Julian's assistant arranged another exit, and we avoided everyone.

On the way to the city center, I remained silent.

Julian didn't speak either.

Until the car stopped in front of a strange building.

"Where is this?" I asked.

"A house I bought," he said. "It's not the old family home, nor the one we used to live in—it's new, and only I know about it."

"Why did you bring me here?"

He turned to look at me, his gaze deep: "Because you need a safe place, because I don't want you to be disturbed by anyone else, and because..." he paused, "this is the only promise I can give you."

I got out of the car and followed him into the building.

The elevator stopped at the twenty-eighth floor, and he opened the door.

The apartment was small but clean; sunlight poured in from the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the entire living room.

I walked to the window and saw the entire Shanghai city center spread out beneath the skyline.

"You like high places," he stood behind me. "You said before that you wanted to live higher up, to see further."

Chapter 22

I didn't speak.

He remembered again; he even remembered such idle talk I had once made.

"Julian, are you really going to send your mother to prison?" I turned to look at him, speaking with some difficulty. "Aren't you soft-hearted?"

"When she pushed you, was she soft-hearted?" His voice was very soft, but I could hear the coldness within. "When you were lying in a pool of blood, was she soft-hearted? When that child was gone, was she soft-hearted?"

I didn't answer.

"I won't be soft-hearted," he said. "This is what I owe you, and what she owes that child."

I lowered my head, and tears welled up again.

"Don't cry." He came over and wiped the tears from my face with his thumb. "You should be happy; after waiting three years, there is finally a result."

I nodded, but cried even harder.

On the day of the trial, I stood in the witness stand and saw his mother through the glass.

She had aged a lot.

Most of her hair had turned white, the wrinkles on her face looked like they were carved with a knife, and there were deep bags under her eyes.

When she saw me, her lips moved as if she wanted to say something, but in the end, she said nothing.

When the judge asked if she admitted to intentional injury resulting in a miscarriage, she was silent for a long time, then said one word: "I admit it."

There was an uproar in the gallery.

Julian sat in the first row of the gallery, never looking at his mother once from beginning to end.

His gaze remained on me, as if confirming that I was okay.

On the day of the sentencing, his mother was sentenced to two years and six months in prison.

She did not appeal.

When we walked out of the court, reporters swarmed us; microphones almost poked into my face. Julian blocked them, one hand protecting my shoulder and the other pushing through the crowd.

"Mr. Julian, what are your thoughts on your mother's sentence?"

"Mr. Julian, will you forgive your mother?"

"Mrs. Julian, do you have anything to say about this matter?"

Julian stopped, turned around, and faced the cameras.

"My mother did something wrong, and she has paid the price she deserved." His voice was calm. "But the biggest victim in this matter is not me; it is my wife. She did nothing wrong, yet she bore the most pain."

He looked down at me for a second, then continued: "I will not say 'forgive' on behalf of my wife because I am not qualified to do so. But I can guarantee her that from this day forward, no one will ever hurt her again."

The reporters were stunned.

I was stunned too.

He didn't look at me, but his hand held mine even tighter.

...

In the first month after his mother went to prison, I moved back to the country.

I didn't move into Julian's new apartment; I rented a small place for myself on the other side of the city.

He said he would give me a year, and I said I would give him an answer after a year.

Before that, I didn't want to live under his roof.

He didn't force me.

He just appeared downstairs at seven every morning, with two breakfasts in the car.

One for me, one for himself.

"You don't have to come every day," I couldn't help saying on the fourth day.

"I know." He took the bag from my hand. "But I want to."

And so, he kept coming.

Not a single day was missed.

When Shanghai entered December, it became terribly cold. One morning when I went out, I saw him standing downstairs carrying breakfast, a thin layer of frost on his shoulders.

How long had he been waiting?

"Get in." He handed me the breakfast. "The temperature has dropped today; dress warmly."

I sat in the car, where the heater was turned up high. He started the car, and I lowered my head to eat breakfast while light music played in the vehicle.

Everything was quiet, as quiet as a routine—like the kind of life we were meant to have had all along.

"Julian," I said.

"Yes."

"You don't have to come deliver food every day."

His hand paused, and he didn't speak.

"You can move in," I said.

Chapter 23

The car braked abruptly at the side of the road.

He turned to look at me, and there was light in his eyes—that bright light I hadn't seen in a long time.

"What did you say?" His voice was a bit hoarse.

"I said you can move in." I looked out the window, not daring to look at him. "But I only have one bedroom; you'll sleep on the sofa."

He didn't speak.

I turned my head and found him smiling.

Not the restrained little curve from before, but a real smile, with his eyes curved—like a fool.

"Okay," he said. "I'll sleep on the sofa."

The day he moved in, he brought two suitcases.

One was full of clothes, and the other was full of everything I loved to eat.

He stuffed the refrigerator until it was full, then stood in the kitchen wearing an apron, asking me what I wanted for dinner.

I leaned against the kitchen doorframe, watching him, and suddenly felt a lump in my throat.

Three years.

For three years we had been in a cold war, arguing, misunderstanding, and separated; I thought those days had ground away all our feelings.

But here he was, standing in an apron, asking me what I wanted for dinner, as if nothing had ever happened.

No, it wasn't as if nothing had happened.

It was because it

did

happen that he had become better, and I had also changed, becoming more aware of what was worth cherishing.

"Julian," I said.

"Yes?"

"I want to eat your sweet and sour spare ribs."

He turned to look at me and smiled: "Okay."

That night we sat at the dining table, having the first "home-cooked meal" in the true sense in three years.

He picked out all the bones from the ribs and put the meat in my bowl. I lowered my head to eat, only to discover at the end that I was crying.

"What's wrong?" He put down his chopsticks.

"Nothing." I wiped away my tears. "I just feel... it's too late."

"It's not too late." He took my hand. "It's never too late."

...

Selina's sentence was heavier than the mother's.

Intentional injury, illegal stalking, and threats—with all crimes combined, she was sentenced to four years in prison. She did not attend the sentencing day; it was said she had a mental breakdown in the detention center and was sent to the hospital.

When Julian told me this news, I was washing dishes in the kitchen.

He stood behind me, resting his chin on my shoulder.

"Aren't you happy?" he asked.

"I am." I turned off the faucet and wiped my hands. "But not because of her sentence."

"Then because of what?"

I turned around and looked into his eyes: "Because I finally don't have to be afraid anymore."

He looked down at me, then slowly bent down, his forehead resting against mine.

"Clara."

"Yes."

"The one-year agreement—eight months left."

"Yes."

"Can I apply early?"

I was stunned for a moment: "Apply for what?"

"Apply to be your boyfriend." His ears turned red, as red as that year when he was eighteen. "Starting from being a boyfriend, then fiancé, then husband—step by step, no rush."

I looked at his bright red ears and suddenly smiled.

"Julian, you're thirty years old, yet you're doing this."

"Even at thirty, I still want to chase you." His voice was very light. "I missed twelve years; I can't miss any more."