Chapter 2

I looked up at the clock, a gift Julian had brought me from France seven years ago, now swaying listlessly, looking worn.

I applied to Hong Kong University at seventeen and met Julian when I was eighteen.

Back then, he was understated, except for his perfectly sculpted face.

He knew everything, but he'd pretend to be clumsy, saying he'd forgotten it all and needed me to teach him.

After just half a month, people who knew him whispered to me, “You think he’s just a pretty face? He’s the heir to Concord Group, and his dad’s running for office.”

Later, Julian left campus. He wouldn't listen to reason, driving back and forth between Hong Kong University and Central every day.

For those few years, we argued occasionally, but loved each other constantly. My heart would close, then open, then close again.

At twenty-five, after countless obstacles, I married Julian.

That wedding for the ages is still documented in old newspapers.

One small tabloid, desperate for attention, ran a headline that overshadowed all the major papers. It was sensational, but completely disrespectful.

Julian saw the paper the morning after our wedding. After reading it, he silently placed his water glass on top of the paper.

I later learned that sensational paper turned out to be the last one that tabloid ever published.

Looking back, piece by piece, I realized how deeply Julian and I had once been in love.

But how did it all come to this, like that old clock, its swing utterly lifeless?

In the quiet of the grand hall, the elevator's digital display flickered, stopping at the third floor just as the doors slid open.

Julian emerged, his suit jacket casually draped over his arm. Even the harsh overhead light in the elevator couldn't diminish the sharp angles of his face.

I glanced at him, then looked away, refocusing on the dishes before me.

A minute later, I heard the soft thud of his jacket being tossed onto the sofa.

Immediately, a hint of oud and the warmth of his body enveloped me.

Julian stood behind me, hands braced on the table, as if he was about to pull me into an embrace.

His voice was nonchalant, “Good evening, Mrs. Thorne. Let’s see, how much is this latest news worth?”

My phone lay on the table. He tapped a few times, navigating to my messages. “Two million? Journalists’ appetites these days are smaller than your dinner bill. Anyone would think my net worth has depreciated.”

I put down my forks, sitting up straight, maintaining a half-fist’s distance from his chest.

Instead of answering, I changed the subject. “I won’t approve Anastasia’s direct placement as Head of Public Relations. Her application will be rejected.”

Sure enough, at the mention of that name, Julian straightened up, the encompassing presence instantly vanishing.

He sat opposite me, hands resting on the back of his chair, his gaze drifting to the beautiful night outside the window. “Her matters don’t concern you.”

“Or perhaps…” Julian’s gaze shifted back, propping his chin, he looked at me, “You just don’t like her?”

I looked straight into his eyes, searching for something, but found nothing.

Outsiders only saw that Julian’s parade of lovers never stopped these past two years. No one knew he was actually using them as a smokescreen for Anastasia.

Two years ago, Julian sent her abroad for a ‘gold-plating’ education, intending for her to be directly placed in the company upon her return.

It wasn't that I disliked her; I was simply being practical.

Concord Group’s hiring criteria are incredibly strict. A candidate’s primary degree must be from a QS Top 30 university, otherwise, they’re not even considered.

Anastasia only has a high school diploma. She worked at a department store at eighteen. The ‘gold-plating’ school was a diploma mill. There’s no way to justify her hiring, even if we were trying to make an exception for talent.

My voice was faint. “I’m speaking about company business, not personal feelings.”

Julian didn’t reply. After a moment, I heard a voice message from his phone.

A voice, syrupy sweet and undeniably seductive: “Mr. Thorne, my little undies are still in your car. When would be a good time for me to pick them up?”

The phone’s speaker seemed intentionally loud, the words echoed mockingly in my ears.

Julian looked at me, raising the phone to his lips, his voice lazy, “Wrong number, miss.”

I gazed at his indifferent expression, trying to recall how he used to love me.