I froze.

"When did you tear it up?"

"The day you left," he said. "You chose the ticket, and I respected that. But the marriage—I haven't given up on it."

My tears fell.

"Julian, what exactly do you want?"

"I want you safe." He lifted a hand to wipe away my tears.

"I want you back by my side. But not now, not through force. So—you stay in the hotel suite, and I’ll stay next door. Two rooms, no interference. It’s just to make it easier for the bodyguards to protect you."

I bit my lip, struggling for a long time.

In the end, I nodded.

When packing, I deliberately dragged it out. I folded the clothes one by one, then took them out and refolded them.

Julian leaned against the doorframe watching, not rushing me.

"What are you afraid of?" he suddenly asked.

My hand paused.

"Afraid of what?" I asked back.

"Afraid of staying in the same hotel as me, afraid of being too close to me, afraid..." He paused. "Afraid that you’ll soften your heart."

I didn't answer, because everything he said was true.

I was afraid that being too close to him would make me forget all my grievances.

I was afraid that seeing the light still on in his room late at night would break my heart, and I was afraid that hearing him say "I haven't given up" would make me unable to resist throwing myself into his arms.

I was afraid that the bit of backbone I had struggled to build up would shatter completely in front of him.

But at this moment, I had no choice.

Chapter 18

The car stopped at the hotel entrance. When I got out, I saw the hotel’s name—Le Meurice, one of the oldest palace hotels in Paris.

Staying here was typical of his style.

When the front desk saw him, their gaze lingered on me for a moment before they handed over two room cards.

"Mr. Julian, your suite is on the seventh floor, and the room next door is already prepared."

Next door.

We were truly only separated by a single wall.

That wall was very thin.

So thin that sometimes I could hear faint sounds coming from his side—the muffled thud of leather shoes on the carpet, the soft click of a cup being set on a table, and the occasional short, sharp cough.

We had lived in places with even less distance before, and we had done things far more intimate than this.

But perhaps it was because we had been apart for too long that I now felt afraid to go out and see him, to share the same environment as him.

We spent three days living like this, without interfering with each other.

On the third day, Julian uncovered the truth about three years ago.

That afternoon, I had just returned from outside, and when I pushed open the hotel room door, I saw him sitting on the sofa in the living room.

A stack of documents and a laptop were spread out on the coffee table in front of him.

He looked up; his eyes were red.

"Clara." His voice was hoarsened beyond recognition. "That child—"

My heart squeezed tight.

"It wasn't an accident." His fingers clutched the documents, his knuckles turning white. "It was my mother. She pushed you."

I stood rooted to the spot, feeling the blood in my veins run cold.

Actually, I had guessed it.

The moment I fell down the stairs, I had looked back and seen that hand, and the jade bracelet on it.

But I had never confirmed it.

Because what if I had? She was his mother.

She looked down on me, felt I wasn't good enough, and so didn't want me to give birth to the Julian family's bloodline. What could I do? What could Julian do?

Was I supposed to ask him to sue his own mother for my sake?

So, I chose not to speak.

I chose to bury that image in the deepest part of my memory, pretending it was just an accident.

"You knew?" Julian saw my expression, and his voice grew even hoarser. "You knew all along?"

I didn't speak, but my tears answered for me.

He stood up abruptly, walked over, and pulled me into his arms.

He hugged me tightly, so tightly that I could feel him trembling.

"Why didn't you tell me?" his voice muffled into my hair. "Why did you carry it alone for three years?"

"If I had told you, would you have believed me?" My voice was very light. "She is your mother. If I said she pushed me, would you have believed me?"

His body stiffened.

"Even if you believed me, what could you have done? Send her to prison?" I pushed him away and looked up into his eyes. "Julian, I didn't want to put you in a difficult position. So I chose to carry it myself."

His tears finally fell.

It was the first time I had ever seen Julian cry.

Not because of being touched, and not out of guilt.

It was out of heartache.

Heartache that I had carried it alone for three years; heartache that I had swallowed all those grievances; heartache that after losing my child, I still had to call the murderer who caused the child's death "Mother."

"I'm sorry." His voice shattered into pieces. "I'm sorry, I didn't know, I didn't know anything..."

"Don't say it." I raised my hand to cover his mouth. "Don't say it."

He took my hand and pressed it against his cheek.

"I will make her pay the price." His gaze changed—it became cold and ruthless. "Regardless of whether she is my mother."

"You—"

"I have already had my lawyers handle it." He said. "The evidence is conclusive—intentional injury resulting in a miscarriage. It is enough for her to spend a few years inside."

I opened my mouth, wanting to say "no need," but the words wouldn't come out.

Because I had thought about that child for three years.

Every deep night, in every dream, every time I saw someone else's baby carriage.

I had been hateful.

But mostly, I was helpless.

Now, someone was saying they would seek justice for that child.

I couldn't say "no need."

"Julian." I said softly. "Have you really thought this through? She is your mother."

"She is not my mother." His voice was as cold as ice. "From the moment she pushed you, she lost the right to be."

Outside the window, the Parisian sky suddenly darkened; a rainstorm was coming.

Chapter 19

The rainstorm arrived in the night.

I lay in bed, listening to the rain outside, tossing and turning, unable to sleep, my mind filled with the image of Julian with red-rimmed eyes saying, "She will pay the price."

My phone suddenly vibrated.

It was a message from Julian: "Are you asleep?"

I stared at the three words for a long time, then replied with two: "No."

A minute later, the doorbell rang.

I put on my robe and opened the door. Julian stood outside in dark pajamas, his hair slightly messy, as if he had just gotten out of bed.

"Can't sleep," he said.

I stepped aside to let him in.

He walked to the floor-to-ceiling window and watched the Parisian night scene blurred by the rain. I stood behind him, a meter between us, and neither of us spoke.

"Clara." He suddenly spoke.

"Yes."

"After all this is over, let's start over, okay?"

I looked at his back; his shoulders were narrower than they used to be, and he had lost weight all over.

"I don't know," I said honestly. "I still need time."

He turned around and looked at me.

"Okay." He didn't walk over, just stood by the window. "I'll give you time, as much as you need."

A bolt of lightning split the sky outside, illuminating his face.

On that face was exhaustion, anticipation, and the nervousness of fearing rejection.

I suddenly remembered the eighteen-year-old him, holding daisies in front of me, his ears bright red.

Twelve years had passed, and he was still that boy who got nervous, felt fear, and would knock on my door on a stormy night.

Only, we had both changed.

We had become more cautious, more timid, and more afraid to say the word "love" easily.

"Julian." I took a step forward.

"Yes."

"You said at the airport that day that you had waited for me for forty-five days."

"Yes."

"What if I asked you to wait for another year?"

He was silent for three seconds.

"I'll wait." His voice was very light. "I would wait for three years, ten years."

"Then what if I never figure it out in my lifetime?"

He suddenly smiled, a very, very small arc, but I saw it.

"Then I'll wait for you for a lifetime." He said. "Either way, it ends up being you and me, so I don't lose anything."