Chapter 8

As Joanne Morgan helped Brian Locke get out of bed, I clearly caught his gaze—sharp as an icy knife. "You even had to pick on a watch?" His voice was full of irritation and accusation, as if I were some unreasonable villain.

I ignored him, my eyes fixed on Joanne Morgan cowering behind him. She avoided my gaze, putting on a poor, frightened act—like a scared rabbit, shrinking back into Brian’s shadow. Seeing her like that only made Brian’s glare colder, as if I’d truly done something unforgivable to her.

"What, gonna throw your weight around again, little miss?" His words cut into my heart—full of disdain for my family background, and misunderstanding.

In that moment, I felt nothing but absurdity. How had we gotten here? The faint warmth we’d once shared was long gone, replaced only by endless suspicion and blame. Suddenly, I lost all desire to talk to him.

I stared at him quietly, forcing down the chaos in my chest, and said as calmly as possible: "When you accuse me, remember to bring evidence." I didn’t understand why he always believed others so easily, yet doubted me at every turn.

Before I finished speaking, Brian’s repressed anger erupted—like a volcano that had been building for years. He grabbed my right hand roughly, his grip so tight it hurt. Before I could react, he wrenched the jade bracelet off my wrist.

"Brian Locke!" I panicked. That bracelet meant everything to me—it was a keepsake from my mother, one of my most cherished possessions.

But he ignored my urgency, staring at me coldly, every word sharp: "Your mother gave this to you, right?" Before I could answer, he smashed the bracelet to the floor.

Crack.

The jade shattered into pieces, flying everywhere. In that moment, my heart felt like it had broken too. My throat closed up, and I could only open my mouth uselessly, unable to say a word. Tears burned in my eyes, but I refused to let them fall.

Afterward, Brian stood expressionless, walking back to the bed. Without glancing at me, he ordered the men around him: "Sweep this up. Flush the trash down the toilet."

I stood there, watching them sweep up the jade shards and flush them away, bit by bit. The toilet ran three times before he gestured for the men to let me go. A bright red mark circled my wrist—proof of what I’d just endured.

I stood there, locking eyes with Brian across the room. I rubbed my still-aching wrist gently, my voice soft but full of disappointment and resolve: "Brian Locke, I’ve never regretted my choices. No matter how hard things get, I see them through. But with you? I truly regret it—regret marrying you, regret staying up three nights straight to find the best doctors to save you."

"Why didn’t I just give up on treatment? I’m so stupid." I said it like I was talking to Brian, but also like I was mocking my own stubbornness over the years.

Brian stared at me, his eyes empty—like I was just a boring painting, not worth any emotion. He’d always been like this—indifferent to my joy and sorrow, forever "read but unanswered."

I couldn’t help but laugh, shaking my head. I turned away and walked toward the door, leaning against the wall for support. At the doorway, I paused and looked back at him for the last time: "Today’s the last day of the cooling-off period. Tomorrow at 10 a.m., we sign the papers and get the divorce certificate. Don’t be late." With that, I walked out of that suffocating room without looking back.

The next day, I arrived at the civil affairs bureau on time—and so did Brian. He didn’t hesitate, picking up the pen and signing his name first, his movements quick and decisive—as if it were just another trivial task. After signing, he stood up, looking down at me, his tone mocking: "If you think you can manipulate me by divorcing me, you’re wrong. There’s no going back after this. Sign or not—it’s up to you."

With those words, he walked out without a second glance—no hesitation, no regret.

I watched his determined back, feeling no sadness as I’d expected—only relief. I picked up the pen calmly and signed my name, each stroke firm and forceful. When I walked out of the bureau with the divorce certificate, a flashy sports car was already waiting by the curb. The man in the driver’s seat wore clothes even more eye-catching than the car. When he saw me, he whistled and smiled: "Honey~ Your fiery lover’s ready~"

It was Justin Cole—always there when I was at my worst.

Back at the marital home I’d shared with Brian, the living room was filled with packed boxes. I led Justin inside and told the housekeeper: "Call the moving company. Send all this to Brian Locke’s parents’ house." Then I went straight upstairs to my room.

I’d thought that being intimate with Justin would let me release all the emotions I’d bottled up during the marriage, help me finally escape Brian’s shadow. But the truth was—I felt nothing.

When I forced myself on top of Justin, he suddenly laughed and joked: "Darling, if you keep teasing me with that blank face, I’ll lose interest. You’re a premium monthly client—no need to rush to ‘get your money’s worth.’ What you need right now is a good night’s sleep."

His words were like medicine, waking me up instantly. Yes—what I needed most wasn’t recklessness, but rest. So we just lay on the new king-size bed and slept, pure and simple.

Lying there, my mind raced. This five-year marriage had been like an endless marathon. I’d pushed myself to run so far, only to realize I’d been going in circles—ending up right where I started. Now that the race was finally over, I was exhausted. A single day of rest wasn’t enough. Over the next week, I slept almost nonstop, barely leaving my room. Justin stayed with me quietly, never intruding.

During that week, Brian was on a business trip abroad, completely unaware of what had happened at home.

The day he returned, the driver—who didn’t know we’d divorced—drove him back to our old marital home as usual. Brian stood in the yard for two minutes, smoking a cigarette. Then he picked up the gift he’d bought for me, pressed his fingerprint to unlock the door, and walked in. When he noticed the housekeeper’s strange look, he didn’t think much of it.

"Where’s Sophia Reed?" he asked casually, his tone 理所当然 —taking me for granted, as always. "Still throwing a tantrum?" In his eyes, I’d always only known how to "throw tantrums" to get his attention.

The housekeeper hesitated, shaking her head: "She’s... resting."

Brian grunted and said no more, still following his old routine—first changing his shoes. But as soon as he put them on, he frowned. The size was clearly wrong—not his usual pair.

He didn’t pay much attention. He went to the bathroom to wash his hands, then headed upstairs to find me. The housekeeper tried to stop him several times, but he ignored her. By then, Brian finally grew suspicious.

He strode up the stairs and pushed open the master bedroom door. The next second, he froze—Justin Cole was lying shirtless on the marital bed we’d once shared, his arms tightly around me, who was wearing only thin pajamas. In that moment, I clearly saw shock, anger, and even a trace of panic in Brian’s eyes. But my heart was surprisingly calm. This farce was finally coming to an end.