Chapter 13
955words
On the contrary, he was like an inescapable ghost, stubbornly infiltrating my life in a new way that felt strange to me.
The next morning, just as I walked out of my apartment building, I saw an elegantly packaged breakfast placed next to the security booth at the entrance.
It was my favorite crab meat soup dumplings from an old established restaurant downtown, accompanied by a cup of warm soy milk. There was no signature, no note of any kind.
But I knew it was from him.
From that day forward, this never-late breakfast became a fixed part of my daily routine before leaving home.
He no longer spoke with a commanding tone as he used to, summoning me at will. He became cautious, even somewhat... awkward.
He would park that eye-catching black Bentley in an inconspicuous corner across from my company, waiting from the time I started work until I finished.
He kept his distance, never disturbing me, just watching from afar. Like a silent, solitary sentinel.
Sometimes, I would feel a burning gaze on my back, and when I turned around, I could always catch his eyes filled with complex emotions before he hastily looked away.
Once, Shanghai was hit by a sudden downpour. Without an umbrella, I stood under the eaves of the company building, staring worriedly at the torrential rain. A black car silently pulled up in front of me, the window rolled down to reveal Francis Foster's distinctly chiseled face.
"Get in, I'll take you," his voice was somewhat hoarse.
I shook my head and turned to run toward the subway station.
He suddenly got out of the car, disregarding the pouring rain, and pushed a black umbrella into my hands, then turned around without a word, allowing the cold rain to instantly soak through his expensive suit.
He just stood there in the rain, looking at me, his eyes filled with an unyielding stubbornness.
In the end, I didn't get into his car. I held that umbrella and quickly walked into the subway station, leaving him and his lonely car behind in the curtain of rain.
His actions made me feel irritated, resistant, and even somewhat disgusted.
But I had to admit, he was like a stone thrown into a calm lake surface, easily disturbing the inner order I had struggled to establish.
Meanwhile, Vincent Wells was also transferred back to the Shanghai headquarters from the southern city.
He became the head of another branch company, with no direct supervisor-subordinate relationship with me, but this only allowed him to pursue me more freely.
His pursuit was completely different from Francis Foster's intensity and obsession, it was a gentle tenderness that moistened silently like a spring rain.
At work, as a friend, he would provide me with valuable industry information and network resources, helping me establish myself more quickly in the new department; on weekends, he would invite me to a concert, or to see a niche art exhibition, and we always had endless topics to discuss; he would remember all my preferences, remember that I don't eat cilantro, remember that I like lattes with three portions of sugar.
With him, I felt relaxed, at ease, and respected.
I felt like a vibrant, thinking individual, rather than an accessory that needed to be attached to someone else to exist.
These two completely different kinds of love were like two opposing ocean currents, carrying me in between, making me feel suffocated at times and warm at others.
Finally, on an ordinary Friday night, these two currents collided head-on.
Vincent Wells invited me to dine at a newly opened, elegant French restaurant. The melodious violin music, flickering candlelight, aromatic red wine... everything was just perfect. I knew that tonight, he might be planning to formally confess his feelings to me.
However, shortly after we sat down, the restaurant door was pushed open, and a tall, familiar figure walked in.
It was Francis Foster.
He apparently hadn't expected to encounter us here either. Upon seeing Vincent and me sitting across from each other, chatting happily in the candlelight, the expression on his face instantly froze.
He didn't leave. Instead, under the waiter's guidance, he sat down alone in a corner not far from us.
The atmosphere of the entire restaurant, at that moment, became incredibly strange.
Foster didn't look at us. He simply ordered a bottle of the strongest whiskey in silence and drank one glass after another.
But I could clearly feel his gaze—filled with pain, jealousy, and mad possessiveness—locking onto me like an invisible searchlight, making me feel extremely uncomfortable.
Vincent Wells obviously sensed this powerful tension as well. He put down his knife and fork, wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin, and maintaining his good manners, said to me gently: "Jessica, don't mind him, let's just enjoy our meal."
He took a deep breath, seemingly preparing to continue with tonight's main topic.
He looked into my eyes, about to speak.
Francis Foster suddenly stood up.
Holding his wine glass, he walked straight to our table and looked down at us.
He didn't look at Vincent Wells, his gaze fixed firmly on me, then he drained the glass of whiskey in his hand in one gulp and slammed the empty glass down hard on the table.
The "bang" sound was particularly jarring amid the melodious violin music.
"Jessica Johnson," he looked at me, enunciating each word, his voice as raspy as if scraped with sandpaper, "come out, I need to talk to you."
His tone was no longer commanding, but rather a plea bordering on desperation.
