? That's not protection; it's confinement. You're trying to cage an albatross that should soar the skies into a chicken coop."

"I don't know about any albatross or chicken coop!" Sally's patience was clearly running out, his voice filled with anger. "I only know she's scared right now! She needs a safe place, not your nonsense art theories! Look at her! In her current state, how can she return to your so-called art world?"

His arm swung fiercely, pointing at me. The gesture was full of anger, yet he forcibly held back the force at the last moment, afraid of startling me.

I instinctively shrunk my shoulders, my hands unconsciously protecting my abdomen.

Professor Finch's gaze followed Sally's arm to my belly, his look complex and profound. He remained silent for a few seconds, then slowly spoke, his tone firmer than before: "Precisely for this reason, she needs to return even more."

His gaze returned to my face, and in those gray-blue eyes burned a fervent flame that left me both fascinated and terrified. "Bella, listen to me. Pain, fear, struggle—these are not your enemies, they are your fuel. Everything you're going through is the most precious treasure of your creative career. Think of Carol Frida, think of Louise Bourgeois! Which of the greatest female artists didn’t refine themselves in the fire of suffering? What you need to do now is not to escape, but to pick up your brush and paint all your feelings! Paint your fears, your pain, your love and struggle for this child! This will be your greatest work! I will arrange everything for you—the best gallery in New York, the top critics... You’ll make a name for yourself in one go, Bella! You’ll become a legend!"

His voice was filled with temptation, like a devil painting an oasis for me in the desert. Legendary? Great? These words sounded so distant and illusory at this moment. All I wanted was a place where I could sleep peacefully.

"She doesn't need to become a legend!" Sally roared, taking a step forward and looming over Finch on the couch, his massive shadow completely enveloping Finch. "What she needs is a stable life! She's not a tool for your fame-seeking!"

"Stable?" Professor Finch sneered, lifting his head to meet Sally's furious gaze without fear. "Feeding chickens and milking cows on a farm every day, watching her talents wither away in the banality of life—is that what you call stable? Mr. Sullivan, you're murdering her soul!"

"What do you know! You don't care about her at all; you only care about how much her paintings can sell for!"

"And you? Your so-called care is to turn her into an ordinary, countryside woman who matches you, completely extinguishing all the shining qualities within her!"

The argument grew louder and fiercer, like two sharp knives cutting back and forth in my chaotic mind. Every word they spoke felt like an accusation against me. One accused me of murdering my own soul, while the other implied I was dragging down his life. I felt as though my body was being torn in half—one half being pulled toward the cold, prestigious temple of art filled with fame and glory, while the other half was being dragged toward the countryside farm, filled with the warmth and security of everyday life but potentially burying all my dreams.

I covered my ears in agony, unable to listen any longer.

"Stop fighting..." My voice finally broke through, trembling and pleading, "Please, stop fighting..."

The two men fell silent simultaneously, both turning their eyes to me. On their faces, there was a mix of astonishment and guilt.

I looked at them—one was the sturdy driftwood I clung to in my despair, the other the guiding lighthouse I glimpsed in the mist. I had placed my hopes on both of them, never expecting that instead of double protection, they would bring me double torment.

What should I do? What on earth should I do?

——————

Little did I know, as I was trapped in this small, quarrel-filled room, that on the other side of Seaview Town, another pair of eyes was watching every detail of my life with icy detachment.

Damian Blackwood did not stay at the seaside hotel. Instead, he chose an inconspicuous motel at the town's entrance, renting a second-floor room that directly faced my cabin. The curtains were slightly parted, and like a black panther lurking in the shadows, he silently observed my little world through a top-grade military-grade telescope.

His men, those highly trained and omnipotent bodyguards, had already infiltrated every corner of this town like mercury. Every bit of information about me was continuously being compiled and delivered into his hands.

He saw it.

He saw that bear-like man named Sally, shirtless under the morning sun, drenched in sweat, pruning the wildly overgrown rose vines in my yard. He watched as I walked out with a glass of lemonade and handed it to him. When the man took the glass, his fingers accidentally brushed against mine, and then he grinned, revealing a smile that felt warm to me but searingly unbearable to Damian.

He also saw that university professor named Finch, with his gold-rimmed glasses, who looked like a cultured scoundrel, accompanying me for a walk on the beach at dusk. The sea breeze lifted my long hair, and the man would reach out, effortlessly tucking the strands behind my ear. They walked side by side, talking about something, Finch’s face wearing an appreciative smile, while I, with my head tilted upward, listened intently.

What he couldn't bear the most was that, through the lens, he clearly saw me unconsciously pausing while watering the flowers in the yard, with one hand gently stroking my noticeably rounded belly, exuding a maternal softness he had never seen before. The sunlight fell on the side of my face, outlining a soft golden edge, and the corner of my mouth even carried a faint, serene smile.

It was a smile he had never seen on my face. When I was by his side, I always resembled a startled fawn—stubborn, vigilant, and even in the most passionate moments, there was a trace of unresolved sadness in my eyes.

And now, she was in a place unknown to him, smiling with that fulfilled, tranquil expression for a man he didn’t know.

A strange, scalding emotion, like molten iron, surged into Damian's heart. This emotion was so overbearing and intense that it caused the first crack in his eternally cold, ever-controlling heart.

Jealousy.

This word, which he had never experienced and even disdained to understand, now coiled around his rationality like a venomous snake.

Is that child… his?

Calculating the timeline, it's highly possible. But why did she run away? Why would she rather hide in such a shabby place, mingling with these questionable men, than stay by his side?

A colossal fury mingled with a sense of betrayal and that unfamiliar jealousy burned fiercely within his chest. He put down the telescope, his slender fingers unconsciously tapping on the windowsill. His god-like face was shrouded in a layer of icy gloom.

His original plan was to observe first, wait until she was at her wit's end, and then appear as her savior, bringing her and his child back under his control.

But now, he had changed his mind.

He could wait no longer.

His possessions were not to be touched by anyone. Not even a glance was allowed.

——————

Meanwhile, in the only seedy bar in town, two shady-looking men were huddled together, talking in low voices. They were hired thugs paid by Victoria. The leader, named Jack, had a long scar across his face, making him look particularly menacing.

"See clearly?" Scarface Jack took a sip of cheap beer and asked the skinny, monkey-like man beside him.

"Clear, boss." The thin man nodded, pulling out a crumpled notebook from his pocket. "That woman goes to Martha’s diner every morning at eight, comes back for lunch and a nap at noon. At three in the afternoon, she takes a walk by the seaside, sometimes with that university professor. She hardly goes out at night. But these past two days, it’s been a bit strange. There seems to be a man staying at her place—the burly guy who drives the pickup truck—and he hasn’t left."

"The more people, the better." A sinister smile crept across Jack’s face. "The more people, the messier the scene. When we make our move, it’ll be harder to suspect us."

"So when do we strike, boss? That rich woman, Victoria, is pressing us hard."

Jack took another big gulp of beer. The cold liquid slid down his throat, but it couldn't extinguish the greed and malice in his eyes. He thought of the price Victoria had offered, enough to keep him happy for a while. Wasn't it just about making a pregnant woman "accidentally" miscarry? He had done it before.

He licked his chapped lips and looked out the window. The night was growing darker.

"Don't rush," he said slowly, his eyes gleaming like a wolf's. "Wait for that big oaf and the professor to leave. Find a moment when she's alone. Tomorrow... tomorrow will be the perfect time."