Chapter 5

Vivian's POV

Mary handed me a bowl of hot soup.

"People make stupid decisions when they're hungry." Mary bolted the door. "Eat first. If you want to cry, do it after you're full."

I held the bowl, the steam making my eyes sting.

I hadn't taken much when I left Julian's villa. I didn't touch any of the expensive jewelry, but I held my grandmother's old ledger close to my chest.

Mary flipped open the ledger, pointing to a few faded lines. "Your grandmother used to tailor clothes for a lot of wealthy ladies back in the day. Some of them still remember her craft. If you're willing, I can introduce you. You can start taking orders. You can't just hide forever."

Hiding wasn't a long-term solution.

I understood that.

I needed money, a stable place to live, and an identity that could explain my whereabouts.

Compared to the unlimited credit card Julian had given me, the money earned from individual orders was meager, but it allowed me to sleep peacefully.

Starting the next day, I began taking orders to repair vintage clothes.

My first client was a retired school teacher who brought in a wrinkled silk shirt, saying it was a gift her late husband had bought her when they were young.

As I bent my head to thread the needle, the baby in my belly suddenly went quiet. After a long while, he said:

"Mom, when you're working, you're different from your past life."

"How so?"

"In your past life, you were always waiting for someone else's approval. Now, you reach for what you want yourself."

My fingers paused for a second before I continued sewing.

I didn't want to take those words as a compliment, because it meant the other version of me had lived a life that was far too exhausting.

As I was wrapping up for the night, a black town car pulled up outside.

Julian got out of the car, standing at the door of the workshop, his expression darker than the night sky.

Mary blocked the doorway. "You're not welcome here."

Julian's gaze bypassed her, landing on me. "Come out. I need to talk to you."

I put down my needle and thread. I didn't hide.

I was wearing a loose sweater, my hands covered in fabric dust, looking completely different from the elegant woman people compared at the gala.

Julian looked at me, his throat moving. "If you need money, you can tell me. You don't have to live in a place like this."

"Even if this place is old, it's my choice," I said. "No matter how nice your place is, it's not mine."

Julian's face darkened at my words. "When did I ever say it wasn't yours?"

"You never said it was mine." I raised my eyes. "Julian, you gave me a place to live, clothes, and a credit card, but you never gave me a choice. Now that I've made my own choice, you're angry?"

Julian was silent for a moment, his voice softening. "Come back with me. I'll handle Chloe."

The voice in my belly instantly exploded: "Don't believe him! 'Handling it' to him just means stalling! Stalling until your heart softens, stalling until the baby can't be hidden anymore, and then the Pierce family will dictate your entire life!"

I looked at Julian and suddenly asked, "What if I don't go back?"

Julian's eyes went cold. "Do you have to make things so difficult?"

"You see," I smiled faintly. "You didn't come to take me back. You came to reclaim something that went out of your control."

I stepped back into the warm light of the workshop.

As the door closed from the inside, Julian was still standing there.

Through the glass, I saw him reveal a lost, bewildered expression for the very first time, as if he had finally realized the other end of the rope he held was completely empty.

Julian didn't knock on the door again that night.

I didn't get up to see if he had left.

Mary told me later that he stood at the door for a while, then sat in his car checking his phone messages, but didn't let the driver start the engine.

I didn't know what he was looking at, but I remembered the messages I used to send him over the years. Almost every one of them was short and restrained: What time are you coming back? Should I save dinner? The stomach medicine is in the left drawer.

I never asked who he was with, and I rarely complained.

I used to think that silence was maturity, a form of understanding.

Now, looking back, those messages were like receipts, recording how he slowly drained my affection.

I wondered later if he would call.

But I didn't wait.

Whether he dialed and hung up, I didn't know.

All I knew was that he had probably never gone through my old messages word-for-word the way he was doing tonight.

What did he want to say? I didn't know.

Because even I suddenly realized that every "come here," "stop acting up," and "be good" he had ever said to me were commands, not conversations.

I finished repairing the client's shirt, pressed it, and packed it.

Only after doing all this did the tightness in my chest slowly begin to dissipate.

It turned out that not responding was also a choice.