Chapter 12

Joanne Morgan’s “rags-to-riches” act fizzled out quickly. Now, all anyone in the social circle talked about was Brian Locke and Lily Bennett. When someone mentioned Joanne Morgan, others would pause and ask, “Who?” My name always came up alongside Brian and Lily’s, but ever since Lily reappeared, I’d completely “disappeared”—I had no desire to be seen with either of them.

One day, I was driving out to meet a private detective. As soon as I pulled out of the gate, a figure blocked the road. “Sophia Reed! Get out here! You ruined me! You’ll rot in hell!” The person screamed and threw stones at my windshield—disheveled, eyes burning with unquenchable resentment—it was Joanne Morgan.

I didn’t linger. I immediately reversed back into the yard, closed the electric gate, and shut her out. Through the spider webbed windshield, I watched the woman who’d once flaunted her status in front of me, thinking she’d climbed the social ladder. Now, she looked like a broken doll, held together only by hatred and greed, stripped of all her former glory.

Glancing at the time, growing impatient, I called Brian Locke. This number I’d never been able to reach during our marriage picked up instantly. “What’s wrong?” His voice held a rare hint of tenderness. I mocked myself silently and said flatly, “Joanne Morgan is blocking my door. This mess is your doing—come fix it.” He only said, “In half an hour,” then hung up.

Half an hour later, Brian showed up. When Joanne Morgan saw him, she cried and lunged forward, but two men behind Brian held her back. From a distance, I couldn’t hear what they said—only that Joanne Morgan was dragged away, unwilling and resentful. It suddenly dawned on me: the “food chain” in relationships is always clear—substitutes matter more than outsiders, but when the real deal returns, they overshadow substitutes completely. Joanne Morgan had never been anything more than an insignificant footnote.

I got out of the car expressionlessly and took photos of the damage. I’d meant to send them to Brian directly, but remembering all those returnee messages over the years that had vanished into thin air, I put my phone away. I walked straight up to him and handed over the photos, “Joanne Morgan did this. Transfer the compensation to my account.”

Brian grunted in acknowledgment. His eyes swept over my outfit and asked casually, “Where are you off to? I’ll drive you.” Before I could answer, a flashy sports car swerved over and stopped beside us. Justin Cole stuck his head out, his tone playful yet smiling, “Long time no see, Mr. Lu.” Then he opened the door and called to me, “Babe, get in!”

I turned to leave, but Brian grabbed my wrist. “How long are you gonna act like this?” He glanced at Justin’s shirt, which was unbuttoned almost to his navel, his tone laced with unspoken discomfort. But when he saw the cold indifference on my face, his grip loosened slightly, and his tone returned to calm, “Thank you for bringing Tara back to me. When are you free this week? Lily and I want to treat you to dinner.” He emphasized “Lily and I” as if declaring something, but my face remained indifferent. “Sure, tomorrow works.” With that, I got into the sports car. The engine roared as we drove away. In the rear view mirror, I saw Brian standing there, his fist slowly tightening—but his presence no longer mattered to me.

The next day, I brought Justin Cole to the small dinner party. At the table, Justin fussed over me—pouring me water, peeling shrimp and crab for me. His attentiveness made Brian’s face darken by the minute. I clearly saw Brian’s hand clench around his water glass repeatedly; every time he wanted to lose his temper, he forced himself to down another glass of water. He barely touched his food, but drank three glasses of water. Probably trying to compete with Justin, he also started peeling shrimp and crab for Lily Bennett. Lily thanked him shyly, her eyes sparkling like stars, looking completely flattered.

Midway through the meal, Lily suddenly whispered to Brian, “Brian Locke, can you stay with me tonight? I’m so scared being alone—even with the lights on, I have nightmares about people chasing me…” Bringing this up at the dinner table made even Brian awkward. Before he could speak, I laughed and said, “Of course he will—you’re the apple of his eye. Forget staying the night—you two should get married.”

I turned to Brian, whose face had already gone tense, and asked teasingly, “The person you’ve always wanted to marry is right here—you must be dying to, right? So when’s the wedding? Don’t tell me you don’t want to marry her now that she’s been through so much in the past five years?” I deliberately hit his soft spot, watching his expression freeze instantly, feeling nothing in my heart. It was time for me to bring this farce he’d started to an end.