12
The dappled light fell on his face, looking just like the boy I’d met when I was nineteen.
He’d wait for me quietly in the studio, moonlight spilling onto his young face.
I only glanced at him, then looked away.
Antoine saw me and enthusiastically greeted me.
“Quinn, I’m so happy to see your painting rank first!”
“I think they’ll announce you as this year’s Best Female Artist very soon!”
“I’d love to ask for your advice on my own artwork.”
I raised my glass, nodded, and left with him, arm in arm.
I didn’t notice Julian following closely behind me.
By the time I finished discussing the manuscript at Antoine’s studio, it was already midnight.
He leaned against a streetlamp, silently watching me.
I’d had enough of his gaze. I walked over proactively. “How about we sit down for a drink?”
Inside the coffee shop, he remained silent for a long time before finally speaking. “Did you receive my letters?”
I nodded, taking a sip of my coffee. “I did. So what?”
A flicker of light crossed his eyes. “I was wrong back then. The baby… the baby was my fault. Can you forgive me?”
This was the first time he’d sat down to talk properly with me since our child died.
When the baby died, I stayed confined at home for three months. I once gave him a chance.
On the anniversary of our baby’s death, I called him. “Should we talk?”
From the phone, I heard the sounds of men and women toasting. He impatiently hung up.
5:23 AM 04
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On the anniversary of our baby’s death, I called him. “Should we talk?”
From the phone, I heard the sounds of men and women toasting. He impatiently hung up.
“What’s there to talk about? You just want to call me a murderer, don’t you? Do you think I wanted that? I have nothing to
say to you.”
After that, we never really sat down and talked.
Then came his endless affairs, pushing my boundaries again and again, until he completely eroded all the affection we had from our youth.
I raised my hand and checked my watch. “Oh, is that all you wanted to say? I don’t forgive you!”
I extended my injured arm. Even with foundation covering it, the marks were still visible.
“Julian, how can you possibly think a simple ‘I’m sorry‘ will make me forgive you? Look at the scars on my body; they’re still there after three years. How can you possibly think the wounds in my heart will heal?”
“How can you possibly think I could still love you after you killed my child, destroyed my career, and harmed my body?
Julian, do you really think that highly of yourself?”
Soon, an extended limo pulled up outside. It was Riley; she had chased after me, worried something had happened.
I got into Riley’s car without a single glance back at Julian.
Half a month later, news of me winning International Best Female Artist reached home.
Upon hearing it, Julian set off fireworks across the city, a promise he had made to me when he was 20.
Back then, I had gazed at the stars and told the boy whose eyes were solely on me, “I will definitely become the most amazing international artist! If I succeed, I want you to set off fireworks for me across the entire city!”
Now, we had both fulfilled our promises.
Except the first press conference I attended back home, I was holding Antoine’s hand.
Everyone was whispering that I would become the wife of the heir to the world’s largest luxury goods empire.
I smiled, saying nothing. After all, life is long, and I wasn’t ready to enter marriage again.
And Julian, witnessing this scene, clutching a photo of our child, leaped from the eighteenth floor.
Only after his death did I learn that he had been suffering from bipolar disorder for many years, ever since our child died.
Because of that accident, we had both tormented each other for so many years.
A soft sigh, lost to the wind.
Julian, let’s never cross paths again, not in this life or the next.
Xertonlay
