Chapter 2

The following afternoon, before anyone from the broker could arrive, the studio door was shoved open.

Brandon walked in with Quinn Sanders, his unforgettable first love, who had freshly returned from overseas.

Dressed in a tailored designer trench coat, Quinn swept a critical gaze across the humble studio.

Her eyes finally landed on the sealed kiln containing Phoenix Pavilion, and they lit up.

"Bran, this piece would be perfect for the Paris International Arts Awards."

Without the slightest hesitation, Brandon tossed an ownership transfer agreement and a check for five million dollars onto my workbench.

The edge of the check pressed down on the small white-glaze porcelain cup.

Quinn casually picked it up and flicked her cigarette ash into it.

The pristine white glaze was instantly smeared with filthy gray ash.

I reached out to take it back, but Brandon blocked it with his hand.

"It's just a worthless cup, and you’re protecting it like it’s some treasure!"

With a look of disgust, he snatched the ash-stained cup from Quinn's hand and hurled it into the corner of the studio.

It shattered into countless pieces, and the crack of breaking porcelain rang painfully through the room.

Looking down at me condescendingly, he spoke with the tone of someone bestowing a favor.

"Sign it. Once Quinn wins the award, she'll be leaving the country for an arranged marriage. This is just a formality."

He even pulled out a velvet ring box from his pocket, half-opening the lid, revealing a custom-made diamond ring sparkling inside.

"So you've been feeling wronged these past few years, haven’t you?"

As if it were only natural, he assumed that enough money and the promise of a title would buy my gratitude.

"Five million is enough to buy ten years of your life. Once this is over, I'll stay by your side."

The more he tried to make up for it, the deeper he wounded me. He had never understood what truly mattered to me.

I looked at the shattered porcelain cup in the corner and coldly pushed the check back.

"Phoenix Pavilion is my life’s work. It's not for sale."

Brandon's expression darkened immediately.

His patience snapped and he grabbed my right arm where a large patch of pitted old scars was left behind five years ago in a fire.

He made no effort to restrain his strength, and agonizing pain shot through my entire body.

"Lily Hayes, don't push your luck."

His voice carried the impatience of someone used to superiority.

"If I hadn't paid for your mother's treatment five years ago, she'd already be dead! I know exactly what you're after, so don’t you push your luck."

So… the five years I'd devoted to him with all my heart had amounted to nothing more than a bargaining chip in his eyes.

Looking at the familiar face before me, I suddenly found it unbearably pathetic.

Enduring the pain with gritted teeth, I shoved his hand away with all my strength.

I picked up the pen from the edge of the table and signed my name across the transfer agreement without a moment's hesitation.

The pen tip scratched through the paper, leaving behind a harsh sound.

Without so much as a glance at the check, I turned toward the door.

"Here. It's yours. Think of it as charity."

Brandon stood frozen, seemingly unable to understand why I hadn't even taken the money.

I pushed open the door and stepped into the torrential rain. The chilly droplets pelted against my face, bringing clarity that I'd never felt before.

Supporting myself against the wall, I slowly made my way out of the alley.

From inside the studio, Quinn's voice drifted through the rain in broken fragments.

"...the Hastings family's special relief fund... Bran transferred it to her back then…"

My footsteps stopped.

The next second, Brandon cut her off in a hushed voice, "Shut up."

The Hastings family. Special relief fund.

Back at my apartment, I changed out of my soaked clothes and took out the paper envelope left behind from my mother's hospitalization five years ago.

Inside was the remittance stub for the payment Brandon had supposedly made.

I stared at the bank account number for a long time.

Back then, I'd been too busy crying to pay attention to where the money had actually come from.

The answer from the bank's customer service made my palms damp with sweat. The account belonged to a charitable organization called the Hastings Foundation.

It took me two days to track down the person who had been in charge back then. He had already retired. When he answered my call, he remained silent for a long while before letting out a weary sigh.

"Someone filed the application in the patient's family name back then. The funds were transferred into a private account… We investigated it afterward, but higher-ups shut the matter down. That was the end of it."

He told me the last digits of the account. They matched the remittance slip exactly.

I carefully folded the wrinkled receipt and tucked it inside the freshly stamped archive retrieval certificate that had just received its official stamp.

The rain had stopped.

The man I'd mistaken for my savior had been nothing more than a thief. He had stolen charitable funds, brazenly used them to purchase five years of my dignity, and demanded my gratitude.

I lowered my eyes to the thin stack of papers in my hands, and strangely, my heartbeat was perfectly steady.

I was going to make him repay every last cent, with interest.