Chapter 7

Looking at Joanne Morgan’s ambitious face, I thought of myself five years ago—just as confident, thinking that if I reached a little higher, I could touch the light in Brian Locke’s heart.

But back then, I’d never imagined that all my pride and confidence would eventually drown in an endless sea.

"Brian and I are getting divorced soon," I looked at her, my voice calm as still water. "If you want his position, you should fight him, not me."

"And I value my life," I paused, my fingers cold. "You almost killed me today. I don’t have proof to take action now, but I will pay you back someday."

Before she could answer, I slammed the door shut and collapsed on the bed. Exhaustion washed over me, and I fell asleep instantly.

I slept until noon the next day. When I opened the door, Brian was leaning against the wall outside, his deep eyes clouded with an unbreakable gloom—like a fog that would never lift.

"I’ll stay with you today," he said.

I said nothing, slamming the door shut again—cutting off his voice and his figure.

I ordered room service and ate slowly. When I went out again, he was still there—like a silent stone statue, stubbornly standing guard.

I ignored him completely, called my bodyguards, and went down to the coastal cliff hiking trail.

I didn’t want to rush. I walked slowly, stopping often. The sea breeze brushed my cheeks, salty and moist. Seagulls circled and cried in the distance. It was quite pleasant.

Brian followed behind, keeping a distance—not too close, not too far. Halfway there, Joanne Morgan appeared out of nowhere. He reached out to help her naturally, their posture intimate.

At a cliff rest stop, Joanne Morgan suddenly walked up to me and held out her palm.

"This watch he wears every day—Tara gave it to him, right?"

I glanced at it and ignored her. It was an old, scratched watch—poor quality, completely out of place with Brian’s expensive clothes and usual watches.

I’d given him so many watches over the years—rare collector’s pieces not available on the market, new limited editions... My taste was impeccable. But for five whole years, he’d never taken off that damn cheap watch—not even for the most high-end business events.

"So it is," Joanne Morgan’s eyes lit up, like she’d found leverage.

Suddenly, she dropped to her knees with a thud, clinging to my pants leg, waving her arms and screaming: "Ms. Jade! This is Brian Locke’s most precious watch! I only took it to show you because you said you wanted to see it! How could you use me like this? Don’t throw it! Please!"

"Sophia Reed! Don’t touch it!" Brian’s 急促 footsteps came, panic obvious in his voice.

At that moment, Joanne Morgan swung her arm hard—the watch flew in an arc, over the cliff, into the vast sea.

Almost instantly, a figure followed—trying to catch it in mid-air.

It was Brian Locke.

I stared dumbfounded at his figure, shrinking rapidly—like a leaf swept away by a violent wind, falling toward the cliff bottom. I whispered, barely audible: "Does he... love her that much?"

That cliff was over 80 feet high. Only extreme athletes dared to dive there. He had no experience at all—yet he’d jumped for a worthless old watch from Lily Bennett!

I held my forehead, turning to Joanne Morgan, whose face was as white as a sheet. Five years of anger and my current terror mixed together. I couldn’t hold back—I slapped her.

"You idiot!" My voice shook. "At this height, the water’s as hard as concrete. Do you think your wealthy life has any chance of surviving this?"

I pulled out my phone with trembling hands and called for rescue.

Fate must have favored Brian Locke. Compared to other cases—people whose faces were split into four pieces, whose brains spilled out—he was lucky to be alive.

I sat outside the emergency room for six hours, signing one critical notice after another. The edges of the paper cut my fingers, but my heart felt empty—no emotion at all.

Another woman sat outside the ER. Her husband had wrapped her in a sheet and lowered her to safety during a fire, but he’d suffered 70% burns over his body. She probably wanted to ease her anxiety. Seeing me sitting silently, she comforted me softly: "It’ll be okay. He’ll pull through."

I forced a smile and said nothing.

Her husband had risked his life to save her. Mine had almost killed himself for a relic of another woman.

Facing that cold fact, I felt nothing.

My marriage—even in its final moments—was marked by bloody misery.

I was used to it.

Brian broke his sternum and was in a coma for two days.

The day he woke up, I’d just finished talking to his doctor. I turned and walked into the room.

As soon as the door clicked shut, several strong men jumped out from behind it and pinned my arms and legs down.

Their grip was like iron clamps, holding me tightly in place. My arms were wrenched behind my back, and my knees buckled, almost making me fall.

I looked up sharply at Brian on the bed. His face was as white as paper, propped up against the headboard. He stared at me coldly—no trace of weakness from just escaping death, only ice-cold hatred.

"Brian Locke, what the hell are you doing?" My voice tightened with anger.

He said nothing, just tilted his chin slightly. One of the men holding me understood immediately, took out a rope, and started tying my wrists. The rough hemp rope dug into my skin, painful.

The room was terrifyingly quiet—only the sound of the rope rubbing and my increasingly rapid breathing.

I finally understood—what Joanne Morgan had meant by So what if I’m a replacement?

He would jump off a cliff for a relic of Lily Bennett, and he would hurt me brutally to protect the woman who wore Lily’s face.

Five years of marriage—a empty dream. In the end, I’d become his enemy—someone he thought deserved this.

My heart—frozen solid by the seawater 80 feet below.