"Now she’s angry," Clara’s voice dropped lower, "so she wants to make a scene, to make you miserable, to make you unable to forget her. Isn't this what spoiled heiresses are best at?"

Julian stood at the doorway, his hand still gripped on the doorknob.

Many images flashed through his mind.

Those three months she spent pursuing him, coming every day, waiting every day. He would avoid her, so she would buy props and have someone deliver them. He would return them, and she would send them again the next day.

If it really was staged by her, then was the look in her eyes when she finally looked at him that last time also just an act?

"Julian," Clara walked to his side and gently tugged on his sleeve, "I don't mean to sow discord between you two. I’m just worried about you being deceived. Someone like her, what could she possibly lack? If she truly cared about you, would she let you walk away?"

Julian lowered his head, looking at her.

"She didn't say anything because she simply doesn't care." Clara looked at him. "What she cares about is the things she wants, not you. When she wanted you, she pursued you with a public spectacle. Now that she doesn't want you, she wants to make you miserable for the rest of your life. This isn't love, Julian—this is possession."

Julian stood at the doorway, unmoving.

His hand was still gripped on the doorknob, but he didn't push it open.

His mind was in chaos; Clara’s words were drilling into his brain, one sentence after another.

"Julian," Clara gently shook his sleeve, "don't go. She’ll be fine. If she were truly in danger, those people wouldn't have let her go. Didn't you see it yourself? When she was being tied up, those people didn't do anything to her at all."

Julian lowered his head, looking at her, and his hand let go of the doorknob.

He took a step back and turned to walk back into the living room.

Clara was stunned for a second, then followed him. "You’re not going?"

Julian didn't speak. He walked to the sofa, sat down, and lowered his head, not knowing what he was thinking.

Clara sat down beside him, gently leaning against his shoulder.

"Julian, don't blame me for being a busybody. I just feel bad for you. You treat her so well, but she never takes it to heart. Do you remember what she made you do that year?"

Julian didn't speak.

"She made you go out in the middle of winter to buy her pan-fried dumplings, riding your scooter for three hours round trip. When you brought them back, she took two bites and said she didn't want them anymore."

Julian remembered that day. He had ridden his scooter for an hour and a half, waited in line for half an hour, and then rode another hour and a half back. The dumplings were still hot, but she had taken two bites and said, "It doesn't seem as good as when I was a child."

He hadn't been angry. He thought, she’s a wealthy heiress, used to fine dining since childhood; being picky was normal.

"And that other time," Clara continued, "she worked overtime until 2:00 AM, and you stood at the door waiting. It was two degrees below zero. You took off your own winter coat to put on her, leaving yourself in just a thin sweater. When she came out, she glanced at you and got in the car without saying a word."

"And those anniversaries," Clara’s voice was soft, "you spent so long making gifts for her by hand—music boxes, lamps—you spent ages on them. She was happy when she received them, but then what? Where are those things now?"

Julian remembered that music box.

When he made it, he carved every tiny figure by hand. When she opened the lid, her eyes were bright, and she watched it for a long time.

The living room was quiet.

Clara leaned on his shoulder and sighed gently.

"Don't go, okay? She won't have any problems. If she were really in trouble, it would be on the news tomorrow. If she’s fine, she’ll appear on her own in a couple of days. By then, you’ll know if I’m right or not."

Julian didn't speak, staring at the coffee table, deep in thought.

His gaze landed under the coffee table, where a brown kraft paper file envelope lay.

He didn't know when it had been put there. He remembered not having this item, and Clara didn't either.

He was stunned for a moment, then bent down to pick it up.

"What is this?" Clara saw it too.

Julian didn't speak. He tore open the file envelope, his movements quick, as if suddenly struck by a premonition.

Inside was a certificate. A divorce certificate.

Julian was dumbfounded. He flipped open the cover.

The photo showed him and Nina.

Julian was motionless. He didn't remember when he had signed a divorce agreement. He flipped to the last page.

In the signature field, her name was written neatly and clearly. His name was there too, signed scrawlingly, but it was undoubtedly his handwriting.

The date was over a month ago.

The divorce certificate slipped from his hand and fell to the floor.

Julian stared at the red certificate on the floor, unmoving.

Only one thought echoed in his mind: This time, she was actually being serious.

Chapter 10

Clara bent over, wanting to pick it up, but he shoved her hand away and picked it up himself, flipping it over and over to inspect it.

It wasn't fake.

The embossed seal, the date, the photo, the signatures—they were all real.

He didn't remember signing this.

The day he moved out, she had handed him an agreement, and he had signed it without even looking. After signing, he had even tossed it back at her, saying, "Signing another guarantee, right?"

She had taken it and glanced down at it.

He remembered she hadn't said anything at the time.

He thought it was just a guarantee, telling him to stay away from Clara, to stop making a scene, and to live a proper life.

He thought she was just being temperamental, and since he had signed it, that was that. Anyway, she couldn't leave him.

But that was a divorce agreement?

Julian’s hand began to tremble.

He took out his phone and dialed Nina’s number.

Powered off.

He dialed again; still powered off.

He stood up and rushed out.

"Julian!" Clara shouted from behind. He didn't look back.

He drove to Nina’s place, running three red lights along the way. He parked downstairs, ran to her door, and pounded on it.

"Nina! Nina!"

No one answered.

He kept pounding until his hands hurt, then leaned against the door, gasping for air.

She really wasn't there.

Julian remembered last night, her being tied to the mast while he walked away without looking back, and his heart constricted violently.

He remembered events even further back.

The day she burned their wedding photo.

That day, he had rushed into the courtyard to see Nina squatting on the ground, a lighter igniting their wedding photo.

The flames flared up, and his heart tightened—that was their wedding photo, how could she bear to burn it?

He rushed over, shoved her aside, and threw himself onto the ground to pat out the fire with his hands.

The fire went out, leaving his hands blistered. He knelt on the ground, looking at the half-burned photo, and a sudden thought occurred to him: she was so anxious to burn the photo, was it because she cared?

He remembered her recent attitude—so cold, so distant, as if she truly didn't want him anymore.

But if she didn't care, why burn it?

If she didn't care, she could have burned it and been done with it; why do it in the courtyard? Why not burn it right in front of him?

She was doing it on purpose.

She wanted him to see it, wanted him to worry, wanted him to beg her.

He knelt in front of the ashes, and suddenly remembered a photo in his pocket.

Clara had given it to him two days prior, calling it a souvenir. A photo of him and Clara, both laughing quite happily.

He pulled that photo out, pretending it had been fished out of the ashes, wiped it with his sleeve, and stood up.

He looked back at Nina, and that look—he had seen it.

Nina had been stunned; the light in her eyes had suddenly dimmed. She looked at that photo, looked at the one he had "fished out of the ashes of their wedding photo," and it was as if she had been struck by something.

She was hurting. Julian felt a surge of joy—she did care after all.

She put on such a cold, indifferent act, but seeing this photo, she couldn't keep it up anymore.