Chapter 2

Valerie Vance POV

I had been with Julian for five years. The most pathetic thing I ever did was stand outside his study door for an entire night, just waiting for him to utter three words: "You can enter."

Now, I stood outside the VIP lounge of the exclusive club once again, listening to the muffled conversation between Julian and his wealthy friends.

"Julian, what's the plan now? Serena is back. You can't honestly keep both of them, can you?"

Someone laughed, teasing him. "Valerie is gorgeous and incredibly sweet. If you aren't going to make her your wife, break it off early and let her go."

The lounge fell into a heavy silence for a few seconds.

Then, I heard Julian's voice. It was cool, dripping with a lazy, post-drink nonchalance. Yet every single word pierced through the heavy oak door, crystal clear.

"My family owed hers a debt from the past. Keeping her around is just my way of paying it back. She's the one who insists on staying. I've never forced her. If I were going to fall in love with her, it would have happened years ago."

He paused, then added callously.

"Besides, where would she go? She's nothing without me, and she knows it."

Someone chuckled. "So, what about Serena? Are you really going to marry her?"

Julian didn't answer. But in our world, silence was the loudest confirmation.

My hand froze on the doorknob. In the end, I didn't push the door open. I turned around and walked away in silence.

I couldn't help but think back to five years ago.

My father's business had collapsed. Buried under a mountain of debt, he suffered a sudden, massive stroke.

That was when Julian had approached me.

"Come with me, and I'll take care of your father's medical bills."

Looking at my father hooked up to a dozen tubes in the ICU, I didn't ask a single question. I packed a few clothes and left with him.

Since then, I had lived in his shadow, an undefined shadow.

I wasn't a maid. Maids had salaries, days off, and clear boundaries.

I wasn't a girlfriend. He had never given me that title.

I took care of everything. I knew exactly what would trigger his severe allergies, what he hated to eat, and how to handle the mundane tasks he found too tedious.

The people in his elite circle called me Ms. Vance. Their tone was polite, but their eyes were always filled with mockery and pity.

Everyone knew what my role was. I was the only one who played dumb, refusing to face the ugly reality.

I even rationalized it to myself: he saved my family. Staying with him was just my way of paying off the debt.

But gradually, my heart betray me.

I remembered the time I had a high fever. Through my blurry vision, I felt someone carry me to bed. When I opened my eyes, Julian was sitting by my bedside. He had an entire medical team on payroll, yet he chose to watch over me himself.

I remembered the night he was heavily drunk.

When I went to pick him up, he grabbed my wrist in the back of the car, his voice raw as he whispered, "Don't leave."

The next day, he remembered nothing, and I pretended nothing had happened. But I held onto those words for years.

Eventually, our relationship shifted into the bedroom. We never talked about commitment.

I didn't dare to ask, and he never offered.

I lived in this beautiful, pathetic delusion for five years. Sometimes, I foolishly thought that if I just held on a little longer, he would finally give me his name.

Until the news of Serena Croft's return broke.

Everyone in high society knew Serena was the only girl Julian had ever truly loved.

They grew up together. But then, she left for Europe without saying goodbye.

Julian waited for her for three painful years before he stopped mentioning her name.

I had pieced together these fragments of his past from the drunken whispers he let slip over the years.

Whenever he drank too much, he would toss and turn in his sleep, murmuring one name over and over: Serena.

When I got back to the apartment, I stood at the entrance for a long time.

Before my eyes was a home covered in sticky notes.

He is severely allergic to mangoes, peanuts, and buckwheat!

He only drinks cold milk, but his stomach is weak. Never let him drink it on an empty stomach.

Next to the medicine cabinet: Allergy pills are on the second shelf, left container.

He only uses waterproof band-aids.

Every single note was written in my neat handwriting.

Some of the ink had faded with time; others were still fresh.

Slowly, I reached out and peeled off the first note.

When my hand reached the allergy list on the refrigerator, my fingers trembled.

I had rewritten this particular list seven or eight times. On the bottom right corner of the latest version, there was a tiny, hand-drawn smiley face.

I remembered that day. He had been in a rare good mood. He wrapped his arms around my waist from behind as I was writing, asking what I was doing.

I showed him the note. He glanced at it, gave a faint "Hmm," and let me go.

Just that single, low grunt of approval had made me glow with happiness all day. I had doodled that little smiley face right after.

Looking at it now, I realized how incredibly pathetic I was.

I peeled the allergy list off. I didn't throw it away. I folded it neatly and slipped it into my coat pocket.

Then, I kept peeling. The living room, the kitchen, the bathroom, the bedroom, the balcony.

Half an hour later, every single sticky note was gone. The apartment suddenly looked cold, bare, and painfully quiet.

I stuffed the crumpled pile of notes into a trash bag, tied it tight, and set it by the door.

Then, I walked over to the closet and looked at the suitcase standing in the corner.

A thin layer of dust had settled on the zipper. I had packed it a week ago.

At that time, I hadn't even heard his conversation at the club yet. I had just felt a cold shift in the air.

His sudden coldness, Serena's abrupt return. All the warning signs pointed to a truth I didn't want to face.

Like I always did, I prepared for the worst.

The only difference was, in the past, my worst-case scenarios never came true.

But this time, I had heard the death sentence with my own ears.

I sat down on the hardwood floor next to my suitcase, rested my back against the wall, buried my face in my knees, and wept.

I cried silently, my shoulders shaking, without making a single sound.

I had cried many times over the past five years, but it was always silent.

Because Julian hated noise.