Chapter 3

The following day, within the halls of Pacific Place.

The crowds wove through the corridors, the air thick with the scent of luxury. Although Christopher had pushed back his morning meeting, his phone seemed glued to his hand, vibrating and ringing incessantly. He stayed close to my side while keeping his voice low, issuing rapid-fire instructions into the receiver, a frown of inseparable gravity locked onto his brow.

I led him straight into the boutique of a highly revered top-tier Swiss watchmaker. The interior was minimalist and austere, a weave of dark wood and cool white light, where every timepiece displayed on velvet sat like an independent miniature work of art.

The associate was a middle-aged man with hair combed meticulously into place, wearing a well-fitted suit. He possessed that distinctive, unobtrusive observational skill of high-end luxury staff. Although I was dressed in a simple cashmere sweater and casual trousers, his gaze swept over the understated yet invaluable Patek Philippe on Christopher's wrist and instantly transformed into impeccable enthusiasm.

"Good afternoon, Sir, Madam. Welcome. How may I be of service?"

My eyes settled on a men's wristwatch with a platinum case. The dial was a deep night-sky blue, set with ultra-fine blued steel hands. The bezel was secretly set with a circle of baguette-cut diamonds, refracting cold, brilliant starlight under the spotlights—a design of extreme minimalism, yet containing staggering craftsmanship and value.

"Try this one," I motioned for the associate to take it out.

Christopher obediently extended his left hand. The associate carefully fastened it for him. The dial formed a wondrous harmony with his wheat-colored skin and the bone structure of his wrist.

"It suits your temperament perfectly, Sir," the associate praised sincerely.

Christopher lifted his wrist to examine it, admiration flashing in his eyes. But when he habitually, almost instinctively, glanced at the small tag nearby—which listed only the model number—his breath hitched almost inaudibly.

Seven figures. In US dollars.

"The design is indeed extraordinary, but, honey," he leaned in, speaking in a voice only the two of us could hear, "this price... is a bit beyond our current plan. You know, with the critical phase before the IPO... perhaps we could look at other collections?"

"Relax, Chris," I said calmly, my fingers lightly brushing the smooth case. "I said I'm buying it for you. An anniversary gift."

Christopher smiled, clearly thinking this was just a whimsical joke or a gesture of thoughtfulness on my part. "Of course, my Princess is the most generous. How about we set it as a... post-IPO reward goal? Once I take Lane Tech to NASDAQ, I'll bring everything here that you like home."

Just then, his annoying phone vibrated stubbornly again. The CFO's name danced on the screen.

"Sorry, baby, it's the Financial Director; I have to take this. I'll be right back, just outside the store." He kissed my cheek apologetically, taking the phone and walking briskly toward the relatively quiet corridor area.

I stood alone at the counter, fingertips still resting on the cold platinum case, preparing to take a bank card from my unassuming canvas tote bag.

"Look who it is."

The voice was affected and full of malice, familiar enough to be nauseating.

I turned my head slowly.

Lindsay Miller, as expected.

She was intimately holding the arm of a middle-aged man who was physically portly and wearing an expensive but slightly tacky suit. I recognized him as Richard Wang, the head of a major hardware supplier for Lane Tech. Lindsay had obviously spotted me immediately, the mockery in her eyes almost spilling over. She let go of Richard's arm and, clicking across the floor in those Christian Louboutin red bottoms that clearly cost a fortune, walked over. Her gaze swept like a searchlight over the watch, finally fixing on the model tag—which lacked a clear price but meant an astronomical figure to those in the know—and she let out an unconcealed snort of derision.

"What? Getting kicked out of Lane Tech wasn't enough, so you ran to a place like this to... daydream? Is this watch something you can even touch?" She turned to the associate, whose expression had become somewhat subtle, raising her pitch. "Does your store need to upgrade its security measures? How can you just let anyone in to grope and stare? If she scratches it, selling her organs probably wouldn't cover the compensation!"

The associate maintained extreme professional composure, though his eyes flickered slightly as he looked at me, then at Lindsay—obviously dressed to the nines and carrying an Hermès bag. His tone remained steady: "Madam, this guest is currently..."

"Ignore her." I gently removed the watch from where it lay, handing it back to the associate, my voice clear. "Please wrap it up. I'll take it."

"Wrap it up?" Lindsay acted as if she had heard the century's most ludicrous joke, exaggeratingly covering her mouth. "With what will you pay? With your greasy stew recipes? Or with the pitiful self-esteem you had when you were rejected yesterday?" She turned around to the somewhat bewildered Richard Wang, speaking in a voice sickeningly sweet: "Darling, you have no idea. This woman is a stalker. Yesterday she ran to the company to harass Chris and I had security escort her out. I didn't expect her to linger like a ghost, running here to play pretend socialite."

Upon hearing Christopher Lane's name involved, Richard Wang immediately displayed the shrewdness and snobbery typical of a merchant, looking me up and down with disdain. "I've seen plenty of these women trying to climb the social ladder. Lindsay, don't lower your status by tangling with this sort. It's bad luck."

Emboldened by the agreement, Lindsay turned back to me, pronouncing sentence: "Did you hear that? Bad luck. If you're smart, roll out of here yourself. Don't embarrass yourself in public."

I sighed softly.

Some people seem perpetually enthusiastic about digging their own graves.

"Lindsay," I looked into her eyes, my tone holding even a trace of genuine pity, "I hope you won't regret your actions later."

"You—!"

"What is going on here? What's the noise?"

A low male voice, laced with obvious displeasure, interrupted the biting words Lindsay was about to unleash.

Christopher had returned from his call. His face wasn't pleasant—clearly, the communication hadn't gone well. His brow was furrowed tight, phone still clutched in his hand.

Seeing Christopher, the expression on Lindsay's face transitioned seamlessly from spiteful shrew to pleasantly surprised coquette, and then to aggrieved victim, at a speed that was truly breathtaking.

"Chris! What are you doing here?" She trotted over in her high heels, her voice sweetening dramatically. "Are you inspecting retail operations? What a coincidence, I was just accompanying Richard here to look at some business gifts. You have no idea, this crazy woman, she just..."

She reached out to point at me, preparing to launch her fabricated accusations.

However, Christopher's gaze didn't spare her a single fragment of attention.

His line of sight bypassed her, landing precisely on me. Seeing me standing there alone, my expression calm but detached, and sensing the obviously wrong atmosphere, his face darkened at a visible speed. He strode over to me, his arm encircling my shoulders in a gesture of absolute possession, shielding me at his side.

"Honey, what happened? Is someone giving you trouble?" His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a cold oppression. His gaze finally turned to Lindsay, sharp as an ice pick.

The air froze instantly.

Dead silence descended on the small space.

Lindsay's hand, pointing at me, froze in mid-air. Her mouth hung open, but no sound came out. The blood drained from her face so quickly that her carefully applied makeup seemed to turn ashen. Richard Wang was even more dumbfounded, his eyes nearly popping out of their sockets.

"H... Honey?" Lindsay's voice was dry, like sandpaper rubbing together. "Chris... you called her...?"

Only then did Christopher seem to truly notice her existence. His eyes were sharp as knives, scraping her from head to toe.

"Assistant Miller, what are you doing here?" His question was calm, yet it made Lindsay shiver.

"I... I was accompanying Mr. Wang..." She stammered.

"Just now," Christopher interrupted her, every word dropping like a hailstone, "what did you call my wife? 'Crazy woman'? 'Delivery girl'?"

Lindsay's legs went weak, and she nearly collapsed. She could not, for the life of her, connect this simply dressed woman carrying a canvas bag with Christopher Lane's wife—the one he protected so tightly and who never appeared in public!

"Chris, it's a misunderstanding, a huge misunderstanding!" Lindsay's voice took on a sobbing tone, cold sweat seeping from her hairline. "I thought she was... was one of those women harassing you..."

"Harassing me?" Christopher let out a cold laugh devoid of warmth. "Lindsay Miller, it seems Richard has taken you to too many places you shouldn't go, making you forget your identity and boundaries. Judging my wife? Who gave you the right?"

At this moment, I gently patted the back of Christopher's hand on my shoulder, signaling him to calm down.

"Darling."

From that canvas tote bag—which indeed looked like it was worth only twenty dollars—I took out the photocopy of the "Separation and Non-Disclosure Agreement" Lindsay had thrown at me yesterday, along with that cold bank card.

"Yesterday I went to the company to bring you lunch, and this assistant of yours gave me this. Oh, and also," I added, my tone as flat as if describing the weather.

I handed the items to Christopher.

Christopher took them. He glanced at the agreement header and the amount just once, and all the blood drained from his face instantly, followed by a surge of terrifying iron-grey rage. The fury was forcibly suppressed under a calm exterior, causing the hand holding the papers to tremble uncontrollably, veins popping on the back of his hand.

"'Separation Agreement'? 'Three hundred thousand dollars'?" Christopher snapped his head up, his gaze like tangible fire, nailing Lindsay's pale face. "Who authorized you to do this?! Who gave you the nerve?! Who allowed you to treat my wife like this?!"

The last sentence was almost a roar, shocking the entire boutique into silence; even customers far away cast startled glances.

Lindsay collapsed completely. If not for holding onto the counter beside her, she would have slid to the floor. She was colorless, her lips trembling: "Chris... I... I was thinking of the company's image... I felt she... she wasn't good enough for you, that it would affect Lane Tech's valuation... I did it for your own good..."

"Not good enough?"

I chuckled aloud, the sound exceptionally clear in the silence.

I took the agreement back from Christopher's hand. Methodically, once, then again, I tore it in half, into quarters, into more fragments... then, with a light flick of my wrist.

The white paper scraps fell like funeral confetti, drifting down onto Lindsay's carefully styled hair, her expensive suit, and her face, which was now written over with despair and fear.

"Lindsay, yesterday you accused me of forging my husband's signature?"

I stopped looking at her and instead took a business card from a hidden compartment in my bag. It wasn't an ordinary paper card, but one crafted from black titanium, edged with imperceptible platinum threads. It bore no title, etched only with a name: Olivia Sterling, and a minimalist yet powerful logo—a mountain peak surrounded by clouds.

That was the emblem of a global investment titan. Within financial circles, this name symbolized a Midas touch, an unfathomable pool of capital, and... absolute power.

"Let me reintroduce myself." My gaze returned to Lindsay's eyes, now widened in extreme terror. My voice was soft but carried the weight of a thousand pounds. "I am the Founding Partner of Summit Peak Capital, and the representative of the lead investor for Lane Tech's current funding round. Of course, the identity I cherish more is—" I tilted my head slightly, looking at Christopher beside me, whose face was taut but whose eyes were surging with stormy waves, "Christopher Lane's wife."

"Hiss—" The sound of sharp intakes of breath came from around us.

Even the associate, who had seen much of the world, couldn't hide the shock on his face, his gaze toward me changing completely into one of awe.

Christopher was stunned, too. He turned his head, staring blankly at my profile as if seeing me truly for the first time. Those blue eyes, always filled with love for me, were now filled with disbelief, confusion, and a myriad of complex thoughts flashing by at high speed.

"Olivia... you... Summit Peak...?" His voice was dry.

I didn't respond to his shock, only smiling faintly at the associate who had quickly regained his professional stance but whose eyes were now incredibly deferential.

"This watch, please wrap it securely. Use this to pay."

What I handed over was a card that was entirely black, with a matte finish, inset with a single flawless small diamond in the center. It was the Black Card, the legendary "King of Cards," with no preset spending limit—one of the ultimate symbols of supreme wealth and status.