Chapter 4

I rented an old apartment.

The landlord tossed the keys onto a wooden table.

"Rent is three months up front, utilities are separate, and the corner gets moldy when it rains."

I nodded and paid.

The place was small, the wallpaper was peeling with mold, and the windows didn't close properly.

But here, I didn't need a Wheeler access card.

And no one would record when I slept, when I woke, who I saw, or how many times I cried.

That evening, I opened my mother's repair kit.

At the very bottom, pressed beneath two torn papers, was a small note in my mother's handwriting:

"Serena, when you truly leave the Wheeler family, repair this."

"Don't use the truth to beg for love."

I stared at those words, tears nearly falling.

I put on sterile gloves, prepared separation solution, and moistened the paper edges.

The slightly acidic scent of the solution spread through the air.

That smell was terrifyingly familiar.

After we married, I often worked on old letters in the study.

Ethan would occasionally come in and adjust the harsh white light above my head to warm lighting.

I was afraid of thunder.

On stormy nights in Mistport, he'd change his international conference calls to audio-only and sit in the living room handling emails.

When thunder rumbled, I could look up and see his silhouette.

That silhouette had given me so many illusions.

I'd thought that was what companionship meant.

Until I asked him:

"Ethan, could we have a meal together this weekend? Not a business dinner, just the two of us."

He looked at me in the mirror while knotting his tie and said:

"Serena Hart, don't mistake everyday courtesies for intimacy."

"That's just polite cohabitation."

Later, I got pregnant.

I thought this child might make us different somehow.

But Paige's emails came more frequently each day.

"Pregnancy Emotional Independence Recommendations"

"Non-Essential Companionship Risk Advisory"

"Contractual Relationship Boundary Reminder"

Reading every word made me feel like I was crossing boundaries.

The day I miscarried, Mistport was hit by a torrential storm.

I was in so much pain I couldn't stop shaking. I called Ethan seventeen times.

The eighteenth call finally connected.

But it was Paige's voice on the line.

She was completely calm.

"Mr. Wheeler is handling an urgent matter."

"Ms. Hart, please contact the medical team through proper channels. Don't occupy Mr. Wheeler's private line."

I wanted to say I was bleeding.

I wanted to say I was in so much pain.

But the call had already disconnected.

Ethan made it to the hospital later.

He stood by the hospital bed, his face frighteningly pale.

But his first words were:

"Why didn't you follow protection protocol?"

"Why didn't you bring your life assistant when you went out?"

By then, the baby was already gone.

My body had lost all its strength, with only a thread of life remaining.

I stared at the ceiling and asked him:

"Ethan, will I always rank behind your protocols?"

He was silent for a long time.

Finally, he reached out and tucked in the blanket around me.

"At least protocols won't harm you."

The tip of my repair knife faltered.

I snapped back from the memory.

In the layer revealed by the solution, half of a sharp signature emerged.

"Ethan Wheeler."

My hand trembled, and the knife point cut my fingertip.

I didn't care about the pain. I just stared at that name.

How could it be him?