Daryl's face changed.

“Cicely, that's not what I meant——”

“I don't care what you meant. You called the police and said I committed fraud. That's already done. You've been enduring me a long time? Well, I've been enduring you just as long. Perfect.”

He stood up, walked over, and crouched in front of me, looking up at my face.

Two years of marriage, and every time he wanted something from me, this was the pose.

The first time was the proposal. The second was getting my father to invest in his project. The third was when his father's company ran out of cash.

Now the fourth.

“Cicely, I was wrong. I was really wrong.”

“No, you weren't.” I looked down at him. “Everything you said was true. I do spend money all day. I do take advantage of you. You couldn't stand it anymore. That's perfectly normal.”

“That's not what I——”

“Then why did you call the police?”

He had nothing to say to that.

I stood up. He followed, reaching for my hand. I pulled away.

“I'll have my lawyer draft the agreement. That shared payment account you've been using—cancel it today. The company seal and the legal representative status are both under my name. You don't need to worry about any of it. Just pack your things and go.”

“What about the company?” he finally asked.

“The company has nothing to do with you. My father funded it. The legal representative and the accounts are both in my name.”

“But I——”

“You what? How much did you actually contribute? Daryl, that project of yours—from approval to launch, which part wasn't your father begging my father to make happen? What did you do yourself?”

His face went red.

I looked at him and suddenly found him boring. I used to think he was good-looking, knew how to talk, the kind of man you were proud to have on your arm.

Now? Just another face.

“I'm giving you three days.”

I picked up my phone and headed for the master bedroom.

He grabbed my wrist.

“Cicely, you really want to do this?”

“Do what?”

“Aren't you afraid of what people will say——”

“Say what? That you married into my family, spent my family's money, and then called the police on me? Are you really sure I'm the one who should be embarrassed?”

His grip loosened.

I went into the bedroom and shut the door.

Half an hour later, my parents arrived.

My mother started shouting the second she walked in：“Where's Daryl? Get him out here!”

Daryl came out of the study, white as a sheet.

My father sat on the couch, legs crossed, watching him.

“Daryl. Tell me what happened.”

Daryl stood there, mouth opening and closing, and finally managed：“Dad, I was confused.”

“Don't call me that.” My father's voice was quiet, but cold. “When you signed the agreement, you said you'd treat Cicely well. It's been two years, and you called the police to have her arrested?”

“I didn't mean to call the police, it was my secretary——”

“She's your secretary, not some hitman you hired. She does what you tell her. What's your point?”

Daryl went silent.

My mother turned to me：“Are you alright?”

“I'm fine.”

“Where's the dress? Let me see it.”

I blinked, caught off guard.

My mother shot me a look：“A six-hundred-dollar dress and you couldn't just buy it? You had to swipe his card?”

“It's Dad's card——”

“Your father's card is your card. Now explain—did Daryl stop you from using it, or did you just refuse to?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it again.

Daryl stood there with his head down, like a schoolkid caught misbehaving.

My mother walked right up to him.

“How much do you make in a month? Where does the money you spend come from? Have you ever bought your wife a single piece of clothing?”

Daryl said nothing.

“Whose house are you living in? Whose car are you driving? Who gave you that position at the company?”

Daryl's lips moved. Nothing came out.

“I asked you a question!” My mother's voice went up a notch.

“It was……Dad gave it to me.”

“And you called the police on my daughter?”

“I didn't——”

“You didn't call them? Then who did, a ghost?”

Daryl shut his mouth for good.

My father stood up.

“Three days. You have three days to get out. The house, the car, the company——all of it comes back. Don't like it? Sue me. I'll be right here.”

Daryl lifted his head, looked at my father, then at me.

His eyes were red.

I didn't look at him.

My mother pulled me into the bedroom and shut the door.

“Good riddance. I never liked him.”

“Why didn't you say so earlier?”

“Would you have listened? Back then you thought he hung the moon. Like I could've stopped you.”

I said nothing.

My mother pulled out her phone and started showing me photos.

“This one is Minnie Chavez's son. Came back from the States, works in finance. And this one is Uncle Li's nephew, started his own company——”

“Mom, I'm barely divorced.”

“Exactly why you need to start planning ahead.”

I stared at her, caught somewhere between laughing and crying.

The front door opened and closed.

Daryl was gone.

I opened the bedroom door. My father was still sitting in the living room.

“He left?” I asked.

“He left.” My father looked at me. “You're sure about this?”

“I'm sure.”

“Then get it done.”

Three days later, Daryl came back to collect his things.

He hired movers. They packed two boxes.

I stood in the doorway and watched.

When everything was loaded, he stood on the sidewalk below and looked up at me.

I didn't go downstairs.

He stood there for a while, then turned and left.

The lawyer sent over the signed agreement while I was eating dinner with my mother.

“He signed?”

“He signed.”

“Good. Clean and quick.”

My mother placed a spare rib on my plate.

“So, how about meeting Minnie's son?”

“Mom——”

“Just a meeting. Nobody's making you marry him.”

I gritted my teeth.

“Fine.”

The next afternoon, I was sitting in a café.

Across from me was a man in glasses and a white dress shirt, speaking in an unhurried, measured tone.

“Ms. Henson, Minnie has told me about you.”

“What did she say?”

“That you're exceptional.”

I gave a polite smile.

He slid a business card across the table.

“I'm a financial analyst at a major investment bank. Salary's around four hundred thousand a year. My parents are both back home, retired, fully covered by insurance and savings. They don't need me to support them.”

I picked up the card and glanced at it.

“If you're that much of a catch, why do you need a blind date?”

He smiled.

“Too busy for dating. And.”

He paused.

“I don't want someone who's too materialistic.”

I set the card down.

“Do you think I'm materialistic?”

“Not at all.”

“Then you're wrong. I'm very materialistic.”

He froze.

I stood up.

“Sorry, I have somewhere to be.”

Outside the café, I texted my mother：Not a match.

She replied instantly：How is he not a match?

I thought for a second, then typed two words：Too pretentious.

After I got in the car, a text came in from an unknown number.

“Cicely, I was wrong. Can we talk?”

Daryl.

I deleted the message and blocked his number.

Halfway home, Gloria Fox called.

“I heard you got divorced?”

“Word travels fast.”

“Drinks tonight? My treat.”

“Sure.”

Ten o'clock. I walked into the bar, and Gloria already had a glass going.

“Come on, sit down.”

I sat. She poured me a drink.

“Daryl Whitney, that piece of trash. I never could stand him.”

“You couldn't stand him either, even back then?”

“Who could? Out there every day playing big shot, then coming home for you to wait on him hand and foot. He's nothing.”

I took a sip.

“Forget it. Let's not talk about him.”

“Right. No more talking. Just drinking.”

Halfway through the bottle, Gloria leaned in close.

“Hey, I want to tell you something.”

“Go ahead.”

“You remember the VP at my company? Grant James?”

“Yeah. What about him?”

“He asked me for your WhatsApp.”

My hand froze mid-pour.

“What does he want my WhatsApp for?”

“What do you think? He likes you.”

“He's seen me?”

“Yeah. Last time you came to the office to find me, he ran into you in the elevator. Came right back and asked me who the gorgeous woman was.”

I thought about it. Couldn't even remember anyone else being in the elevator.

“What does he look like?”

Gloria pulled up a photo and showed me.

Not bad. Big eyes, dimples when he smiled.

“Two years younger than you. Family's in building materials. Not crazy rich, but not hurting either. Good guy. No pretenses.”

“How do you know he's not pretending?”

“I've worked with the man for three years. You think I can't tell?”

I didn't say anything.

Gloria pushed his contact card straight to me.

“Add him or don't. Either way, one more friend never hurts.”

Back home, I showered and lay in bed, the glow of the contact card Gloria had sent still on my screen. I stared at it for a while, then added him.

He accepted instantly.

“Cicely?”

“Mm.”

“I'm Grant.”

“I know.”

“Gloria gave me your WhatsApp. Hope you don't mind.”

“I don't.”

Then his side went quiet for about two minutes.

I was about to put my phone down when another message came through.

“Are you free Saturday? I want to take you out for a meal.”

I thought for a second, then typed：“What time?”

“Whatever works for you.”

“Noon.”

“Done. I'll send you the address.”

Saturday. When I got to the restaurant, Grant was already there.

He stood up. Black jacket, hair a little shorter than in his photo.

“Been waiting long?”

“No, I just got here too.”

He pulled out a chair for me.

Handed me the menu first.

“Go ahead and order. I'll eat anything.”

I picked a few dishes and gave the menu back.

He added a soup and a dessert.

“How'd you know I have a sweet tooth?”

“Gloria told me.”

“What else did she tell you?”

“That you like spicy food, hate cilantro, only drink lattes, and won't touch bitter melon.”

I laughed.

“You two are pretty close, huh.”

“She's my boss. I don't have a choice.”

He didn't talk much over the meal, but there were no lulls either—work, movies, a book he'd been reading.

I asked which book. He said 《One Hundred Years of Solitude》.

“Did you actually understand it?”

“Not really. But Gloria said guys who read it seem cultured.”

My chopsticks paused.

“You're honest, I'll give you that.”

“No point faking it. You'd figure it out sooner or later.”

I looked at him and thought of the JPMorgan analyst from a couple of days ago. Really not the same at all.

After the meal, he walked me to my car.

“Next time's on me,” I said.

“Sure. I'll wait for your message.”