Chapter 4

I stood at the door, motionless.

An Arts Foundation residency program?

James had never mentioned it to me.

I studied art history.

Back then, the program only admitted eight students nationwide, and I was one of them.

In my home country, graduates were highly sought after.

But after three years in New York, my resumes had vanished into the void.

I hadn't even been to a proper exhibition, let alone any residency program.

James couldn't arrange a job for me at the university through the spouse quota, but he'd never even thought to let me try for such a rare opportunity…

"It's fine, I've already put in a good word for you."

James's voice was gentle. "As for Grace—I'm taking care of her. She doesn't need these things."

"Besides, with your abilities, if you'd had the same opportunities she did back then, you wouldn't be any worse than her."

I stood outside the door and suddenly wanted to laugh.

So in his eyes, all my hard work was just "opportunities."

So the field I was so proud of—anyone could "be just as good."

The door opened. Emma walked out and saw me. She froze for a second.

"Grace?" She quickly smiled. "Are you here to see Professor Mitchell? But this floor doesn't allow unauthorized personnel. Maybe you should wait in the lobby downstairs?"

Love can make a person beautiful.

The woman before me was only a year younger than me, but she'd been so well-nourished by affection that her features were relaxed and confident.

I took a step forward. "Move."

She blocked the doorway. "Grace, really, you can't—Professor Mitchell is busy—"

I reached out to push past her.

She stepped back, and her whole body tumbled into the office.

"Ah—"

James stood up from his chair and strode over.

He glanced at me.

That glance was cold.

Then he bent down to help her. "Are you hurt?"

Emma let him help her up, biting her lip and shaking her head. "I'm fine, I'm fine. I just lost my balance. It's not Grace's fault…"

James looked at me, his tone reproachful:

"Emma was just doing her job. Why did you push her?"

I looked at him, then at Emma in his arms, her eyes red.

I didn't say much.

I got straight to the point: "The Immigration statement needs your signature."

His brow furrowed. "What statement?"

I handed over the papers.

He took them, scanned them briefly, and was already annoyed before finishing.

"You came all the way here and pushed someone over this? Grace, when did you become so unreasonable?"

"Either sign it," I said, looking him in the eye, "or I go to the dean right now and ask how a talent recruitment spouse slot ended up going to an assistant."

His face changed.

The next second, my wrist was gripped tight.

He held me. "Grace, that's enough!"

He lowered his voice, turning cold. "Don't forget who's been supporting you. Without me, you couldn't even stay in New York. You'd have nowhere to go."

"Don't make a scene here. Go home first."

I looked at him for two seconds, then suddenly smiled.

When he begged me to come to New York, he said, *I'll take care of you.*

Now he said, *I'm the one who's been taking care of you.*

"Sign now, and we can still end this with some dignity."

My voice was calm.

His gaze darkened. He let go of my wrist.

He called out, "Security."

Two uniformed men walked over.

He glanced at me. "Please escort my wife out. She's not feeling well."

Security approached—one grabbed my arm, the other blocked my path.

I tried to speak, but a hand was already covering my mouth, quick and practiced.

I was being marched out.

As I passed him, he leaned close to my ear and whispered, "We'll talk tonight, okay? Don't be stubborn."

Ha…

Talk tonight?

There's nothing left to talk about.

……

By the time he finished up his work, it was already 9 PM.

James drove home.

Thinking about what happened during the day, he frowned slightly.

Those papers—he hadn't even read them properly.

Some Immigration statement—Grace stayed home all day. What did she need that for?

The lock had been changed, but the door was just pulled shut, not locked.

He paused.

Noticed the lights were on inside.

Figuring Grace was home, he frowned immediately. "Why didn't you lock the door?"

He pushed the door open, hung up his coat, then walked to the bedroom door.

"Alright, about the spouse quota—" His tone was like he was being forced to explain. "I already told you before. Emma needed it more than you."

"She came to America with me. I had to take responsibility. Stop making a fuss."

He finished speaking and put his hand on the door handle.

Pushed it open.

And when he saw what was inside, his eyes went wide.