Chapter 2

It was an old Lamy fountain pen, made in Deston, with a matte black body worn smooth and shiny from years of use.

This pen was the beginning of my love for him.

Seven years ago, I was an unknown student in the design department, while Emmet Henson was already a rising star in the architectural world, specially invited by our school as a visiting professor to give a public lecture. That day the auditorium was packed, and because I was late, I could only squeeze into a corner of the back row.

Sunlight streamed through the tall floor-to-ceiling windows, casting dappled light and shadow across him. Dressed in a simple white shirt, he stood on the stage, explaining Le Corbusier's theory of light and shadow in a clear, resonant voice. He didn't use slides; he simply held that fountain pen and sketched freely on the projection screen. With just a few strokes, the relationship between light, shadow, and space came alive on the surface.

In that moment, all I could see was that man glowing in the drifting dust of light, so refined that even his knuckles looked beautiful.

This, I suppose, is what it means for your heart to skip a beat.

Later, as an intern, I found every way I could to squeeze into the firm he had just founded. I made him countless cups of coffee and organized countless files for him, but he never once remembered my name.

Until one day, a colleague plagiarized my design and then turned it around on me. Everyone was pointing fingers at me, and I hid alone on the rooftop, crying my heart out. Then he appeared and handed me a handkerchief.

"The design is good," he said, his voice cool yet like a ray of light, "but it isn't mature enough. Go back and revise it, and hand it to me tomorrow morning."

The next day, I was cleared of the plagiarism suspicion. It was he who personally pulled up the computer records and cleared my name. From that day on, the seed in my heart grew wildly.

I thought I had at least left some small mark on his heart.

But later, when the Henson Group fell into crisis, when Jasmine had fled far away and he was frantic over funding, I mustered all my courage and took my entire fortune to him, wanting to help him through the crisis.

He shattered all my foolish delusions with a single line: "Miss Winfield, there's no need for an outsider to trouble herself."

So it turned out he had forgotten long ago. In that instant, boundless love intertwined with immense resentment and humiliation, and finally gave rise to a mad idea.

It's fine if you don't remember me. I will make you unable to forget me for the rest of your life.

So I appeared before him again, no longer as an admirer, but as a capitalist, carrying the Winfield family's investment contract and a marriage agreement.

This time, he did not refuse.

Pulling my thoughts away from the surging memories, I looked at the cold fountain pen at my fingertips, and a dense, prickling pain rose in my chest.

I looked up at Emmet Henson across from me.

"Mr. Henson," I said, setting the pen back in its place and shifting into a cold, businesslike tone, "there's a charity auction tomorrow for that plot of land in the South End. I want you to go."

He frowned slightly. "For that kind of occasion, sending the vice president is enough."

"No." I refused flatly. "You have to go in person. And I want you to win the oil painting called Waiting."

Waiting was the work of one of Jasmine's favorite up-and-coming painters, and she had voiced her love for it on several public occasions.

Emmet Henson's face darkened instantly, cold enough to drip water.

"Dora, don't push it too far."

"Too far?" I laughed. "Compared to the news I saw tonight, what is this? I'm only asking you to buy a painting. Or is it that you're afraid your childhood sweetheart will be unhappy if you buy the painting I told you to?"

I stood up, walked over to him, and reached out to straighten his slightly wrinkled collar.

The gesture was gentle, but the words that came out were like knives.

"Emmet Henson, don't forget who turned you from a firm owner who could barely land a project into the powerful Mr. Henson you are today."

"It was me, Dora."

"So put away your pitiful devotion. In front of me, you have no right to it."

The charity auction in the South End had always been a grand event for Ashford City's elite circles.

When I walked into the venue on Emmet Henson's arm, nearly every gaze stuck to us. Some were dazzled, some searching, but most were gleefully waiting for a show.

After all, last night's news about Emmet Henson and Jasmine had blown up, and today he was appearing together with me, the "official wife." Who wouldn't want a close-up view of this love-triangle drama?

I wore a custom-made silver fishtail gown, its hem studded with fine, scattered diamonds that glittered brilliantly under the crystal chandeliers, dazzling beyond compare.

And beside me, Emmet Henson, in a sharply tailored black suit, with his handsome face and cool bearing, looked like a nobleman stepped out of a medieval castle.

Standing together, in appearance alone, we were flawless.

"Look, isn't that Dora Winfield? She can actually still smile—she's got nerve."

"Shh... keep your voice down. Look at Mr. Henson's face, cold as ice. He was obviously dragged here."

The whispers buzzed like irritating flies. But I acted as though I hadn't heard a thing, my smile only growing more polished and proper.

Emmet Henson noticed my stiffness, glanced down at me, and his deep eyes held a complicated mix of emotions.

Suddenly he tightened his arm, drawing my body closer against his.

"Ignore them," he murmured against my ear, his warm breath brushing my earlobe, sending a faint shiver through me.

I froze for a moment and looked at him in surprise. This was the first time he had ever shown any protectiveness toward me in public.

Was he afraid I'd blow up on the spot and leave him with no way to save face?

I tugged at the corner of my mouth, about to say something, when a sweet, simpering voice drifted over from not far away.

"Emmet, Dora, you're here too?"

It was Jasmine. Today she wore a pure white gauze dress, her long hair draped over her shoulders, her makeup light and clear, the very picture of an innocent, otherworldly white lotus.

She walked up to us intimately, her gaze fixed on Emmet Henson, full of grievance and longing, as if I were the third party who had come between them.

"Emmet, I'm so sorry about last night. I caused you and Dora so much trouble. It's all those reporters writing nonsense..." As she spoke, her eyes reddened.

What a move—twisting black into white and striking first. I sneered inwardly, but kept my face composed.

Emmet Henson glanced at her, his brow furrowing almost imperceptibly, his tone very flat. "It's fine."

That answer seemed to embolden Jasmine even more.

She turned to me, an innocent, apologetic smile on her face. "Dora, you're not angry with me, are you? Emmet and I grew up together, like real siblings..."