Chapter 9

The air in the bedroom turned tense instantly. Brian’s roar exploded like thunder: "What the hell are you doing?!"

Even without turning around, I could imagine his ferocious expression. Justin woke up with a start, reacting faster than lightning. In the next second, he pulled the covers tightly around me—acting as if Brian, standing at the door, was the intruder in our space.

Heavy footsteps thundered across the floor. Brian strode over, his face livid, his gaze like poisoned daggers fixed on Justin in bed: "You have five seconds to get off that bed."

But Justin wasn’t the least bit intimidated. He raised an eyebrow, sizing up the "former master of the house" leisurely. He even deliberately gestured to his hand resting on my waist, speaking lazily, his tone full of provocation: "Can’t do that. Shea hasn’t slept enough yet."

I rubbed my sleepy eyes, my voice thick with drowsiness: "Brian Locke? What are you doing here?" When I turned and saw Justin shirtless beside me, I frowned and said coldly to the man at the door: "Get out."

That sentence was like a match to gasoline. Brian’s eyes darkened instantly, and he ground out: "Who do you think you’re talking to? Do you even know who you are?!"

"I said—please get out." All sleepiness was gone. I sat up against the headboard, my eyes calm but unwavering. "We’re already divorced. Who I sleep with is none of your business."

Noticing my shoulder exposed, Justin reached for a jacket nearby and draped it over me naturally. This protective gesture was like pouring oil on Brian’s anger. He furrowed his brows and let out a cold sneer.

"Divorced? Show me the certificate before you say that!" Before he finished speaking, he rushed into the bathroom, grabbed the towel I’d hung there, wet it, wrung it halfway dry, then walked back and threw it in my face. "Snap out of it first."

Then he turned to Justin, narrowed his eyes, pulled out his wallet, and threw several bills at him, his tone full of contempt: "Get lost!"

Justin whistled, feigning grievance: "Sir, your ex-wife has excellent taste. My rates are very high."

Brian’s face darkened. He stepped forward, ready to fight. But just then, I picked up the divorce certificate from the nightstand and threw it at his chest. It landed on the bed with a slap.

When he saw those three bright red characters, the rage on Brian’s face died out instantly—choked back, as if someone had cut off his oxygen. He bent down stiffly, picked up the certificate, and examined it closely, his fingers trembling slightly. Yes—it was real. He stared at the red cover for a long time. When he looked up at me, his eyes were blank, as if his mind had been emptied. Then dizziness hit, and he stumbled slightly before steadying himself.

After a long silence, he let out a cold "hah" and glanced at Justin contemptuously, his tone dripping with sarcasm: "No wonder you were so eager to divorce—you already found someone else. Did you chase him the same way you chased me? Clingy and desperate?"

"Whether I did or not is none of your business—ex-husband." I replied coldly, emphasizing the word "ex-husband"—as if I could vent all my years of grievances through those two syllables.

Brian stuffed the divorce certificate into his briefcase roughly. His voice tried to sound as calm as usual, but couldn’t hide the tremor: "Cheating before divorce means we’ll have to renegotiate the property division. None of your business? I’ll be dealing with plenty of your business from now on!" With that, he kicked over the gift he’d brought and strode out.

Downstairs, he took a deep breath, forcing down his anger, and asked the housekeeper: "Where are my things?"

"Ms. Jade told us to pack them and send them to your parents’ house," the housekeeper replied fumblingly.

Brian said nothing, just left with a cold expression, slamming the door behind him.

I leaned against the headboard, watching his disappearing figure. My heart was calm—only relief that this long, tangled farce was finally coming to an end.

The next day, I ran into Brian at a cocktail party. I was on Justin’s arm. He handed me a glass gently and wiped a smudge of wine from the corner of my mouth—natural and intimate, as if we’d been together for years.

Countless eyes were on us, and some looked at Brian maliciously, waiting for his reaction. I could feel his cold gaze on me, but I didn’t care, laughing and chatting with Justin as if Brian wasn’t there.

Before long, Brian found his chance. He cornered me when I went to wash my hands in the restroom. He grabbed my wrist, his voice full of anger and accusation: "Are you that impatient? Bringing some random guy to an event like this right after the divorce—do you think that’s appropriate?"

I pulled my hand back, took a paper towel, and wiped the water from my hands slowly. Looking up at him, I said calmly: "What’s wrong with bringing someone? When we were still married, you paraded Joanne Morgan around everywhere, and I said nothing."

"Is a private fling the same as bringing someone to a public event? One’s a younger sister, the other..." He stopped mid-sentence, then grit his teeth when he saw my indifference: "Fine. If you want to humiliate us both, don’t blame me for being ruthless."

I knew what he meant, but I didn’t care. But in the days that followed, people kept telling me that Brian had a new girlfriend. He’d never brought a date to work events before, but now he took Joanne Morgan with him several times in a row, doting on her—even more than he’d ever treated me.

I just smiled faintly, unconcerned. But what I didn’t expect was that no matter what Justin and I did—dining out, going on beach vacations—news of Brian and Joanne Morgan’s growing intimacy would spread soon after. It was like he was competing with me; the happier I was, the more he tried to "fight back" this way.

My best friend couldn’t stand it anymore. She organized a gathering and ranted about Brian from start to finish, defending me. I just listened quietly, smiling occasionally, but my heart was calm.

After the gathering, my friend drove me home. As we drove through the busy streets, I glanced casually at the sidewalk—and froze when I saw a jewelry billboard featuring Joanne Morgan. Brian’s jewelry brand only hired A-list celebrities or socialites as spokespeople. How had Joanne Morgan—a nobody with no connections—landed this opportunity?

"Stop the car!" I said urgently to my friend.

My friend was also shocked, pointing at the billboard: "He must really love that Joanne Morgan. To let a woman with average looks and figure endorse his jewelry—doesn’t he worry his wealthy clients will return their purchases when they find out?"

"No..." I pointed to a woman standing in the corner below the billboard, my voice trembling: "Look at her... Is that Lily Bennett?"

The woman was wearing a business suit, standing next to the billboard, seemingly talking to the staff. Even from a distance, her face was identical to the Lily Bennett I remembered. Lily had been Brian’s first love. Her family had opposed their relationship years ago, so they’d broken up and lost touch. Why was she here? Had Brian put Joanne Morgan in the ad because of her? Countless questions swirled in my mind, making my chest tight.