Chapter 3
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Foster's fingers gripping my chin suddenly tightened, and those eyes, slightly hazy from alcohol, were now dangerously narrowed, sharp as if they could see right through me.
"What did you say?" his voice lowered, each word seemed to be squeezed through his teeth, carrying the oppressive feeling of an approaching storm.
The ambiguous and romantic atmosphere in the room, like smoke dispersed by a wild wind, vanished completely.
He lost interest, finally willing to release me, turned over to sit aside, coldly lighting a cigarette.
The crimson spark flickered in the dimness, the swirling smoke blurred his cold, hard profile.
I also sat up, pulled the blanket to wrap myself, as if only this could shield me from the coldness emanating from him.
Silence spread throughout the room, so oppressive it made it hard to breathe.
In the end, I spoke first, my voice trembling slightly from nervousness, yet unusually clear: "You're going to marry Miss Stewart, aren't you?"
I watched his back, like a prisoner awaiting sentencing, stubbornly pressing the question: "It's not some tactic to drive up stock prices, nor is it leverage to secure a partnership. You are truly, actually going to marry her, aren't you?"
Francis Foster took a sharp drag of his cigarette, then forcefully crushed the butt into the crystal ashtray. After a long while, he finally turned his head, those unfathomably deep eyes showing not the slightest ripple of emotion.
"I was always going to get married eventually."
This casually delivered statement hit like a sledgehammer, smashing brutally into my heart, crushing my last shred of hope into dust.
Tears burst forth from my eyes without warning.
"Then what about me?" I finally lost control of my emotions, my voice rising by octaves, "What am I to you? And these five years I've spent with you, what do they amount to?!"
"What does this have to do with you?" Francis Foster's face revealed a trace of impatience, as if my questioning was an extremely stupid question. "Marriage won't affect the relationship between us. You can still stay with me."
"Stay with you how?" I laughed bitterly at his shameless logic, tears flowing more fiercely. "As your hidden mistress? As the third wheel disrupting someone else's marriage?!"
"Francis Foster, after all these years, I can't believe you don't feel it!" I cried out almost hysterically, laying bare the deepest secret in my heart for him to see. "I like you! I love you so much! What about you? Have you ever loved me? Even just a little bit!"
The irritation on Foster's face grew increasingly intense. He stood up and looked down at me from above, as if looking at a child throwing an unreasonable tantrum.
"For us to talk about love," he tugged at his tie, the corner of his mouth curling into a cruel sneer, "don't you think that's a bit too extravagant?"
He paused, as if wanting to say something, but ultimately swallowed it back. The room fell into dead silence again, but I clearly knew what his unspoken words were.
"Back then I was just a gilded canary you kept, wasn't I?" I said it for him, each word feeling like a knife slowly slicing my heart, "As long as you paid, I would sleep with you, is that what you wanted to say?"
The old festering wound was torn open by my own hands, bringing raw, excruciating pain that left both of us suffocating in the air around us.
I got off the bed, walked barefoot to him, lifted my tear-stained face, and begged humbly for one last possibility: "But all these years, I've always loved you so much... do you really... not have even the slightest bit of affection for me?"
I reached out with trembling hands, trying to hold his hand, like a drowning person grasping for one last lifeline.
Francis Foster, however, dodged without mercy.
His hands were thrust into his pockets, his tone conveying a lofty coldness and impatience: "Jessica Johnson, stop fooling around with me. You should recognize your own position."
He raised his hand, rubbing his throbbing brow, the frustration in his eyes almost overflowing.
"I'm busy enough already, stop causing me trouble!"
He finally uttered those most hurtful words, his voice not loud, but each word cutting deep into the heart.
"Can't you just behave yourself?"
My hand was invisibly pushed away by him, left hanging stiffly in midair, my fingertips ice-cold.
At this moment, I finally switched to another perspective as an observer, seeing the true thoughts deep in his eyes.
In his world filled with business interests, family responsibilities, and endless social obligations, I, Jessica Johnson, was nothing more than a "harbor" in his busy life that could be called upon at any time to relax and unwind.
He provides me with a comfortable material life, and naturally assumes that I should be sensible, obedient, and well-behaved, offering comfort when he needs it and quietly staying in a corner when he doesn't.
My love, my tears, my questions—in his eyes, they are all just stupid "unreasonable demands" that break the rules of the game.
He simply cannot understand, and has never tried to understand, why I would "cause trouble" at this moment. Because in his heart, the balance of this relationship has been extremely tilted from the very beginning.
He turned over, lying with his back to me, declaring the end of this conversation with a resolute posture.
He may have fallen asleep, or perhaps he simply no longer wanted to deal with this "nuisance" that I am.
I don't know how much time passed before I wiped the tears from my face and slowly stood up, supporting myself on somewhat stiff knees.
I gently closed the bedroom door for him, not making the slightest sound.
Without intimacy between us, I couldn't find any reason to remain in this bedroom.
Leaning against the cold door panel, I stared into the pitch-black, empty vast living room, suddenly realizing that in this place I had lived for five years, I had nowhere to go.
So it turns out, the so-called love nest was nothing but a glamorous prison.
Now, the owner of the cage personally told me that the world outside the cage had nothing to do with me.
And I, this canary kept in a gilded cage for five years, should finally wake up.
The five-year illusion was finally burst by Francis Foster's own hand. What I thought was love turned out to be just a transaction with a clear price tag, goods exchanged for payment.
And I was the most foolish merchandise who mistakenly gave my heart away.
