Crabapple Blooms, Unseen by the World

Seven years ago, she braved a torrential downpour to save Julian Vance when he had amnesia, giving up her chance to study abroad just to stand by him through his three darkest, most destitute years. She thought seven years of love and two years of marriage had finally brought her happiness. It wasn't until she tried to replace their marriage certificate that she realized she had never actually married him—and that Julian already had a legal wife. As it turned out, he couldn't bear to let go of her devotion, yet he was equally unwilling to give up the lucrative benefits that marriage brought him. Having finally seen through the truth, Seraphina Shaw resolved to tear apart this elaborately woven scam and make Julian Vance pay dearly for his betrayal. Seraphina Shaw POV Inside the bustling hall of the Marriage Registry Office, the heavy, suffocating scent of rose perfume wafting off the couple who had just finished their paperwork ahead of me made me feel sick to my stomach. I was clutching a clear, sealed plastic bag holding an unrecognizable lump of sodden pulp. It was our certified copy of the marriage certificate. Three days ago, I had forgotten it in my trench coat pocket, leaving it to tumble inside the washing machine for two hours. By the time I pulled it out, it had disintegrated into complete mush. When Julian found out, he merely chuckled and ruffled my hair affectionately. "Silly girl. We can just apply for another copy later. We'll go together next time." I had frowned slightly. "Can't we just go right now?" Something flickered in his eyes before he pulled me into his arms. "I'll take care of trivial things like this. You just stay home and get some rest." Then, placing an apologetic kiss on my forehead, he added, "Seraphina, there’s an urgent situation at the office. A few figures in the cross-border merger and acquisition deal aren't matching up, so I have to head over to the private club to meet a client. Be a good girl and stay home. I'll figure out a way to handle the replacement certificate." I had always been considerate, and I understood that as the head of the entire Vance Group, his days were consumed by countless responsibilities. Being perpetually busy was simply his norm. So, I adjusted his tie, handed him the black cashmere coat I had personally pressed, and smiled gently. "Go take care of business." Believing it was only a minor errand and not wanting to trouble him with it, I simply hailed a cab and went to the Marriage Registry Office myself. Now, sitting before the service counter, I pushed my identification documents and the mashed clump of paper toward the clerk. "Hello, I'm here to apply for a replacement copy of my marriage certificate," I spoke softly. The middle-aged woman on the other side pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, tapped a few keys on her keyboard with practiced ease, and glanced between her screen and my face a couple of times. "Seraphina Shaw, right?" the clerk asked coldly. "Yes." "The system clearly shows that you have a single status." I froze for a moment, forcing an awkward, reflexive smile. "Could you have made a mistake? We registered our marriage right here two years ago. If you look at the remains in that bag, you can still make out the faint traces of the official seal..." The clerk’s expression darkened. Without another word, she abruptly swung the monitor around to face me, pointing directly at the system interface on the screen. "See for yourself! Your marital status clearly reads 'single'! Just who exactly did you register with?" "That's impossible." I stood up abruptly, my knees slamming hard against the counter with a dull thud. My voice trembled uncontrollably. "My husband's name is Julian Vance—Julian Vance from the Vance Group. Two years ago, we..." "Julian Vance?" At the mention of that name, another younger clerk nearby leaned over, quickly typed something on her keyboard, and sucked in a sharp breath. The look she directed at me instantly filled with pity and thinly veiled contempt. "Ma'am," the younger clerk lowered her voice, "Mr. Julian Vance's marital status is indeed listed as married. However, the name written in the legal spouse column isn't yours." "It's Clara Brooks." "What... what kind of joke is this?" A wave of dizziness rushed over me as I stammered, "We had a wedding... I even still have the video recording from that day..." "These days, is it really that rare for rich men to spend some pocket change on a fake banquet and buy a forged certificate just to trick naive young girls?" The clerk shoved my items back across the recessed counter groove. "Ma'am, be more careful next time." I didn't even know how I managed to walk out of the Registrar's Office. I stumbled down the bustling street amidst the roar of passing traffic, yet everything fell on deaf ears. How could this be possible? Two years ago, on the day we registered, Julian had held my hand, his palm warm and slick with nervous sweat. With rimmed red eyes, he had told me, "Seraphina, the rest of your life is finally mine. Starting today, you are Mrs. Vance." Why would Julian lie to me? What could he possibly stand to gain? If it was just for my body, for cheap amusement, he wouldn't have needed to go through the painstaking trouble of forging an entire marriage. He was the untouchable, elite CEO of the Vance Group—what kind of woman couldn't he have? Why resort to such a vile, cruel method to cage me inside the illusion of being his wife? And just who was this "Clara Brooks"? I pulled out my phone, my fingers trembling violently as I dialed Julian's number. "Beep... beep... We're sorry, the number you have dialed is currently unavailable." The cold, automated female voice repeated on a hollow loop. I wandered aimlessly down the sidewalk, sharp spasms twisting my stomach into knots. The oatmeal porridge Julian had lovingly made for me this morning churned violently within me, morphing into corrosive acid eating away at my insides. I didn't know how long I walked until I stopped at a busy intersection. As the pedestrian light turned red, I numbly lifted my gaze. Directly across the street stood an opulent, lavish private club. Julian frequently entertained top-tier clients there. I remembered him saying this very morning that he was heading to a club to handle the merger and acquisition deal. My eyes had merely swept past it by chance, but in the next second, they locked onto the entrance steps as if nailed to the spot. A sleek black Maybach was parked there. The vanity license plate belonged to none other than Julian. The car door was open, and the tall, striking figure standing beside it was wearing the very same black cashmere coat I had ironed with my own hands that morning. That was my husband. The man I had loved for seven years, my partner of two years. Instinctively, I moved to raise my hand, desperate to call out his name. Yet my voice caught in my throat, utterly paralyzed. In Julian's embrace leaned a woman. She wore a cream-colored trench coat, her frame delicate, her long hair cascading softly over her shoulders. Julian’s arm held her firmly around the waist in a fiercely protective stance, tinged with a delicate, cautious adoration. The woman seemed to be throwing a small tantrum, playfully thumping her small fist against Julian's chest. Julian wasn't angry in the slightest. He looked down at her with a gentle, melting tenderness that was excruciatingly familiar to me. Then, angling his head, he captured her lips in a kiss. Right there on the crowded public street, amid the biting chill of the late autumn wind, the man who was supposed to be "handling a cross-border merger and acquisition deal" was openly, passionately kissing another woman. I stood frozen on the opposite side of the road. The red light turned green, and the crowd surged past me like a tidal wave. Someone bumped hard into my shoulder, muttering a curse under their breath—"Freak." I didn't react at all; I simply remained rooted to the spot, my eyes unblinking, fixed on the scene across the street. That kiss lasted a long, agonizing time. Long enough for me to clearly register her side profile when she turned her face. Gentle, delicate, fragile—like a tender blossom cultivated inside a pampered greenhouse. In that shattering instant, the clerk's chilling words detonated inside my head once more: "The name written in the legal spouse column isn't yours. It's Clara Brooks." So it hadn't been a glitch in the system, nor was it a mere coincidence of sharing the same name. Seven years of sticking together through thick and thin, two years of shared warmth and intimacy, the so-called marriage, the sacred vows—they were all nothing more than a colossal, grotesque illusion woven by Julian's own hands. And within that illusion, I was the sole fool kept in the dark, dutifully playing along in his one-man show titled "Undying Love." I thought I was his savior, his one and only. When in truth, I was merely a pet he kept inside a glass jar during his spare hours. Even that hollow title of "Mrs. Vance" was just a fake bone he tossed out to pacify his pet. The spasms in my stomach finally reached their absolute breaking point. I doubled over violently beside a curbside trash can, retching uncontrollably. I threw up the morning's oatmeal, the bitter stomach acid, and finally, pure bile. I gasped raggedly for air, my tears mingling with cold sweat as they splattered against the concrete sidewalk, blooming into dark stains. I didn't storm across the street to confront him or demand an explanation. In the face of such overwhelming agony, even rage became an unaffordable luxury. I only felt an inescapable, bone-chilling cold. I watched the Maybach's door shut, watching the vehicle that carried seven years of my youth and every ounce of my faith merge smoothly into traffic, driving off without a shred of lingering hesitation. Slowly, I straightened my posture and wiped the foulness from the corner of my lips with the back of my hand. Pulling out my phone, I stared down at the familiar contact label on the screen: "Hubby." My fingertip hovered over the glass for a second before I calmly tapped "Delete." Then, turning on my heel against the biting wind, I walked step by step into the dim, shadowy streets, heading in the exact opposite direction from them.Seraphina Shaw POV When I pushed open the apartment door, the European-style grandfather clock hanging on the wall chimed precisely three times for three in the afternoon. Inside the vast, empty living room, sunlight slanted through the expansive floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the tiny specks of dust suspended in the air with piercing clarity. The leftover red wine we had shared the night before still sat on the table. The fleece blanket on the sofa even retained the deep creases from where we had curled up together. Everything felt so real—so vivid that for a fleeting moment, I almost believed that everything which had happened this morning was nothing more than an absurd nightmare. Slipping out of my coat, I collapsed heavily onto the cushions. I curled my body tight, pulling my knees to my chest, and closed my eyes. In the darkness, the floodgates of my memory burst open, carrying me back to that stormy night seven years ago. It had also been late autumn. A relentless downpour had pushed the city’s drainage system to the brink of collapse. At twenty, I had just secured a full-scholarship exchange spot in the Department of Architecture at Politecnico di Milano. I had just walked out of my professor’s office, clutching my precious design blueprints tightly against my chest as I braved the howling wind and rain to rush back to my rented room. It was at that pitch-black, muddy intersection that the sharp, metallic stench of blood caught my breath. Under the ghastly glare of a distant flash of lightning, I caught sight of a black sedan, crushed and horribly mangled against a bridge pier. The car door was ajar. A man lay sprawled in the muddy water, drenched in blood. I could have called the police and walked away, but when I shone my flashlight and caught sight of his face, my footsteps froze. It was a striking face, though pale as paper. His fingers clawed desperately into the dirt, mud and blood caked beneath his nails, his lips parted in a faint, ragged gasp. "Save... me..." He didn't open his eyes. Operating purely on instinct, he reached out and seized my ankle. That night, small and frail as I was, I had no idea where I found the strength to drag this man—who stood a whole head taller than me—step by grueling step back to my cramped, tiny rented room of just barely over a hundred square feet. I dared not take him to a hospital. There were obvious knife wounds on his body, and before falling unconscious, he had muttered over and over, "No hospital... please..." The three years that followed were the hardest of my life, yet also the sweetest. When he woke, he remembered nothing. He had forgotten his name, his identity, even how to operate a smartphone. His mind was like a hard drive that had been forcibly wiped clean. I gave him a name: Dylan. Because he told me he always felt his true home was somewhere far, far away. To treat Dylan’s injuries and buy those exorbitant medications, I gritted my teeth and gave up my exchange student spot. By day, I drafted blueprints at construction sites; by night, I waited tables at restaurants; and on weekends, I even tutored middle school kids. For those three years, we were cooped up in that dark, damp room. There was no air conditioning in the summer, just a creaking old fan; there was no heat in the winter, so we huddled together, sharing body heat to keep warm. I still remembered the first time Dylan ran a high fever—his skin had burned scorchingly hot. Trapped in some terrible nightmare, he thrashed violently on the bed in agony. I stayed by his side for three days and three nights, cooling him down with cold compresses over and over, holding his hand through the endless dark. The morning the fever finally broke, Dylan opened his eyes. Looking at me, fast asleep from exhaustion against the edge of the bed, tears slipped silently down his cheeks. He reached out, his hand gently brushing my cheek, his voice hoarse yet unwavering: "Seraphina, once I find out who I am, I will give you my entire life." Back then, I truly believed I had become this man's whole world. I was the first light he saw when he woke from the dark and the mud—his one and only light. Until three years later, when a fleet of black Rolls-Royces shattered the silence. Bodyguards in tailored black suits pushed open the rickety wooden door of the apartment. Facing Dylan, who was cooking a meal for me, they bowed deeply: "Mr. Julian Vance, please return home immediately to take charge of the company." In that single instant, the look in Dylan’s eyes underwent a seismic shift. The confusion and gentle warmth vanished, replaced by an icy, piercing sharpness I had never seen before. I knew his memories had returned. He remembered that he was Julian Vance. He remembered that he was the sole heir to a sprawling corporate empire. I thought our story ended there. In reality, the fairy tale of Cinderella and the prince usually closed with the prince returning to his castle. Quietly, I packed my things, preparing to walk away. Julian didn’t let me leave. Right there in front of all his bodyguards, he dropped to one knee on the floor of that dilapidated rental, holding a diamond ring he had bought who-knew-when, its brilliance dazzling and sharp. "Seraphina," he said, looking up at me, his gaze deep and relentlessly stubborn, "my name is Julian Vance. I’ve found myself, and now, I’m going to keep my promise. Marry me. Be my one and only Mrs. Vance." I wept. I thought all our bitter days had finally turned sweet. I thought that even after reclaiming his throne at the top of the pyramid, he still held me in the softest, most tender corner of his heart. We went through the marriage registry process swiftly, moving into this downtown penthouse. For two years, Julian indulged me in practically everything. He kept track of my monthly cycle, using his large, calloused hands to massage my stomach when cramps hit. After exhausting cross-border meetings, he would fly through the night just to have afternoon tea with me at my favorite spot. He sheltered me behind an impenetrable wall, never letting me meet anyone from the Vance family. He would say, "The Vance family is too complicated. I don't want you tainted by that filth. All you need to do is stay safe and be my princess." I believed him. I had believed him with every fiber of my being. Now, my eyes snapped wide open. Once the rosy filter of memory was ripped away, every single detail from our past began to expose its monstrous cracks. Had he kept me away from the Vance family truly to protect me? Or was it to hide the existence of another woman? The "marriage registration" he had taken me through, the duplicate marriage certificate ruined in the wash—had it all been an elaborate charade? Then what did these past two years amount to? A man I sacrificed my future to save, pouring everything I had into his recovery, had used the most noble-sounding excuses to turn me into a kept mistress hidden in the shadows? What sent the deepest chill down my spine was Julian's near-arrogant greed. He had regained his memory. He had known full well he had a legal wife. Yet, he still returned to that rundown apartment to propose to me. He wanted the family alliances and wealth Clara Brooks brought him, yet he couldn't bring himself to let go of the pure, untainted love I had given him over those three years. He thought he was God, capable of slotting two women neatly into different parallel realities, running them side by side without interference, convinced the truth would never bleed through. "Urgh—" A dry heave tore through me again. With nothing left in my stomach, I coughed up mouthfuls of bitter, acidic bile. Stumbling into the bathroom, I twisted the faucet open and splashed freezing water relentlessly over my face. In the mirror, the woman staring back was as pale as a ghost, her eyes mapped with broken red vessels. At twenty-seven, the countless late nights spent drafting plans and the lingering ailments from that damp room had already etched faint lines at the corners of my eyes. I had sacrificed my seven finest years—all my youth, my talent, and my love—as an offering to a monster. No. I couldn't let it end like this. I stared dead into my own reflection. My nails dug deep into my palms, the sharp pain dragging my mind back to clarity. If Clara Brooks was his wife, then what part did she play in this sick farce? Did she even know I existed? Julian Vance, you think you can pull the wool over everyone's eyes? Then I am going to peel off your skin, layer by agonizing layer. Drying my face, I turned and walked toward the desk tucked in the corner of the living room. My computer, the one I usually used for design work, sat there. I had to find out who this woman named "Clara Brooks" really was.Seraphina Shaw POV Outside, the sky was gradually sinking into darkness. The cold rain of early winter began tapping against the glass, steady and dull. I sat before the screen, its pale blue glow washing over my expressionless face. My fingers flew across the keyboard. Back when I took on freelance work to make ends meet, I had crossed paths with people from all walks of life, including a few contacts in the gray market who had nearly omnipotent access to personal data. I dialed an encrypted number. "Kevin, I need you to run a background check. Clara Brooks, female. I want every connection between her and the CEO of the Vance Group, Julian Vance—especially their marital status and her residential addresses over the past three years." A low chuckle came from the other end of the line. "Ms. Shaw, digging into the head of the Vance family carries quite a bit of risk." "Name your price," I said, my voice completely devoid of emotion. "Fair enough. Give me two hours." Hanging up, I leaned back against the chair, turning over every shred of memory from the past two years in my mind. Details were like sparks in the dark—once you started looking for them, they set the whole field ablaze. I recalled how Julian had a fixed "business trip" every single month. It was always around the 15th, without fail. Sometimes it lasted three days, sometimes a full week. Before leaving each time, he would hold me tenderly, whispering in my ear, "Wait for me at home, be good. I'll bring you a gift when I get back." Each time he returned, he truly did bring back lavish jewelry and limited-edition designer bags. Yet looking back now, whenever he came back from those trips, a strange perfume always lingered faintly around him. I never wore perfume, and Julian exclusively used a specific brand of woody cologne. That subtle fragrance had clearly come from another environment—or from the embrace of another woman. I also remembered that unsaved number in his phone. Several times, while we were having dinner, or even in the middle of our intimacy, that number would ring out of nowhere. Julian’s reaction had always been identical. His brow would furrow slightly, a flicker of irritation flashing through his eyes before he swiftly muted the call and stepped out onto the balcony to answer it. Once, when I went to bring him a glass of water, I caught his hushed voice through the sliding glass door: "Stop throwing a fit. I’ll come over tomorrow. You’re not well, so get some rest." When I asked him what was wrong back then, he had pulled me into his arms without batting an eye, kissing my forehead. "A few senior directors at the company are clamoring for dividend payouts. It's nothing, I can handle it." What a flawless excuse. Senior board members. Cross-border mergers and acquisitions. Business entertaining. Hiding behind that unchanging, devoted mask of his, this man had woven a web of lies so seamless that not a single flaw could be found. Two hours later, a notification chimed in my inbox. Kevin's email had arrived. I clicked open the encrypted file, my palms breaking into a light sweat. The first thing that caught my eye was a photo of two people. The background was the real Registrar's Office. The man in the photo was Julian Vance, impeccably dressed in a suit, his expression aloof and cold. The woman beside him was none other than the one he had held and kissed on the street earlier today—Clara Brooks. Beneath the photo, the date of registration was glaringly clear: November 12, three years ago. Three years ago. That was merely two months after the Vance family took him away from my rented apartment, after he regained his memories and returned to the Vance family. A bone-chilling cold shot straight from the soles of my feet to the top of my head. I rapidly scrolled down with my mouse, scanning through the documents below. Clara Brooks was the daughter of the Vance family's longtime ally, the Brooks Group. During the three years Julian had amnesia, Clara had been severely injured for some reason. Driven by guilt and the strategic calculation of a family alliance, Old Mr. Vance had forced this marriage upon Julian when he had just recovered his memory and his footing in the family was still unstable. In other words, in his second month back with the Vance family, Julian Vance had become Clara Brooks's legal husband. And yet, what did he do after that? He took a diamond ring, returned to my rented apartment, and got down on one knee to propose to me. "Haha..." A short, breathy laugh escaped my lips, sounding eerily grotesque in the quiet room. It was a joke more absurd and twisted than the trashiest soap opera. The files also revealed that Julian didn't live with Clara at the Vance estate. Instead, he had settled her into a secluded suburban villa, rarely accompanying her to public events, publicly referring to her only as "a family member quietly recuperating." When I typed that villa's address into the map, I found it was less than three kilometers from the private club where I had seen them kissing this afternoon. That explained why Julian had been in such a rush to leave this morning. Because Clara was right nearby. He didn't just have to soothe the "fake wife" at home—he had to go comfort the "real Mrs. Vance" in her villa. Julian Vance, you must be truly exhausted. I closed my eyes, and silent tears slipped down my cheeks, splattering against the keyboard. I wasn't crying for this dead love. I was crying for the countless nights during those three years when I drew blueprints until my eyes were bloodshot; for the calluses and blisters on my fingers from bussing tables; for my once-unreserved, wholehearted devotion that he had ground into the dirt beneath his heel. What did he take me for? A survival tool to keep him going while he had amnesia? A docile, obedient doll to satisfy his emotional whims? He craved the family backing Clara brought; at the same time, he couldn't bear to let go of the selfless love I had given him with everything I had. His greed and arrogance led him to believe he could control it all. I opened my eyes, the anguish within them hardening into an icy resolve. I didn't act like typical wives who discovered their husbands cheating—I didn't call him in a frenzy to hysterically interrogate him, nor did I wail and scream, demanding an explanation. Because the truth was already laid bare before me. Any explanation would simply be another lie. I stood up and turned my gaze toward the room at the end of the hallway. Julian's study. Usually, he rarely allowed me inside, claiming it held confidential business documents. Sensible as always, I had never once crossed that line, leaving even the cleaning to Julian himself. But now, since he had torn my world into shreds, I didn't mind seeing what other sickening secrets lay hidden behind that door!Seraphina Shaw POV The next morning, the rain finally stopped. Pallid sunlight stabbed through the slits in the curtains, devoid of any warmth. I had sat on the sofa all night, never closing my eyes, never changing out of my clothes. Julian didn't come home last night. He had sent a message, his tone as tender as ever: *"Seraphina, the merger deal is proving a bit tricky. I'll be working late at the office tonight and will come back to have breakfast with you tomorrow morning. Go to sleep early. Love you."* Looking at that text, I replied with only one word: *"Okay."* I knew he wasn't at the office. He was probably lying beside Clara Brooks right now, tainted with that faint scent of her perfume. At seven in the morning, I stood up, my joints popping softly from holding the same posture for so long. I walked straight toward the study. The door was secured with an advanced fingerprint and passcode lock. My fingerprint had never been registered. Standing before the keypad, watching the blue light illuminate the screen, I took a deep breath. I tried entering Julian's birthday. Incorrect. Old Mr. Vance's birthday. Incorrect. I paused, my fingers trembling slightly as I punched in my own birthday. *Beep—click.* The door unlocked. What a sickening mockery of devotion. He used my birthday as the passcode, yet hid the dagger of his betrayal right behind the door. The study was furnished minimally. Several neat stacks of files sat atop the massive mahogany desk. I began rummaging through them. I didn't even know what I was looking for—maybe Clara's pregnancy report, maybe photos of them from even earlier, or perhaps a terminal diagnosis that could explain all of this away. In the deepest corner of my heart, I had harbored even a fleeting, absurd delusion. The papers on the desk were all ordinary commercial reports. I pulled open the drawers beneath the desk. The first and second tiers were either empty or filled with miscellaneous items. When I unlocked and pulled open the bottom drawer, I spotted a kraft paper envelope tucked beneath a heavy dictionary. The envelope was unsealed. I pulled out the document inside. The title printed in bold black letters struck my eyes: *Divorce Agreement*. My heart thudded violently, as if catching hold of a lifeline. Could it be that Julian planned to divorce Clara? Could all his deceit have been an attempt to give me an explanation once he completely broke free of that business alliance? I quickly flipped to the last page and looked at the signature lines. Party A: Julian Vance. Party B: Clara Brooks. Under Party B, Clara Brooks had already signed her name. The date read May 20th. Yet beside Party A, under Julian Vance's name, there was only a tiny smudge of ink left by the tip of a fountain pen. It was the beginning of a stroke—and then, the pen had halted, lifting away from the page. Julian Vance had never signed it. My eyes locked onto that stray ink dot, as if trying to bore a hole through it. This agreement had been drafted six months ago. Clara had even signed it, agreeing to walk away with nothing. All it would have taken was Julian putting his pen to paper, and that distorted marriage would have ended. He could have fulfilled his promise to me and become my true husband. But he didn't. He wouldn't sign. He didn't want to divorce her. That final wisp of illusion shattered before my eyes like a soap bubble. It wasn't that he couldn't get a divorce, nor did he have some tragic dilemma—he simply didn't want to leave her! He relished the tolerance and dignity Clara afforded him, yet craved my complete, unconditional dependence. He locked this half-signed divorce agreement in the bottom drawer just like he locked away his ugly, arrogant heart—a heart that wanted to have it both ways. "Haha... Hahahaha..." Laughter ripped from my chest. I tilted my head back, laughing until tears streamed down my face, laughing until my whole body trembled, until I finally collapsed onto the freezing floor. I felt as though I had spent the past seven years as a clown performing desperately in a circus. I gave up my future for him. I developed a chronic stomach condition for him. I crawled through torrential rain like a dog for him. And what about him? He sat high up in the audience, watching me move myself to tears, watching me sacrifice everything, only to turn to someone else and say, "Look at how much this fool loves me." The laughter slowly subsided. Dead silence reclaimed the study once more. I slipped the divorce agreement back into the kraft envelope, placed it into the drawer, and weighed it down beneath the heavy dictionary again. I didn't tear it apart, nor did I confront Julian with it. When an apple has rotted to its core, there is no need to ask why it's crawling with worms—you simply toss it into the trash. I stood up and walked out of the study. The door shut behind me with a soft *click*, as if locking away the past seven years of my life for good. Back in the living room, I picked up my phone and dialed a number buried at the very bottom of my contacts. The call connected on the third ring. "Hello? Seraphina?" A deep, gentle male voice came through the line, laced with stunned disbelief and delight. "Is it really you? You're finally willing to reach out to me." It was Ethan Cole. A former university alumnus and close friend who had desperately tried to convince me not to throw my future away for a man with amnesia. Over the past few years, just to give Julian peace of mind, I had cut ties with nearly all my male friends. "Ethan," my voice was so calm it startled even myself. "You mentioned before that you opened an architectural firm in Melbourne and needed a designer, right?" On the other end, Ethan seemed to sense the strange tone in my voice. His smile faded, replaced by sudden gravity. "The position has always been kept for you. What happened? Did Julian Vance mistreat you?" "Ethan, do me a favor. I didn't answer his question. Instead, my gaze drifted past the floor-to-ceiling window toward the city's murky, overcast skyline. "Find me the best lawyer. I want every trace of my identity wiped clean. And draw up the paperwork for a legal name change." A long silence fell over the other end of the line. Ethan knew me all too well. Beneath my gentle, soft-spoken exterior lay an unyielding resolve and ruthlessness far beyond what most could fathom. Once I made up my mind, there was no turning back. "Seraphina, have you really thought this through?" Ethan's voice carried a trace of heartache. "Once you take this step, everything you have now—your degree, your honors, your network, even the very person known as Seraphina Shaw—will cease to exist." "I've made up my mind." Glancing at the half-glass of oxidized, spoiled red wine on the table, a bleak smile pulled at the corner of my lips. "I want to make sure he can never find me again."Seraphina Shaw POV Sorting out new identity documents and handling cross-border asset transfers proved far more tedious than I had imagined. Yet, like a finely calibrated machine running on preset code, I pushed everything forward with methodical precision. Over the past few days, I had been unusually quiet. There were no hysterical confrontations, no passive-aggressive probing, and even our casual daily chatter dwindled to almost nothing. I simply sat quietly before my drafting desk, sketching blueprints that would never be built under the Vance Group, or gazed out the floor-to-ceiling window watching the sun rise and fall, my eyes as hollow and still as stagnant water. This abnormal behavior of mine caught Julian's attention. That evening, Julian returned two hours earlier than usual. When he pushed the door open, I was sitting in the dim living room with the lights off, cradling a mug of coffee that had long gone cold. "Why haven't you turned on the lights? Aren't you scared sitting in the dark like this?" Julian's voice drifted in alongside the warm, amber glow illuminating the foyer. Shrugging off his coat that still held the crisp chill of late autumn, he slipped into his house slippers and walked straight to my side. Out of habit, he scooped me into his arms, blanket and all. Resting his chin against the crown of my head, he nuzzled me gently, his tone carrying an imperceptible note of scrutiny mixed with his usual indulgence. "Why have you been so quiet these past few days? Have I been too busy and neglected you? Or are you just exhausted from drafting?" The moment my body brushed against his chest, I stiffened almost imperceptibly. But I relaxed just as quickly, leaning compliantly against his shoulder and lowering my lashes to conceal the piercing chill in my gaze. "No, just a little tired." My voice was faint, like a wisp of smoke ready to scatter in the wind. Julian chuckled softly, his broad hand rubbing my shoulder. "I knew you were pushing yourself again. Come on, go change. We're not eating in tonight. I'm taking you to that dessert place you love most. And after that, I have a surprise for you." I didn't refuse. I knew that until the moment I vanished for good, I had to play the part of the 'obedient' lover flawlessly. I couldn't afford to slip up now. Half an hour later, the Maybach glided smoothly along streets awash in early evening lights. The heater was humming warmly, accompanied by a soothing cello melody flowing from the car's sound system. With one hand on the steering wheel, Julian casually reached across the center console with the other, taking hold of the hand resting on my knee. His palm was broad and warm, the pads of his fingers marked by the faint, lingering calluses from the manual labor he had done during his bout of amnesia. It was a warmth I had craved through countless bitter winters. Yet now, being held by him only made me feel as if a slick, venomous serpent were coiling around me, sending an uncontrollable wave of nausea churning through my stomach. "Why are your hands so cold?" Julian knitted his brows, tightening his grip before bringing my hand to his lips for a soft kiss. "I'll have them bring out a pot of hot black tea first once we get there." Watching his focused profile as he drove, taking in the flawless tenderness woven into his expression, I was suddenly struck by the sheer absurdity of it all. How could this man transition so seamlessly between two women? The very lips that had kissed Clara Brooks were now kissing the back of my hand. Just last night, he might have been whispering sweet nothings into Clara's ear, and tonight, he was sitting in this car doting on me with tender solicitations. Upon arriving at the dessert boutique, Julian bought out the entire second-floor terrace. An exquisite mille-feuille and a slice of Black Forest cake were set before me, radiating an enticing, sweet aroma. Picking up the silver dessert fork, I mechanically cut off a small piece and brought it to my mouth. The sweetness that once made me feel as if I were floating on air now dissolved over my tongue into nothing but a sickening, bitter cloyingness. "Not to your liking?" Julian clearly noticed my subdued mood and set down his cup. "A bit too rich," I murmured, putting down the fork and taking a sip of tea. "Then don't force yourself." Julian didn't mind. Like a magician pulling off a trick, he retrieved a navy-blue velvet jewelry box from his coat pocket and slid it across the table toward me. "Take a look. Do you like it?" I stared at the box stamped with the logo of a premier high-jewelry house, remaining motionless. Julian smiled and reached out to open it for me. Cradled against the black velvet lining lay a breathtaking diamond necklace. Its centerpiece was an exceptionally rare blue diamond, cut to utter perfection, refracting a dazzling, hypnotic brilliance under the lights. It was the very necklace I had lingered over for an extra three seconds while flipping through a fashion magazine together last month. A limited global edition, exorbitantly priced. "You looked at it for quite a while, so I had someone source it directly from their Paris headquarters." Julian rose to his feet, walked behind my chair, swept my long hair aside, and gently fastened the necklace around my neck. The moment the icy platinum chain met my bare skin, a violent shiver ran through me. "Breathtaking," Julian murmured, resting both hands on my shoulders. He gazed at our reflection in the glass windowpane. The man impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, radiating devotion; the woman beautiful and gentle, the diamond at her throat gleaming radiantly. What a picture-perfect portrait. "Seraphina," Julian whispered, lowering his head so his warm breath grazed my ear, "do you still remember what I told you back in that rundown shack?" My breath hitched for a fraction of a second. How could I ever forget? It was the morning his burning fever finally broke, when the pale sunlight pierced through the thick smog into that cramped, dingy space. Clutching my hands with reddened eyes, he had said: *Seraphina, you are the only light I saw after clawing my way out of hell. Once I find myself again, I'll give you my very life.* "I remember," I heard my own dry voice reply. "The more I acquire, the more schemes and power struggles I'm forced to endure," Julian murmured, a hint of weariness seeping into his tone. "Yet in my heart, only what we have here remains pure and untainted. Seraphina, you will always be my only light. Let this necklace be my apology for neglecting you these past two days, alright?" *His only light.* Staring at the reflection of myself in the window—looking as though I were bound in ornate shackles—I let out a bitter, silent laugh in the depths of my mind. Indeed, I was the "only light" in his world, while Clara Brooks was the "only wife." He drew a stark, immaculate line between love and marriage, between salvation and duty. He relied on money, on honeyed words, on these extravagant "charities" to pacify me—a mistress hidden in the shadows—just to maintain that twisted, perverted equilibrium inside his head. It turned out that his so-called devotion was nothing more than a conqueror toying with his spoils. He genuinely believed that as long as he provided sufficient emotional validation and material compensation, I would gladly stay locked inside this glass jar for the rest of my days. "Thank you." Lowering my gaze, I raised my hand and lightly brushed against the icy blue diamond. My voice was calm, undisturbed by even the faintest ripple, but deep in my heart, I silently added: *Julian Vance, your light is about to burn out.*