Chapter 2
Victoria
The moment the plane lifted off, I finally stopped crying.
The lights of New York were disappearing beneath my feet, and I wiped away the last tear from my face, revealing a triumphant smile to the dark window. Marcus thought he had won? How naive.
The flight attendant quietly asked if I needed anything. I turned to her with my sweetest voice: "I'll have some champagne. I'm celebrating."
She looked somewhat confused, probably wondering why a girl who had just been crying suddenly wanted to celebrate.
The champagne bubbles seemed particularly lively at this altitude, just like my current mood. I raised my glass and whispered to the air: "Thank you, Marcus. You finally gave me what I wanted."
To be honest, only half of my crying in the car had been an act. Being so coldly rejected by the man I loved did cause me real pain. But the other half were tears of excitement.
Because I had finally seen the panic in Marcus's eyes.
In that moment when he took off his glasses to massage his temples, when he asked "what" three times in a row, when he angrily questioned if I had lost my mind—I saw it. He was afraid. A man who never feared any business opponent had shown vulnerability in front of me.
'If he really saw me as a daughter, why would he be so panicked?'
I took a sip of champagne and began recalling Marcus's behavior over the years. Starting from my 18th birthday, whenever boys asked me out, they would mysteriously disappear. At first I thought it was coincidence, but then I discovered the pattern—the more interested I was in someone, the faster they vanished.
"So someone has been buying off all my romantic prospects..." I chuckled softly.
That Harvard Law student who suddenly decided to volunteer in Africa.
That young musician who unexpectedly got a European tour opportunity.
Everyone's departure had perfectly legitimate reasons, but thinking about it now, these reasons were almost too perfect. Marcus, did you really think I was that stupid?
I pulled out my phone and started planning my next move. Knowing Marcus as I do, he should already be regretting his decision. He's the type who reflects after acting impulsively, especially when his impulses involve me.
'He'll send someone to watch me.' I was certain of this.
Marcus never does anything without a follow-up plan. Having sent me to London, he would never just wash his hands of the matter. He'd want to know what I was doing, whether I would really "never give up" on him.
More importantly, he would worry.
Just thinking about Marcus possibly pacing anxiously in his New York apartment at this very moment made me want to laugh. This man who controlled everything finally had an Achilles' heel.
In the VIP lounge at London Heathrow Airport, I was enjoying both an English breakfast and my perfect revenge plan.
After seven hours of flight and contemplation, I had basically figured out what Marcus would do. He would never really leave me to my own devices—that didn't match his personality. He would send a "suitable" person to London, ostensibly to take care of me, but actually to monitor me.
And his choice of person would expose Marcus's deepest secrets.
I pulled out my phone and called Marcus's assistant.
"Good morning, please tell Marcus that I've arrived safely," I said in my sweetest, most innocent voice. "Thank him for all the arrangements. And tell him I'll be very good."
The assistant sounded relieved: "Of course, Miss Sterling. I'll pass that along."
After hanging up, I almost burst out laughing.
'Knowing Marcus as I do, he'll definitely send someone he trusts completely—someone I'm guaranteed to like.'
This was Marcus's logic—if I had to fall for someone else, that person had better be under his control. He would choose someone sufficiently excellent and charming, but who would never threaten his position. Someone who could distract me but could never truly possess me.
Unfortunately for him, Marcus's controlling nature was my best weapon.
Because a guardian who truly saw me as a daughter wouldn't so carefully select a "boyfriend" for me. He would prevent me from dating, not arrange my love life.
I sipped my coffee, anticipating what kind of person Marcus would choose. He had to be handsome, because Marcus knew my aesthetic preferences; he had to be talented, because he understood my tastes; he had to be young, because that would pose the least threat; most importantly, he had to be completely compliant with Marcus's arrangements.
Where could such a person be found?
The answer was simple—an artist who needed money.
I could almost picture the resume Marcus was probably reviewing right now: young, handsome, talented, financially struggling, with some weakness Marcus could exploit.
I pulled out my compact mirror to touch up my lipstick, winking at my reflection. The game had just begun, and I had already won the first round.
Because regardless of who Marcus sent, that person's very existence would prove one thing—Marcus cared about me, cared enough to violate his own principles.
And a man who cared would eventually show his true fangs.
Marcus
I sat alone on the living room sofa in New York, clutching a glass of whiskey.
I had been drinking all night.
The living room still bore traces of the evening's gathering—a few empty champagne flutes, some uncollected dishes, and Victoria's earring left behind on the coffee table.
I stared at the delicate pearl earring, remembering how Victoria had looked wearing it at the party just hours ago. She had worn a blue silk dress, her hair loosely pinned up with a few golden strands falling gracefully by her neck. I had thought she looked exceptionally beautiful then, but hadn't dared to look too long.
Now I could indulge in the memory freely, because she was thirty thousand feet in the air.
"Did I do the right thing?" I asked the empty room.
The burning sensation of whiskey slid down my throat, but it was nothing compared to the pain in my chest. Victoria's words echoed repeatedly in my mind:
"Marcus, I love you, not as a guardian, but as a man."
"There's no blood relation, so what's the problem?"
"What are you running from?"
Each sentence cut through my heart like a blade. I forced myself not to think about whether Victoria was still crying at that moment, forced myself not to think about those hurt blue eyes.
'She's still just a child...' I tried to convince myself, 'but her words...'
As dawn broke, I walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, watching New York's streets come alive. Victoria's plane should have been over the Atlantic by then, arriving in London in a few hours.
I imagined what she would see when she woke up—a foreign city, foreign skies, a world without me.
Later, a stack of carefully screened resumes lay spread across my desk, each representing a potential candidate. My finger lingered on one particular photograph.
Alexander Chase, 27, artist, Columbia University Art School graduate. The young man in the photo had deep black eyes and that melancholy quality unique to artists, with looks that were almost perfectly handsome.
More importantly, he needed money.
If Victoria really met another man in London, really fell in love with someone else, I wasn't sure I could maintain my rationality.
At least this way, that man would be under my control.
At least this way, I could maintain some degree of control.
Even if this control was tearing my heart apart piece by piece.
