"She is investigating you." His voice sank. "Your address in Paris, your work, your daily routine—she is inquiring about everything."

My heart sank abruptly. "Why is she investigating me?"

Julian didn't answer directly; instead, he pulled his phone from his inner suit pocket, tapped on a text message, and handed it to me.

The sender was Selina, and the content read: "Auntie, the address is confirmed: 47 Sentier Street. She lives alone."

My fingers went cold.

"She and my mother are planning something." Julian took the phone back. "That is why I came."

"You came to protect me?"

"I came because you are here." He looked at me, his gaze deep. "Protecting you is just a side benefit."

I turned my face away so he wouldn't see my reddened eyes.

The car stopped in front of 47 Sentier Street. I pushed the door open and stepped out; he followed me out as well.

"Go in; I’ll watch until you get inside."

I walked two steps, then stopped without looking back. "Julian, keep your distance. The closer you are to me, the more Selina and your mother will want to target me."

There was a long silence behind me.

"The problem was never how far away I stayed from you." His voice came from behind me, carrying the coldness of someone pushed to a dead end. "The problem is that they have decided you 'shouldn't' be by my side."

"The further I am from you, the more they will believe this method is effective, and the next time they strike, it will be even more ruthless."

"Three years ago, I couldn't protect you and the baby, not because I was too close to you—"

He paused, each word seemingly squeezed from between his teeth: "It was because I wasn't strong enough—strong enough to make them afraid to touch you."

I spun around abruptly.

He was standing under the streetlight, his shadow stretched long. Half his face was in the light, half in the dark, just like the man himself—forever unreadable.

"What have you found out?" I asked.

"Not yet." He stepped closer. "But I will find out. Until then, let me protect you."

I bit my lip, neither agreeing nor refusing.

"Goodnight." I turned and walked into the building.

"Clara."

I paused.

"Does the sentence you wrote still count?" His voice was very soft, as if he feared the wind might scatter it. "When you have figured out how to live your own life, will you come back?"

I didn't answer and hurried upstairs.

The moment I closed the door, I leaned against the panel and slowly slid to the floor.

He remembered. He remembered every single word.

But I haven't figured it out yet.

Chapter 16

The third day of the delegation’s schedule was free time.

I didn't follow the group, choosing instead to go to Montmartre to paint alone. It was a habit I’d formed since coming to Paris—going on every day off, sitting on the steps in front of the Sacré-Cœur, and painting the opposite streetscape in watercolor.

The sunlight was beautiful today, the tourists were plentiful, and the music from a street performer drifted through the air.

Just as I was painting, a voice fell from above.

"That’s a nice painting."

I looked up; it was Julian.

He was wearing a dark gray trench coat and holding two coffees, standing beside me, his silhouette gilded with a rim of light against the sun.

"How did you find me?"

"Chen Qing told me." He handed me a coffee. "You come here every day off."

I took the coffee and shifted to the side to make space for him.

He sat down next to me, his shoulder nearly brushing mine.

I didn't move away.

"Isn't today free time for the delegation? Don't you need to accompany the guests?"

"They don't need my company." He took a sip of coffee. "I need to accompany you."

My heart skipped a beat.

I didn't speak, looking down to continue painting.

He sat there quietly, watching me paint. When the wind blew, he turned slightly, blocking the draft.

It was exactly the same as it had been many years ago.

"Julian," I stopped my brush.

"Yes."

"Why did you wait until now to find me? Forty-five days—why didn't you come sooner?"

He was silent for a while.

"Because I needed to handle some things." His voice was very low. "My mother and Selina’s affairs, company business... I didn't want to come to you while covered in trouble; if I had, I would have dragged you into it too."

"And now? Is it handled?"

"No." He turned to look at me. "But I discovered that when I can't handle things well, I want to see you even more."

The paintbrush in my hand dropped onto the paper, blurring a small patch of blue.

I looked up and met his eyes.

In those eyes, there was exhaustion, guilt, restraint, and a kind of light I hadn't seen in a long time—it was the same light from when he was eighteen, holding wilted daisies and asking, "Could you try to like me?"

"Julian, don't say things like that." My voice trembled. "I’ll take them seriously."

"That’s exactly what I want you to do."

I opened my mouth, but before I could say anything, my phone suddenly vibrated.

It was Chen Qing.

"Clara, come back quickly! There are two strange men hanging around your doorway. I called the police, but they haven't left yet—"

Julian snatched the phone, grabbing me at the same time: "Let's go."

He pulled me as we ran down the steps, through the crowd, and hailed a taxi.

In the car, he was on the phone the whole time, his tone as cold as ice: "Find out whose men they are. Check the surveillance footage on Sentier Street, and also, arrange two bodyguards for me—I want them there today."

I sat beside him, feeling frozen.

"Is it Selina?" I asked.

"I’m not sure." He held my hand, his palm searingly hot. "But no matter who it is, I won’t let anything happen to you."

I didn't pull my hand away.

Outside the window, the Parisian streetscape retreated rapidly.

I leaned against his shoulder and closed my eyes.

The car sped to our door, but the two men Chen Qing mentioned had disappeared, perhaps because they knew the police had been called.

But the gloom did not vanish with their departure; instead, it grew heavier.

The feeling of knowing there is a danger but not knowing when it will arrive is like having a guillotine hanging over one’s head—terrifying.

He seemed to see my thoughts and comforted me: "Don't be afraid. The bodyguards will be here soon. I won't let anything happen to you."

Chapter 17

The two bodyguards arrived that evening.

They were big, broad-shouldered, and expressionless—obviously professionals.

They stayed downstairs, working in twenty-four-hour shifts. When I went out, they followed; when I went home, they stood guard.

Chen Qing was also quite shaken. The next day, she brought flowers from her shop to my place, calling it "a way to calm the nerves."

"Clara, who on earth did you provoke?" she asked while arranging the flowers.

"It wasn't me who provoked them." I leaned against the sofa, holding a cup of hot tea. "It was my husband."

"Your husband?" Chen Qing raised an eyebrow. "That Mr. Julian?"

I nodded.

"Who did he provoke?"

"His mother," I said with a bitter smile. "And a woman who likes him."

Chen Qing opened her mouth, eventually only saying: "The wealthy are truly terrifying."

I smiled, but the smile faded as quickly as it came.

In the afternoon, Julian came over.

He didn't ring the doorbell, just opened the door with his key. I saw him for a second, then remembered—it was a house he had bought; he had a key.

"You..." I stood up.

"I’m here to pick you up." He placed a suitcase in the entryway. "Move somewhere else. It’s not safe here."

"Move where?"

"The hotel where I’m staying."

My mind buzzed: "No way."

"Clara, this isn't the time to be stubborn." He walked over, stood before me, and looked down at me. "Those two men were local thugs hired by Selina. She planned to stage a 'home invasion' to get you injured or even—"

He didn't finish, but I understood the implication.

"She’s insane." My voice was trembling.

"She has always been insane." Julian gripped my wrist. "So come with me."

I looked at him for a long time.

"Julian, if I go with you, what does that make me? Are we a married couple? We are already separated. Under what status would I move into your hotel room?"

His fingers tightened slightly.

"You are my wife. Legally, we aren't divorced yet." His voice dropped. "Besides, I never agreed to a divorce."

"When you gave me the ticket—"

"I gave you the ticket so you could choose. You chose to leave, and I didn't stop you." He interrupted me. "But I never said I agreed to a divorce. I tore up that divorce agreement long ago."