Chapter 2

By the time I returned to the rental apartment in Queen Anne—a mere eighty square meters with a partial view of the lake—dusk was already settling in.

I didn't turn on the lights, allowing the deepening twilight to swallow the room. Sitting on the discounted fabric sofa bought from IKEA, my gaze rested on the wedding photo hanging above the fireplace. In the picture, Christopher was smiling somewhat foolishly, yet his brown eyes held the starlight of the entire universe. He held me tightly, as if embracing the sunrise over Manhattan.

Back then, his first startup had failed. The social app he developed had gone unnoticed, and the money in his account wasn't even enough to cover the next month's server fees. In a cramped apartment in Brooklyn, we shared a box of cold pizza. I said, "It's okay, Chris. The future is long. I can support you."

Later, he moved to Seattle to start over, founding what is now Lane Tech. He held my hand and swore, "Olivia, I swear to God, I will give you the life you deserve. We'll live in a mansion overlooking the entire Puget Sound, and your closet will be filled with the latest fashion from Milan and Paris."

But he didn't know that my property deeds in the Upper East Side, the Hamptons, and Palm Springs were numerous enough to wallpaper a room; or that in my apartment in Knightsbridge, London, there was a room dedicated solely to storing current season haute couture, many with tags that had never been cut.

The electronic lock let out a faint *beep*, and the door opened.

Christopher was back.

He looked exhausted. His bespoke Tom Ford suit jacket was draped casually over his arm, his tie long since loosened, and the collar of his expensive Egyptian cotton shirt was unbuttoned, revealing his collarbone. Beneath his eyes lay dark shadows from consecutive nights of little sleep, and stubble had emerged on his chin. Yet, when his eyes caught me sitting on the sofa in the dim light, the cold hardness and fatigue brought from the brutal business war melted instantly, replaced by a tenderness and guilt that was almost clumsy.

"Honey? Why didn't you turn on the lights?" His voice was a little hoarse.

He kicked off his polished oxfords and walked barefoot across the wooden floor. Like a large canine accustomed to relying on its master, he subconsciously wanted to come over and hug me but stopped halfway, sniffing the residual smell of cigars and whiskey on himself. Instead, he simply reached out and gently rubbed my loose long hair.

"Sorry, baby, today was an absolute disaster. Those guys from Silicon Valley... their noses were practically in the sky, nitpicking every single detail of our product. Thankfully, it went smoothly in the end, but I had promised to come back early to have dinner with you..."

In truth, the nitpicking of the VC team was done at my instruction. I wanted to test his resilience, judgment, and true leadership abilities under extreme pressure.

"It's okay," I said, looking at him, my voice steady. "Have you eaten?"

"No, I'm full just from the anger." Christopher gave a bitter laugh, and like a stray animal finally finding its nest, he shimmied over to sit next to me, resting his forehead on my shoulder. His weight conveyed a reassuring warmth and reliance. "Home is better, Olivia. Outside... it's like a cold colosseum. Everyone wears a mask, wanting to tear the biggest chunk of flesh they can from you."

I lowered my eyes, watching the shadow cast by his thick eyelashes trembling gently with his breathing.

He loved me.

Of this, deep in my heart, I had never wavered.

In this tiny apartment, he wasn't some high-profile tech upstart CEO; he was just an ordinary man who would turn off lights to save electricity, who would get red-rimmed eyes from emotion just because I cooked a simple bowl of cream of mushroom soup late at night. He remembered the brand of lavender fragrance I liked and would clumsily try to make waffles on weekend mornings, turning the kitchen into a mess.

"Chris," I spoke softly, my voice sounding exceptionally clear in the quiet room. "What do you think of Lindsay Miller? Your executive assistant."

Christopher's body stiffened imperceptibly, seemingly not expecting me to suddenly mention this name. He lifted his head, brows furrowed in confusion.

"Lindsay? Her work ability... is very strong, highly efficient. It's just that sometimes, she appears a bit... too opinionated, even acting on her own initiative. Why do you suddenly ask about her?" A flicker of doubt passed through his blue eyes.

"I went to your company this afternoon."

Christopher's face changed instantly.

"You went to Lane Tech? When? Why didn't you call my mobile? Did anyone..." He nervously gripped my shoulders, looking me up and down carefully. The anxiety and worry in his eyes were pure and intense, definitely not acting. "Did anyone treat you rudely? Olivia, tell me."

"No," I chose to conceal it. "I just got to the lobby and suddenly felt a bit dizzy—probably hadn't eaten lunch—so I turned around and came back."

Christopher let out a long breath, immediately drowned by deeper guilt. "God, I'm sorry, honey. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have let you go there alone, to endure any possible... discomfort." He held my hand, his palm warm and slightly damp with sweat.

"I've always kept you from getting too involved in the company because that place... sometimes it's very unpleasant. Financing, competition, board politics—it's full of calculation everywhere. I don't want those things to pollute your world. You just need to maintain your happiness and tranquility. Leave these dirty, difficult things to me." He kissed my fingertips, speaking as if making a vow.

If this were the past, I would probably have melted into this 'protective shield' he so carefully constructed, given him a hug, and told him everything was fine.

But now, replaying clearly in my mind was the image of Lindsay Miller's condescending mouth, painted with Dior lipstick, spewing venom.

His protection had inadvertently become a blade for others to attack me, the foundation for bystanders to trample on my dignity.

"Chris," I gently withdrew my hand, stood up, and walked to the window, looking at the continuous lights of Seattle outside. "Come with me to Pacific Place tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Christopher paused, evidently unable to keep up with the jump in topic. "There's a crucial product roadmap meeting tomorrow morning; it concerns the next round of financing..."

"I want to buy a watch." I turned around, back to the city nightscape, my gaze falling straight into his still-confused blue eyes. "Tomorrow is our third wedding anniversary. Have you forgotten, Christopher Lane?"

Christopher's pupils contracted suddenly.

He frantically dug the phone out of his pocket, lit up the screen to check the calendar, then let out a frustrated growl, rubbing his face vigorously. "Damn it! My damn brain! Stuffed full of numbers and contracts! I'm sorry, Olivia, I'm so sorry! Of course, we'll go tomorrow! No meeting is more important than this! I'll adjust the schedule immediately!"

Watching him flustered and genuinely remorseful, the thin layer of ice in my heart melted just a corner.

Fine, Christopher.

This is the one chance I am granting you.

And also the last chance for Lindsay Miller to rein in her horse before the cliff.