Chapter 1

Ethan Hunt pretended to be gentle for three years, raising me to be a tool for his first love's paintings.

I heard him laughing in the lounge.

"I don't love her at all. Being with her? Aside from the paintings, the sex is amazing."

I stood outside the door holding coffee. My hands didn't shake, but my heart turned cold.

That night, I burned everything he'd given me, jumped from the second floor, and ran toward the future I'd once rejected for him without looking back.

Only later did I learn that the SUV that rescued me in the pouring rain wasn't a coincidence.

The man named Louis had been secretly collecting all my paintings since I was a little girl doing street graffiti.

He said, "I've waited three years for you. Waited for you to wake up from another man's cage."

This time, I won't run away again.

Cherry POV

When I pushed open the slightly ajar door of the gallery VIP lounge, laughter was coming from inside.

"Ethan Hunt, we really don't get you. You're a billionaire, a top-tier curator. Why are you acting like a servant in front of that poor girl Cherry? Cooking for her every day, even taking off her shoes for her. What's the point?"

Hearing my own name, my hand froze mid-push.

After a brief, deathly silence, Ethan's habitually gentle voice rang out, but it carried a coldness and mockery I'd never heard before.

"Wild cats need to be stroked the right way to be tamed."

A lighter clicked, and he seemed to light a cigarette.

His voice sounded distorted through the smoke.

"Vivian's hand is ruined. She can't hold a paintbrush anymore. Cherry's painting style is identical to hers, even more spirited. If I don't spoil her rotten and make her devoted to me, how will she willingly paint those thirty pieces to pave the way for Vivian's comeback exhibition?"

Each word stabbed brutally into my eardrums.

All the blood in my body froze solid in that moment. I felt like I'd fallen into an ice pit.

I was a ghostwriting tool for Vivian?!

The lounge fell silent for a moment, then erupted in even more enthusiastic exclamations.

"Damn, that's so you, Ethan Hunt! That's ruthless. Using your current girlfriend's blood and bones to feed your first love's dreams. That's insane."

"I heard Vivian's coming back next week? Since you've almost gotten all thirty paintings, what about Cherry? She's so headstrong. If she finds out she's been used as a blood bag for three years, won't she blow the roof off?"

Ethan laughed lightly, his tone dripping with contempt.

"She can't leave me. For three years, I've cut off all her social connections and raised her to be a waste of space who only knows how to depend on me. Even if she finds out, she'll just stay obediently in the cage I've built for her."

Seeing someone about to come out, my face went deathly pale as I jolted awake and stumbled backward out of the hallway on stiff legs.

Outside, a blizzard had started at some point.

I didn't even have my coat on as I walked into the swirling snow.

Icy snowflakes slammed into my face, melting into water that mixed with my tears and fell into the mud.

Everything before my eyes blurred, but scenes from the past three years flashed through my mind.

Ethan was the youngest art professor at New York's top art academy, and also an extremely influential curator in the industry.

The first time I met him was in an alley behind an underground racing track. I'd gotten into a bloody fight with some thugs over graffiti territory, biting one guy's neck like a lone wolf.

Ethan appeared holding a black umbrella, his leather shoes stepping through filthy puddles. With those slender fingers that usually handled masterpieces, he wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth.

He said gently, "Cherry, hands are for painting, not fighting. Come home with me."

In that moment, having grown up in an orphanage scraping by and enduring countless cold stares, I heard my own heart pounding wildly.

I thought I'd found salvation.

For three years, Ethan had spoiled me to a pathological degree.

He wouldn't let me do any housework for fear of hurting my hands. He cooked for me with endless variety every day, and when I was tired from painting, he'd even kneel on one knee to massage my aching calves.

I thought this was the ultimate expression of love.

Turns out, he was just maintaining a useful tool.

He was afraid of my hands getting hurt because I had to paint for Vivian.

He kept me confined at home because he was afraid my painting style would be exposed prematurely.

Even in bed, when he always liked to hold me from behind and force me to watch my right hand holding the brush in the mirror. It was because that hand could fulfill his first love's dreams!

I crouched in the snow, biting hard on the back of my hand, crying until my throat was torn raw and I tasted thick blood.

I don't know how long passed before I swayed to my feet.

My tears had dried up, leaving only ash-gray desolation in my eyes.

I pulled out my phone from my pocket, found a number I'd blocked for three years, unblocked it, and dialed.

It was the private number of Crete, France's top art master. Three years ago, Crete had recognized my talent and wanted to take me to Paris for secret intensive training to mold me into the next generation's artistic giant.

But for Ethan's words "I can't live without you," I'd refused without hesitation.

The call connected. I cleared my hoarse throat, my voice cold as ice.

"Mr. Crete, this is Cherry. Is your offer still valid? I'm willing to go with you."