By the time they reached Caleb's modest Brooklyn apartment, daylight was breaking.

This place, which Lydia had once found "unbearable," had become her only sanctuary. Caleb parked silently and led her upstairs. When he opened the door, the familiar clean soap smell finally allowed her tense nerves to relax slightly.


Like a marionette, she let him guide her to the sofa.

He placed a cup of hot water in her ice-cold hands, then brought a thick blanket and wrapped it tightly around her trembling form.

Throughout, he never once asked, "What happened?"


But this silent, awkward care unlocked Lydia's emotional floodgates. She could no longer maintain her impenetrable facade. Overwhelming fear and despair swept over her. She began crying—first silent tears, then uncontrollable, desperate sobs.

"It's true..." she clutched the blanket, muttering incoherently. "It's all true... I can't escape..."


Caleb crouched beside her, watching helplessly. He reached out, wanting to comfort her but not knowing how, letting her remain immersed in her immense sorrow.

After what seemed like eternity, Lydia's crying subsided. She raised her tear-streaked face to the man before her. In extreme fear, he had become her only lifeline—the only real presence in this cold world of lies.

She tossed away the blanket and threw herself into his arms like a drowning person clinging to driftwood. She tilted her head up and frantically kissed him with salt-stained lips.

This kiss wasn't the tentative desperation of the hotel, but pure instinct—proof she was "alive." She needed to fight death's cold grip with the most intense sensation possible.

Faced with her sudden, unreserved surrender, all Caleb's defenses—class barriers, principles, aversion—crumbled instantly. He awkwardly responded, less possessing than offering the only comfort he knew how to give.

By the time their passion subsided, daylight streamed brightly through the window.

Lydia woke in Caleb's arms. He held her tightly, his even breathing brushing her forehead. She felt his body's warmth and steady, strong heartbeat.

For a moment, she greedily enjoyed this peace that shouldn't belong to her.

But this very peace strengthened her resolve.

She couldn't drag this clean, upright man into her inevitably messy fate. That death "prophecy" had been confirmed. She couldn't let him become part of her tragic destiny.

The best protection was making him thoroughly despise her—keeping him as far away as possible.

She studied Caleb's sleeping face—usually tense and guarded, now exceptionally gentle in slumber. Reluctance flickered in her eyes for seconds before cold, steely determination took over.

When Caleb woke, Lydia was already dressed, sitting on the bed's edge with her back to him, unhurriedly applying lipstick. That bright red looked like a wound carved onto her lips.

"Lydia," he sat up, his voice hoarse from sleep. "Last night..."

She interrupted, looking at him through the mirror with that familiar cynical smile.

"Last night? Just celebratory sex for getting my car back," she said casually, as if discussing weather. "Had to thank my 'driver' somehow, didn't I?"

Caleb's expression froze.

"You don't actually think," she turned, looking at him with composure, each word a poisoned knife to his heart, "that I fell in love with you, do you?"

He stared at her, color draining from his face. Those clear eyes showed shock, then disbelief, finally submerging in enormous humiliation and anger.

He remained silent so long that Lydia thought he would respond with his usual silence.

But he didn't.

He suddenly gave a low laugh—self-mocking and icily cold.

"Of course," he raised his eyes, his gaze like a knife flaying her alive. "You think I didn't know?"

He paused, using a title full of class distance she'd only heard at snobbish high society parties, severing all warmth between them.

"Miss Thorne."