Chapter 4

After packing my things with embarrassing simplicity, I officially moved into the school's dormitory.

At the same time, I began discreetly scouting around for a suitable apartment to rent. I was determined to sever ties completely and move out of Cassian's house for good.

During this period, Richard called me a few times.

Although I had agreed to be his girlfriend, he showed remarkable patience in the face of my distant and evasive attitude.

Richard had always been the campus golden boy: impeccable family background, devastatingly handsome — the kind of man who could make a path of swooning admirers wherever he walked. There were no shortage of girls at school who had confessed their affections for him, or at least sighed about it from afar.

Our paths had crossed during the university's stock market simulation competition — an event so cutthroat it could make even seasoned Wall Street traders break into a cold sweat. I had defeated him to take the championship trophy, and, ever since that fateful day, he had pursued me with a dogged determination that would have impressed even the most cynical of onlookers.

But back then, my heart — foolish, stubborn thing that it was — had eyes only for Cassian.

Now, when I finally turned around, I found Richard still standing where I had left him, as if frozen in time, waiting.

I agreed to go on a date with him.

As we strolled side by side across the leafy campus paths, I could feel the stares trailing after us — an endless parade of curious glances, whispers, and wide eyes.

Richard, ever the gentleman, noticed the faint burn on the back of my hand and carefully, almost reverently, placed a band-aid over it.

I stared at the cartoon design on the plaster — bright, childish, absurdly cute — and before I could stop myself, my mind flashed back to Cassian.

He had often bought me little things like this.

When I first moved into the Andor household, I was practically mute, going days without saying a word.

Cassian, in an effort to coax a smile out of me, had once spotted the fraying pink bear patch on my battered old schoolbag. Without hesitation, he had gone all out: he turned the entire backyard into a giant, candy-pink bear wonderland.

It was the stuff of a little girl's wildest dreams — towering plush bears, pink swings, and a massive strawberry-scented castle.

"This is all yours," he had told me. "Anything you like, just tell me. I'll get it for you."

I would never forget the gentleness in his eyes that day, the way his voice dipped low and tender, as if I were the most precious thing in the world.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I had whispered a timid "thank you."

But I had never told him the truth — that I didn't even like that pink bear.

My mother had salvaged that old bag from a trash heap during a time when we could barely afford to eat.

Yet for ten years after that, everything I owned — my stationery, my clothes, even my hair ties — were pink bear-themed.

Even now, this band-aid plastered on my hand carried the same motif, like some inescapable emblem of the past.

But the man who once cared about every small scratch and whim of mine... he had long stopped paying attention.

The difference now was staggering.

My eyes stung suddenly, unbidden tears rising to the surface. I lowered my head quickly, pretending that some dust had flown into my eyes.

Richard, worried, raised a hand and gently dabbed at my tears with a tissue.

I closed my eyes.

And somewhere deep inside, a decision — hard, brittle, and final — crystallized.

No more pink bears. No more Uncle Cassian.

When he saw me move every last thing out of his house, would he — even for a moment — feel a flicker of regret?