Chapter 4

I charged into the study like a bandit, brazenly invading Quinn's territory.

On the bookshelf was a photo album, its cover worn from frequent handling. Inside were all photos of Aria.

I looked toward the rocking chair by the study's floor-to-ceiling window, as if seeing Quinn sitting there every night, obsessively flipping through the album.

In the first layer of the right-hand drawer of the desk was a diary.

It recorded Quinn's daily life and moods—none of which involved me.

Tears had long blurred my vision, but like a greedy prospector, I hoped to find treasure about myself on the next page.

Until I turned to the day I first burst into the study. That day's entry had only one sentence.

[If only I had been the one to die. If only she were your wife.]

I was absolutely certain this "she" referred to me.

Good news: I finally found myself in his diary.

Bad news: In his diary, I had lost him.

In this moment, I could no longer deceive myself.

The guesses I deliberately avoided, the clues I intentionally ignored—they now struck me with vengeful force.

Rachel said Quinn loved astronomy most, but when I gave him a telescope, his expression was flat.

The dignified, steady Harper Corporation CEO had a study full of collectible figures and every type of gaming console.

I still remembered when I agreed to the marriage contract, Quinn had pulled his lips into a smile.

Looking back now on that day's smile, it hid regret and helplessness.

I walked to the portrait in the center of the study, carefully examining that face so similar to Quinn's.

He had a mole at the corner of his eye—but Quinn's eye corner also had one.

I took out my phone and sent Rachel a message. She replied quickly.

"Kieran didn't have a mole at his eye corner. Claire, why are you suddenly asking me this?"

I used my last shred of rationality to construct a white lie.

"I found an old photo of the two brothers at home. Just curious."

I picked up the portrait and walked to the rocking chair by the window, studying the person in the photo under the sunlight.

Soon, Quinn got word from the housekeeper and rushed home.

The study had been torn apart by me. I thought he would be even more furious than last time.

Unexpectedly, he only instructed the housekeeper to take care of the baby, then silently walked to my side and crouched down.

I turned my head, my gaze falling on the corner of his right eye.

A brown dot, perfectly shaped, evenly colored.

It fit all the characteristics of a tattooed beauty mark.

My heart felt pierced by an invisible arrow. As blood gushed out, tears burst forth like a breached dam.

Complex emotions flashed through Quinn's—no, Kieran's—eyes, including reluctance.

He didn't question or explain. Everything seemed understood without words.

But his silent admission, without any defense, felt like an unfair trial.

The oppressive atmosphere tortured me like cruel punishment. I could no longer hold on and fainted.

When I woke again, I was lying in bed with an IV drip in my hand.

No one was in the room. The sunlight was bright, yet I felt no warmth.

I pulled out the needle and walked barefoot on the floor, feeling coldness rise from my feet through my body.

I walked to the nursery. My son was sleeping, the housekeeper resting wearily beside the bed.

As if sensing my approach, my son suddenly opened his eyes.

He looked at me and broke into a smile.

In that moment, I felt like I was seeing an angel smiling at me.

Looking at my son's smile, I made a decision.

I went out and came back with a document.

When Kieran came home, I stopped him.

"Kieran."

This was our first exchange in a week.

Then I said the second sentence.

"Let's get divorced."