When Simon Dubois leaned in, I froze completely.

Warm breath with hints of tobacco and bergamot brushed my cheek where his lips had touched, sending warmth rushing through me. A standard La Bise—polite yet carrying a hint of something more.


He stepped back to a proper distance. I remained frozen, my heart skipping: "Why... why the kiss?"

"I apologize if I offended you," Simon said, his lake-green eyes catching the Parisian sunlight. "It's just... you're truly captivating. When you discuss your ideas, there's this light in your eyes."

He paused, gathering courage.


"Aurora, I like you. I don't know what you've been through, but I sense walls around you. I don't want to force my way over them. I just want to know if you'd let me help you step out of those shadows... and date me?"

I stood there, stunned.


This past month in Paris, Simon had been like warm sunshine. When language barriers tripped me up, he'd jump in with awkward but earnest Chinese phrases. When xenophobic colleagues targeted me, he'd subtly defend me in meetings, highlighting my achievements. When we argued over design details, he never pulled rank—just debated passionately until we found common ground, then celebrated with boyish high-fives.

Colleagues exchanged knowing looks, saying they'd never seen "design tyrant" Simon show such patience with anyone.

Yet in these moments, I'd catch myself thinking of... Julian.

So this was how it felt to be valued, protected, appreciated as an individual who shines.

I should have felt delighted, flattered. But deep inside, my barely-healed wound ached again, scalded by this unexpected warmth. I wasn't ready.

Just as I gathered words to express my grateful hesitation, a cold, familiar voice—capable of freezing the entire street—came from behind me.

"Aurora..."

Every drop of blood in my body froze.

That voice—I'd once fallen asleep to it and been jolted awake by it in nightmares. I thought I'd need at least a year before I could hear it without breaking. But now it had followed me halfway across the world, appearing without warning.

I turned slowly to face the stern-faced man who had no right to be here, striding toward me with purpose.

He looked terrible. His once-impeccable suit hung wrinkled on his frame. His tie dangled loosely. Bluish stubble covered his jaw. His deep-set eyes were bloodshot—the disheveled appearance of someone utterly drained.

Before I could recover, he yanked me into his arms with almost violent force. That familiar cedar cologne, now mixed with travel fatigue, enveloped me completely. I felt his heart hammering erratically against my cheek.

His breathing came ragged, his voice terrifyingly hoarse: "I thought I saw... I thought..."

Simon's voice, surprised yet composed, broke in: "Mr. Croft? Your reputation precedes you. You and Aurora... you know each other?"

I was shocked too. How did Simon know Julian?

I pushed against him, but he only gripped tighter, like a drowning man clutching driftwood. Simon's voice sharpened: "Sir, you're frightening her."

Only then did Julian loosen his grip—but not completely. Instead, he smoothly wrapped his arm around my shoulders, shifting to a dominant, possessive stance that forced us together. His grip was like iron, immobilizing me.

"I forgot to introduce myself," Julian raised his bloodshot eyes to Simon's, his tone emotionless yet each word staking a claim: "Aurora is my girlfriend."

In minutes, my brain crashed from information overload. Simon's confession, Julian's appearance, this absurd ownership claim—I felt like a puppet dragged into a whirlpool's center.

Exhaustion surged from deep in my heart. I was tired of this endless drama, tired of his chaos.

I stopped struggling and corrected him in a voice devoid of emotion: "Let go, Julian. We're over."

Simon's lake-green eyes instantly hardened. He stepped forward, placing himself between us: "Mr. Croft, release her. Though your company is our most important client, I'm responsible for ensuring my employee's safety and respecting her wishes."

Perfect Eastern bone structure faced chiseled Western features—two tall, successful men in silent confrontation on a Parisian street. The air crackled with tension.

"Client?" Julian's demeanor darkened completely. He let out a dismissive snort, not even acknowledging Simon. Instead, he turned to me, his bloodshot eyes boring into mine: "So this past month, your precious achievements, your 'new life'—just charity I granted with a finger snap. Aurora, face it. Without me, you're nothing."

His words stabbed like a poisoned dagger into my barely-healing wound.

I finally understood. He was the mysterious client behind my project—known by name but never seen. All my efforts, all my achievements—in his eyes, just bait in his elaborate trap.

Nausea rose from my stomach.

I turned to Simon with an apologetic glance, then pried Julian's fingers open one by one, freeing myself.

"Julian Croft," I looked directly into his shocked eyes and said calmly, "Let's sit down and talk."

A long-overdue conversation unfolded in a café near the Louvre. Across a small white table, we faced each other across an unbridgeable chasm.

He tried explaining everything—Sienna's kiss, business arrangements, unavoidable difficulties. He blamed everything on "misunderstandings" and "my distrust," his words weaving logical traps, making me believe all hurt stemmed from my failure to "see the bigger picture."

This was his specialty: gaslighting. He'd used it to make me doubt myself, deny my feelings, and ultimately crawl back to him.

But now his words hit bulletproof glass—loud but harmless.

Seeing my indifference, he played his final card. From his pocket came a velvet box containing a brilliant Harry Winston diamond.

"I was wrong. I admit it," he said, his voice hoarse with a hint of pleading. "I spent twenty-nine days fixing everything. Flew twelve hours to find you. Aurora, I can't live without you. Let's get married. When we return home, we'll get married."

He knew better than anyone how desperately I'd once wanted this. For marriage, I'd been his secret lover for years, enduring countless injustices.

But now, hearing this long-awaited proposal, my heart didn't stir.

Looking at his earnest, almost humble expression, I slowly took the box and removed the ring.

The cold metal reminded me of equally cold memories.

Calmly, as if telling someone else's story, I asked the question he could never answer.

"Julian, on our sixth anniversary, you called to ask if I 'realized my mistake.' But let me ask you: where were you when I made dozens of desperate calls for help?"

His breath caught.

I continued in the same steady tone, giving him no chance to speak.

"That night in the company garage. Robert Jones cornered me against my car. He said he wouldn't dare touch the CEO's woman, but he would touch me—the whore you'd been hiding. I smelled alcohol on his breath, felt his hand pressing on my shoulder. The garage was empty. My screams echoed uselessly..."

I paused. His face had turned ashen, his lips trembling uncontrollably.

I added airily: "Luckily, a couple drove by and scared him off. I filed a police report. The doctor said it was just superficial bruising."

"No..." The word escaped like a broken whisper. He reached for me, but his body seemed to have lost all strength. His lips moved several times, like a dying fish gasping for water.

I'm more merciful than Julian. Once, I begged hysterically for explanations he refused to give. Now I simply wanted clarity before walking away.

"That night, I truly hated you," I said, watching his agonized face with a strange satisfaction. "I hated your condescension, your indifference. But in therapy, I realized I hated myself more—that weak, fragile woman who stayed with you while losing herself piece by piece."

"Being with you exhausted me. You loved me in your way while systematically destroying me. You made me believe you could replace me easily, but without you, I was nothing. I worked desperately for your approval until I became hollow inside, until..."

I stood and walked to the railing overlooking the Seine.

"I realized the validation I craved shouldn't come from you, but from myself."

"I once thought I couldn't survive without you. But without you, I'm thriving."

My final words hung in the air.

Julian stood frozen, watching as I opened my fingers.

That expensive diamond—carrying his last hope—traced a small arc through the air before disappearing silently into the Seine.

He looked at me, his expression desolate. In the end, he said nothing.