Broken Porcelain Never Mends

The white porcelain cup tucked in my bag, the one I'd glazed and fired with my own hands, pressed painfully against my palm.

The laughter around the table swallowed me whole.

Zane Keanes, the rich heir seated beside Brandon Aker, let out a whistle.

"Bran, you've kept this little pet around for quite a while. Don't you ever get tired of her?"

Leaning back lazily in his chair, Brandon fiddled with a lighter between his fingers. He didn't even spare me another glance.

"As long as she's obedient. Consider it as entertainment."

The nonchalance in his voice crushed every ounce of dignity I'd held onto for the past five years.

I stood up and pushed my chair back.

The harsh scrape against the floor silenced the private room for a brief moment.

Brandon frowned, his voice carrying the familiar tone of command.

"Sit down. Where are you going?"

Without looking at him, I walked straight toward the door.

"The restroom."

The hallway was cold.

I leaned against the wall as my stomach churned violently. That little white porcelain cup had been meant as his graduation gift. Now, it felt like nothing more than a complete joke.

Steady footsteps sounded behind me. I turned around and met someone’s gaze.

It belonged to Sloan Hastings, the top investor in Berrington’s elite circles, also the man who had stopped the waiter earlier.

He held out a handkerchief embroidered with a branch of winter plum blossoms.

"Wipe the cold sweat off."

I hesitated before accepting it and froze for a moment the instant the fabric touched my hand.

This distinctive fragrance...

For the past five years, every package sent by Mr. S, the anonymous benefactor who had funded my studies in intangible cultural heritage restoration, had carried this exact scent.

I looked up, but all I saw was his retreating figure.

After the dinner ended, a torrential downpour had already begun.

Umbrella in hand, I walked downstairs, only to find a familiar black sedan parked right in front of the apartment building entrance.

Its headlights were so bright I had to squint.

The window rolled down, and Brandon's dark gaze landed on the men's handkerchief in my hand.

He shoved the door open, strode over, and snatched it away.

Muddy water splashed onto my trousers.

Without a second thought, he threw the handkerchief into a nearby puddle and stomped it beneath his shoe.

"What are you throwing a fit for?"

He casually pulled out a black bank card and tossed it at me.

The card slid down the front of my clothes before dropping into the mud.

"If you're out of money, just say so. Who gave you permission to take someone else's things?"

He had always believed money was the only thing I would ever bow to, and his charity was nothing more than a cover for his ridiculous possessiveness.

I looked at the plum blossom handkerchief, now soiled with mud beneath his shoe, and I didn't bother to pick up the card.

Instead, I quietly took out my keys, unlocked the door to the building, and said without turning around, "Mr. Aker, five years of entertainment should come to an end."

Brandon froze, staring at me as though he had never imagined I'd say such a thing.

With my back still facing him, my voice remained perfectly calm.

"The medical bills you paid for my mother back then, I'll repay every cent, with interest, as soon as I can."

The breathing behind me suddenly grew heavier.

Brandon let out a mocking laugh, his words laced with sarcasm.

"Well, look at you. You’ve gotten bold. Finally learned to play hard to get now? Is this your new way of driving up your price?"

He slammed his foot against the building's metal door, making it rattle violently.

"I'll see how long you can keep this act up!"

He turned, slammed the car door shut, and sped off into the storm.

I returned to my cramped studio and peeled off my drenched coat.

On the workbench sat Phoenix Pavilion, a grand cloisonné masterpiece that I had poured five years of my heart and soul into.

Only the final firing remained before it would be perfectly completed.

It had been the grand birthday gift I’d intended to present to Brandon’s grandfather.

I picked up the kiln seal and, expressionless, sealed the kiln shut.

Well, after five years of working like a slave, I'd repaid that debt in full.

As for love, he never wanted it, so I would let it go.

Tomorrow, I'd contact a broker and sell off this studio.

Thunder rumbled outside the window, and a flash of lightning illuminated the little white-glazed porcelain cup that would never be given away.