“Giving them to me is dirty, but it’s fine to give them to others? Don’t tell me you still can’t let go of me. Even the condoms you bought are my favorite—strawberry flavor!”

“You think acting tough and playing hard to get will make me soften? Let me tell you—I only have Vanessa in my heart now. I’m not looking back.”

I was speechless.

Everything at home had been chosen by someone else. He never let anyone else handle it.

How was I supposed to know I’d accidentally match Julian’s taste?

“Mr. Cross, you're overthinking. This is purely a coincidence. I’ve long forgotten your preferences. Please don’t flatter yourself.”

If the Jealous King heard this, he’d absolutely throw a tantrum.

He might even launch a crusade against all strawberry-flavored products.

A flicker of disappointment crossed Julian’s eyes.

I ignored him and lowered my head, intending to pick up the scattered items.

But he suddenly lost it—he kicked the packaging box away and seized me with his shoulders.

“Arielle, why are you pretending to be strong? Back then, you scoffed at the things I gave you. Now you’re delivering condoms to make ends meet?”

“Is it because 10,000 dollars wasn’t enough? Fine. If you kneel down and beg now, even if I won’t remarry you, I might allow you to be my canary.”

I blinked, ears twitching in disbelief.

“What did you just say?”

I thought time would’ve matured him.

Turns out, he only became more arrogant—and repulsive.

Julian straightened, pride lighting his expression.

“No need to look so shocked. I don’t have any lingering feelings for you.”

“But we were husband and wife once. I don’t want you living miserably without my protection—it reflects poorly on me. I have more money than I know what to do with. Supporting one more woman is nothing.”

At that, Vanessa’s face twisted in jealousy. She quickly cut in:

“Aze, don’t be fooled. She’s baiting you into saying that.”

“Arielle knows we already have a marriage certificate, but she can’t bear to give up the Cross family fortune. That’s why she’s clinging to you again—just like before—trying to suck you dry. After all, no one’s buying her paintings…”

I turned to her coldly.

“Ms. Sinclair, watch your mouth. I’ve never taken a single penny from Julian—past, present, or future.”

“And before our divorce, you’d already spent plenty of his money. I’m sure you don’t need me to remind you.”

That million-dollar birthday bash she threw back then caused quite a stir in the city.

People gossiped, after all, because it was funded with shared marital assets.

Vanessa looked aggrieved and turned to Julian for support.

But to her surprise, he didn’t even glance her way. Instead, he looked at me, his voice heavy with unwillingness.

“Arielle, think carefully. Without me, you’re nothing. Be my canary, and I’ll give you the life of luxury you want. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?”

At that moment, I found everything utterly absurd.

So he’d never really understood me at all.

We met back in college—completely by chance.

I admired his talent in architecture, and he praised my distinctive painting style. We grew close without even noticing.

When I accepted Julian’s confession, I had no idea he was wealthy.

He hid his background, saying he just wanted to stay low-profile.

I knew he was close to Vanessa. I asked about it, and he told me they were like siblings—that I was the only one he loved.

But after the wedding, everything changed. Julian was constantly out—rarely coming home.

Then one night, he sent me a hotel address.

I thought he was drunk and needed me to pick him up.

But when I got there, I found him and Vanessa—disheveled and tangled together.

And I heard words that shattered everything.

On our anniversary, Julian even used random condoms he found to inflate three balloons for me.

Then Vanessa sent a message to mock me:

“Arielle, do the balloons made from the condoms Aze and I used look nice? He’s long since had enough of you. If you know what’s good for you, get lost.”

That was the final straw. I gave up completely and filed for divorce.

Now, thinking back, I pointed at my electric scooter and looked at Julian.

“Julian, get this straight—I’m married now, and I have a child.”

“Please don’t speak to me like that again. I don’t want my husband getting the wrong idea.”

Only then did Julian notice the child seat mounted on the back of my scooter.

He turned to me, stunned.

“You actually got remarried? And had a kid with someone else?!”

Before I could answer, he suddenly let out a scornful laugh.

“Arielle, this is all a show, isn’t it? You just want to see my reaction. You think I don’t know how delivery workers operate now? That baby seat is probably just for helping customers with their kids, right?”

“You’re a divorced woman with no real skills. Who else but me would’ve been kind enough to want a second-hand good like you?”

His voice was dripping with contempt.

The boy who once sat under the campus corridor, gazing at me tenderly and promising I’d become a world-famous painter—had completely vanished.

Maybe all those sweet words were just lies.

After all, he once said Vanessa was his true love.

I was merely a distraction, something to pass the time while he figured himself out.

As the elders say—there’s no need to explain yourself to people who don’t matter.

I raised an eyebrow.

“That has nothing to do with you.”

Just as I was about to walk past, Vanessa stepped in front of me with a mocking smile.

“Arielle, didn’t I make myself clear? Imperial Crest Manor is a luxury community. Poor people like you aren’t allowed in.”

“But if you really want to enter, fine. I heard one resident’s kid smeared poop all over the public restroom walls. The cleaning lady’s on leave, so you can go clean it up.”

“And while you’re at it, why not paint something on the walls? They’re a bit dull. I’ll even pay you 30,000 dollars. Better than delivering takeout, right?”

Julian chimed in as well.

“Arielle, Vanessa’s being generous. Don’t be ungrateful. No one buys your awful paintings anyway.”

I didn’t expect people could be this shameless.

“Since you two have such talkative mouths, why not put them to better use and lick the toilet clean yourselves? Keep your 30,000 and buy some mouthwash—you’ll need it to stop stinking up the place.”

Just last month, a European duke offered to trade two of his castles for one of my paintings—but I declined.

Is my art bad?

What a joke.

Hearing my retort, Manager Holloway immediately charged me.

“How dare you insult Mr. and Mrs. Cross like that? You must be tired of living!”

During the shoving, someone nearby shouted, holding up their phone:

“Wait! Stop making a scene. My friend just texted—he saw the international boss’s car coming from the hotel. His son’s in it!”

“Julian, Arielle insists on going in, but with a mouth like hers? She might scare the kid. What if the boss complains to his father? If he pulls out of the deal, that’s a disaster.”

“Exactly! She’s just a delivery worker. Let her go in. Don’t risk the cooperation just because of her.”

With Julian’s silent approval, Manager Holloway gave me a hard shove—

and pushed me inside.

“You’re just a low-class nobody, and you dare set foot in Imperial Crest Manor? Get out immediately after dropping off your things. If you offend any of the elites here, you’ll die without even knowing how.”

I had worked up a sweat struggling just now. I took off my coat and snorted coldly.

“You don’t need to worry about me.”

Just as I took two steps forward, Julian suddenly blocked my path. His eyes were bloodshot as they fixed on my chest.

“Arielle, I told you the day we divorced—I don’t love you anymore.”

“So why tattoo my initials on your chest? Are you still that obsessed with me? Get it through your head—I’ll never get back together with you!”

I paused, then glanced down at the tattoo on my chest: capital letters “YZ.”

Only then did I realize—my son’s father shares the same initials as the last two characters of Julian’s name.

Annoyed, I cursed under my breath. It was all that guy’s fault.

He once said that tattooing your partner’s name meant you’d meet again in the next life, so he begged me to do it with him.

In the end, he couldn’t bear to see me in pain, so I only got his initials, while he tattooed my full name.

That little gesture was now causing a major misunderstanding.

I awkwardly opened my mouth to explain,

“Uh, this isn’t—”

But Vanessa cut in, fuming.

“Arielle, do you think a tattoo of Aze’s name is going to win him back?”

“Just a few days ago on Valentine’s Day, Aze had my face tattooed over his heart. I’m the only one he loves. Don’t embarrass yourself!”

To prove her point, Julian unbuttoned his shirt and revealed a tattoo of Vanessa’s face.

With a cold tone, he said,

“My body and soul belong to Vanessa. Arielle, do yourself a favor—get that tattoo removed and stop humiliating yourself.”

If I weren’t in such a hurry, I might’ve asked who his tattoo artist was—the work wasn’t bad.

But my son was already on his way. He probably missed me.

And once he shows up, how was I supposed to comfort my easily-jealous husband if the little guy became a third wheel?

I didn’t have time to waste on Julian’s fantasies and quickly hurried inside.

Just then, the guard room's speaker blared:

“Attention, residents. During today’s anti-prostitution operation conducted by the city’s public security bureau, a suspect escaped by disguising herself. The woman is HIV-positive and harbors strong resentment toward society. She has been infiltrating upscale communities dressed as delivery people to deliberately spread the virus. If you notice anything suspicious, please report immediately…”

The next moment, all eyes turned to me.

Julian’s face filled with disbelief.

“Arielle, I didn’t think you’d fall so low after losing me... You’ve become a prostitute?”

Vanessa’s gaze shifted, and she pointed at the red rash on my arm—just an allergic reaction from two days ago—and shouted:

“I’ve seen AIDS patients in the hospital. Arielle’s symptoms are identical!”

“Security! Hurry and catch her! Don’t let this maniac hurt our residents!”

Several security guards rushed toward me and knocked me to the ground with a violent kick.

I glared at Vanessa and said through clenched teeth,

“You’re slandering me! I’ll sue you for defamation!”

Vanessa sneered.

“I just noticed—there’s no delivery label on your shopping bag, and your uniform is fake. You show up at a luxury community like Imperial Crest Manor in the middle of the night with a bunch of condoms. If you’re not selling yourself, what else could you possibly be doing?”

“I came here to find my husband. He’s the international real estate tycoon you’ve been talking about—Sebastian Ward!”

A few seconds passed in silence.

Then, the entire crowd erupted in laughter.

“Did I hear that right? Arielle claims her husband is Boss Ward? She’s clearly sick—her brain’s fried too.”