Chapter 3

The news broke on Monday morning, like a stone cast into a calm lake, stirring up a thousand ripples.

I was in my study at the time—not Damian’s formal study filled with business tomes and trophies, but a small space I had secretly set up for myself at the end of the first-floor corridor, a place Damian almost never visited. Here sat my computer, my financial analysis reports, and my true collection of books—economics, investment theory, architectural design—rather than the prop books on flower arranging and tea ceremonies.

My phone suddenly began vibrating frantically.

First, it was Emily, the editor-in-chief of a Chicago socialite magazine: "Darling, have you heard? Claire Lancaster is coming back! Her homecoming debut is at the Symphony Center next month! My God, this news is going to make all of Chicago explode!"

Then it was Damian’s sister, Lillian, who had always looked down on me: "Sister-in-law, does my brother know? He must be so happy, right? After all, she is the one he truly loves."

Followed by various so-called friends, their tones dripping with probing curiosity and schadenfreude.

I calmly hung up the phone and opened my tablet. Sure enough, the headlines on every major news site were the same:

"Prodigy Violinist Claire Lancaster Ends European Tour, Returns Home Next Month!"

"The Lancaster Family's Only Daughter Announces Return to Domestic Development, Debut Tickets Sold Out in Three Minutes!"

"Chicago Music Scene Braces for Seismic Return!"

The accompanying photo showed Claire at a concert in Paris. She wore a long red dress, standing under the spotlight, her head tilted slightly, violin against her shoulder, breathtakingly beautiful. That radiant confidence, that innate nobility, was indeed something I had been unable to mimic perfectly in three years, try as I might.

I closed the webpage and continued looking at my stock charts. The biotech stock I bought last week had risen by fifteen percent. Good. The investment fund under my name had reached a substantial figure—I hadn't truly been playing the vase for these three years. Damian gave me a shockingly large sum of money every month, and I invested it all. How could a daughter of the Vaughan family not understand the principle of making money beget money?

Breakfast time was unusually eerie.

Damian sat at the head of the table, the same tablet in front of him, but his attention was clearly not on it. His fingers tapped the table unconsciously, his gaze drifting—a rare occurrence.

As usual, I poured his coffee and added one sugar cube—this was his habit, unrelated to Claire, perhaps one of the few preferences that belonged solely to him.

"Today..." I tried to start a safe topic.

"Claire is coming back."

Damian interrupted me, his voice carrying an emotion I had never heard before—a suppressed ecstasy, like the tremors before a volcanic eruption.

He looked up, and in those eyes that were usually as calm as a deep pool, a fire was burning. "She is performing at the Symphony Center next month. I want to book the best box."

I put down the coffee pot, pasting a perfectly measured smile on my face—one that held a trace of loneliness but feigned magnanimity. "That's wonderful, Damian. You've always admired her music."

"It's not just admiration," he corrected me, his tone carrying a note of declaration. "Catherine, there are things you should understand. Between us... it was an agreement from the start."

"I know," I whispered, lowering my head to cut the fried egg on my plate. The yolk flowed out, like my heart, sliced open and spilling everywhere—of course, this was merely a performance.

"You've done well these three years." Damian's tone softened slightly, as if to placate me. "I won't treat you unfairly. When the agreement expires, you will get what you deserve."

*What I deserve.* He used the phrase so well. As if everything I had given over these three years could be measured and compensated with money.

That morning, Damian lost his composure at the dining table. A news notification chimed again, and he clicked it open impatiently. When he saw Claire saying in an interview, "I miss Chicago very much; there are many precious memories here," he knocked over his coffee cup.

The brown liquid splashed onto his expensive handmade suit, spreading a stain across his pristine white shirt. But he was oblivious. He stared fixedly at the screen, his fingers actually trembling slightly.

It was ecstasy, uncontrollable excitement. In three years, I had never seen him so emotionally exposed.

The butler rushed forward to clean up, and a maid brought a fresh towel. Damian waved them away, his eyes never leaving the screen for a second.

"She's thinner," he murmured to himself. "But even more beautiful."

In that moment, I knew clearly that my career as a substitute was coming to an early end.