A long time later, a middle-aged officer walked over.

"Are you Julian?"

Julian stood up. "Yes. Is there any news about Nina?"

The officer looked at him without answering. "Come with me."

Julian followed him into an office. There was another person sitting inside, wearing a different uniform with different insignias on the shoulders.

"This is our Chief," the middle-aged officer said.

Julian was stunned for a moment and nodded.

The Chief looked at him, his gaze heavy.

"Where were you last night?"

"At home," Julian said. "Why?"

The Chief didn't speak. He glanced at the documents on the desk, then looked back up at Julian.

"We tracked the kidnappers' information last night," he said. "We cracked the phone they used. The IP address of the final message sent—"

He paused. "It’s your home address."

Julian froze. "What?"

The Chief looked at him, his gaze full of scrutiny.

"Your home address," he repeated. "At 11:20 PM last night, the kidnappers' phone sent a message to a certain number. The signal triangulation shows the location of the sender was your house."

Julian stood in place, unmoving.

At 11:20 PM last night, he was at home, and Clara was also at home.

"Impossible," he said.

The Chief didn't speak, just stared at him.

"I was the only one at home—" Julian paused. "Well, there was one other person. But she couldn't possibly..."

He suddenly stopped, thinking of many things.

Clara had been tied to the mast, crying so pitifully. He had saved her, brought her home, and applied medicine to her wounds. Her injuries were very light, her tear tracks shallow. She said those people claimed to be sent by Nina, and that she had heard it with her own ears; he had believed her.

The lock on the water tank had been tampered with, the prop room had caught fire; she said it was unintentional, and he believed that too.

Every single word she said, he had believed.

He had never once thought to ask her: Who did you see? Who did you hear? How did you know those were Nina’s people?

Julian had never once thought about it.

He only knew she was crying pitifully, knew she needed his protection, and knew Nina was a high-society heiress capable of anything.

"Mr. Julian?" the Chief looked at him.

Julian regained his senses. "We’ll notify you if there’s news," the Chief said. "Go back for now and keep your phone accessible."

Julian nodded and walked out.

When he reached the doorway, he paused and looked back. "If there’s news..." his voice was a bit hoarse, "no matter what it is, please make sure to notify me."

The Chief looked at him and nodded.

Julian walked out of the police station and sat in the car. He didn't start the engine. He sat there, gripping the steering wheel, staring ahead, his mind completely blank.

His phone rang. He looked down—it was Clara.

He stared at the name for a long time.

He didn't answer.

The phone rang again; it was her again.

He declined the call.

He started the engine and drove off.

He didn't know where he was going. He drove for a while before realizing he had stopped at a familiar place.

The theater where he frequently performed.

He parked and walked out, standing at the entrance.

The theater sign had been taken down.

The large characters were gone, leaving only empty frames. Workers were moving things out—prop crates, lighting rigs, piles of clutter.

Julian walked in.

The theater was a mess, with packed boxes everywhere. The stage was empty, the curtains drawn, and the seats in the auditorium were covered in dust.

He saw the owner standing aside, talking to a worker.

"Mr. Chen." He walked over.

The owner turned around, stunned when he saw him. "Julian? What are you doing here?"

"Why was the sign taken down?" Julian asked.

The owner looked at him, silent for a few seconds.

"You don't know?"

"Know what?"

The owner sighed. "Ms. Sinclair withdrew her funding," he said. "The theater couldn't keep going."

Julian was stunned.

Withdrew funding.

He remembered Nina coming to the theater that day, saying she wanted to talk to the owner about business. He thought she had come for him, and even asked her, "Have you made up your mind?" telling her to go apologize to Clara.

She had said nothing, but it turned out she had come to withdraw her funding.

"That's not right," he said. "When I performed, every show was sold out. How could it not survive?"

The owner looked at him, his gaze somewhat complex.

"Julian," he said, "do you really think those audience members were there for you?"

Julian didn't speak.

"Those tickets," the owner said, "were all bought by Ms. Sinclair. For two years, every show was full, all people she paid to attend. She was afraid you'd have an empty house, afraid you'd be unhappy, afraid you'd think no one liked you."

Julian stood there, unmoving.

"Do you know how much money she spent?" the owner said. "Hundreds of thousands every month. Just so that every time you took the stage, you would see the theater packed, and manage a smile."

Julian opened his mouth but couldn't produce a sound.

"She told me," the owner continued, "'If he is happy, then I am happy.'"

Julian remembered those performance days.

Every time he went on stage, seeing the theater packed full, he felt an immense sense of satisfaction. He felt he had finally succeeded, that people finally liked him, and that he didn't have to rely on her anymore.

He had never imagined those people were all hired by her.

He had never imagined those cheers, those standing ovations, those cries of "One more song!" were all bought with her money.

He had thought it was his own talent, his own charm, and that he could stand on his own two feet without her.

It was all fake.

Those packed houses were fake.

Those cheers were fake.

His success was fake.

The only thing that was real was her.

It was her spending hundreds of thousands a month to buy those fake audience members for him, her doing it year after year, letting those fake audience members sit in the theater, applaud him, and cheer for him. It was her never mentioning it after he left the stage, never rebutting him whenever he said, "See, I don't need you to succeed." It was her sitting in the corner, watching him smile, and saying nothing.

Julian squatted down, covering his face with his hands.

The owner watched him, saying nothing. After a long time, Julian stood up.

"What else did she do?" he asked.

The owner looked at him. "That study-abroad spot," the owner said, "weren't you always wanting to go? That magician, abroad—you said he was someone you couldn't reach. Ms. Sinclair pulled strings through three different levels of connections and owed a mountain of favors just to get it for you."

"She had originally wanted to give it to you as a surprise," the owner said. "But it didn't end up being used."

Julian stood in the empty, desolate theater, looking at the stage.

Then he turned and walked out. Upon reaching the door, he paused and glanced back at the empty stage one last time.

The sun outside was bright, yet all he could feel was a coldness that pierced through his heart.

Chapter 13

Julian waited at home for two days.

There was no news.

He kept his phone clutched in his hand, the screen brightening and fading, brightening and fading again. He checked it every few minutes—no calls, no texts, nothing at all.

On the evening of the third day, Clara cooked a table full of dishes.

"Julian, you haven't eaten properly for the past two days." She handed him the chopsticks. "Eat something. If Nina really does come back and sees you like this, she’ll definitely be heartbroken."

Julian looked at her face.

The light shone down from above; her eyes were bright, and a gentle smile played on her face. She was just as she always was, just as she had been in the past, just as she had been all those years he had known her.

He suddenly remembered some things.

Those things had been spinning in his mind for the past two days. The kidnappers' message had been sent from his house; Clara had been tied up for an entire night yet had only minor injuries; the things she said, the way she cried, her face with those shallow tear tracks.

He thought, it was time to ask some questions.

"Alright," he said. "Let's eat."

He sat down at the dining table.

Clara poured him a glass of wine.

"Julian, I’d like to toast you." She raised her glass. "Thank you for taking care of me all these years."

Julian looked at her without speaking. He lifted his glass and took a sip.

Clara drank as well. She set down her glass and placed some food on his plate.