Chapter 4
2179words
That vast mansion had never felt so empty and cold. The air seemed to still retain the faint, elegant fragrance that belonged to Claire, not the crisp floral scent of Rachel Morgan that he had once deliberately sought out.
He tried to numb himself with intense work, but in the meeting room, he would stare blankly at the projection screen, yet what flickered before his eyes was Claire's cold and pitying gaze at the airport.
When he returned to his apartment, he was no longer greeted with warm meals and occasional soft whispers, only an atmosphere of desolation and that phone he had smashed but later quietly picked up, now unable to power on.
"Pathological Attachment Projection."
This phrase circled in his mind day and night like a curse. For the first time, he abandoned his pride and arrogance, walked into a bookstore, lingered in front of the psychology section, and finally, almost desperately, pulled out several introductory works.
Late at night, he sat on the sofa where Claire had once sat, struggling to comprehend the professional terminology under the dim floor lamp.
The descriptions in the book were like a cruel mirror, reflecting the so-called "love" he had deluded himself with for the past three years. He recalled the flutter in his heart when he first met Claire, which indeed stemmed from that fleeting glimpse of a similar profile.
He remembered how he had unconsciously guided her clothing choices, her preferences, taking her to restaurants "she liked," giving her "appropriate" gifts... He thought it was love, that he was caring for her, but only now did he understand he had been molding her according to a template in his memory, creating a more perfect "substitute."
He remembered Claire's occasional resistance and confusion, which he had dismissed with impatience and claims that he was "doing it for her good." He recalled how she had tried to communicate multiple times, only to be interrupted by him calling her "unreasonable."
Enormous regret and shame entwined his heart like vines, constricting tighter and tighter, almost suffocating him.
For the first time, he truly realized that what he had lost wasn't just an obedient shadow, but a living, unique woman who had once tried to illuminate his dark heart with warmth.
And what caused this pain to intensify was Ethan Guthrie's presence.
Although he had cut off all previous contact methods with Claire, he couldn't control himself from learning about her life in America through various discreet channels. Fragments of information pieced together her academic success and how that man called Ethan Guthrie seemed to always be by her side.
Several blurry photos shared by others on social media platforms were like poisoned needles, stabbing his eyes with pain.
In the photos, Claire and Ethan walked side by side on Stanford's sunlit campus, attended academic forums, and even at a Chinese scholars' gathering, Ethan's hand was gentlemanly placed near her lower back. On Claire's face was a relaxed and genuine smile that he hadn't seen for a long time.
Jealousy gnawed at his rationality like a venomous snake, driving him to madness. He could barely control himself, wanting to immediately buy a plane ticket and fly over there to snatch Claire away from that gentle and refined man. But after each impulsive urge, Claire's words at the airport—"You need therapy"—would echo in his ears.
What right did he have?
Was everything he was doing now truly love, or just another, more hidden form of possessiveness?
This realization plunged him into deeper pain and helplessness. For the first time, he learned "restraint," even though this restraint was accompanied by bone-deep torment.
He began doing some clumsy, even ridiculous things: anonymously donating research funds to Claire's psychology department; arranging for someone to deliver rare academic materials that would help with her research, yet not daring to leave his name. He was like a guardian hiding in the shadows, or perhaps, a penitent.
Meanwhile, across the ocean, Claire's life was busy and fulfilling. Stanford's academic atmosphere suited her perfectly, giving her a temporary respite from her emotional wounds.
Ethan Guthrie was indeed a wonderful friend. He was knowledgeable, graceful, and offered her equal exchanges and genuine appreciation, never crossing boundaries. With him, Claire felt relaxed and respected.
But she knew clearly that no matter how good Ethan was, he could not easily fill the void that Lucas had brutally torn open.
She still had nightmares occasionally, dreaming of that locked drawer, dreaming of Lucas's furious face. Her feelings toward the child in her womb were also extremely complicated. This was a life she had decided to keep, her own flesh and blood, yet it constantly reminded her of that unbearable past.
One evening, Claire stayed late at the laboratory. By the time she returned to her rented apartment, it was already dark. She lived not far from campus, but needed to pass through a relatively secluded path. Perhaps due to fatigue lowering her vigilance after days of exhaustion, she vaguely sensed someone following behind her.
At first she thought it was just her imagination, so she quickened her pace, but the footsteps behind her also accelerated. Her heart began to race, and she instinctively reached for the pepper spray in her bag, a habit she had developed since coming to America.
Just as she was about to reach the main road with streetlights, a figure suddenly darted out from the shadows of the trees nearby and blocked her path.
It was a tall stranger wearing a hoodie, with cloudy eyes and a malicious smile.
"Hey, beautiful, alone?"
Claire stepped back in fear, gripping the spray tightly, and shouted sternly: "Stay away! I'm calling the police!"
The man approached with a leering grin. Just as Claire was about to press the spray, another figure rushed out from her side at an even faster speed, like a black lightning bolt, yanking her behind him protectively while delivering a fierce punch to the stranger's face!
The movement was fast, precise, and ruthless, carrying a reckless ferocity.
Claire was still in shock when she heard a dull thud followed by a man's cry of pain. The man with ill intentions clearly hadn't expected someone to interfere, and after getting up while cursing, he saw that his opponent wasn't someone to be trifled with and scurried away resentfully.
Under the dim yellow glow of the street lamp, Claire finally got a clear look at the person standing protectively in front of her.
It was Lucas!
He was wearing a simple black T-shirt and pants, looking travel-worn, his chest slightly heaving from his recent intense movements, the lines of his profile tense, his eyes still retaining traces of fierceness. He turned around, anxiously grabbing her shoulders, looking her up and down. "Claire! Are you okay? Are you hurt?"
His palms were burning hot, his grip still a bit too strong, but that urgency and concern were unmistakably genuine.
Claire stared at him blankly, her mind completely blank. Why was he here? When had he come to America?
"I... I'm fine," she answered instinctively, her voice still trembling.
Lucas seemed to finally breathe a sigh of relief, his tense body relaxing slightly, but he didn't let go of his grip on her. Looking at her pale, frightened face, complex emotions churned in his eyes—fear, heartache, and deep remorse.
"I'm sorry..." he spoke in a hoarse voice, with a barely noticeable tremor. "I've been worried about you being alone. I've been here for several days, but... I didn't dare to disturb you."
His words "been here for several days" suggested that he might have been following her secretly, protecting her? This realization made Claire's feelings complicated.
She pulled her hand free from his, stepped back to create distance, and spoke in a tone that had regained composure: "Thank you for stepping in just now. But Lucas, you shouldn't be here. What was between us is over."
Lucas looked at her distant demeanor, his eyes dimming. He smiled bitterly and shook his head. "I know... I know I have no right to ask for anything. I just... couldn't help myself."
He looked down at the back of his hand, where the knuckles were slightly scraped and reddened from the punch he had thrown. After a moment of silence, as if having made some kind of resolution, he raised his head and looked at her with a gaze both forthright and vulnerable.
After this encounter, Lucas didn't leave. He found a place to stay near Claire's apartment, still keeping his distance but no longer completely hiding. He would "accidentally" run into her, then silently follow her part of the way to ensure she got home safely; he would linger under the streetlights along her route when she worked late; he would even awkwardly leave fresh fruit and seemingly harmless health supplements at her door with notes saying "Take care of yourself," his handwriting still sharp but now tinged with caution.
Claire found his almost "stalker-like" behavior both frustrating and infuriating, but despite repeatedly telling him sternly to leave, he would only silently depart, only to return to his old habits the next day.
Until one time, due to consecutive sleepless nights and restlessness, combined with an infected wound on his hand, he developed a low fever and collapsed at the entrance of his temporary apartment, where the landlord found him and sent him to the hospital.
After receiving the news, Claire hesitated repeatedly, but still went to the hospital. Lucas lying on the hospital bed looked pale, his lips chapped, appearing less cold and hard than usual, and more vulnerable. When he saw her come in, his eyes instantly lit up, and he struggled to sit up.
"Don't move." Claire held him down, her tone still calm, but she handed him a glass of water.
Lucas took the water glass, his fingertips touching hers, pausing slightly. He took a sip of water, leaned back against the headboard, his gaze falling on the window outside. After a while, he finally spoke slowly, his voice hoarse:
"Claire, I know my previous behavior was terrible, like a madman. I apologize for everything." He turned his head and looked at her deeply. "Every word you said last time, I took it all in. These past few months, I've read many books, and also... secretly seen a Psychological Counseling therapist."
Claire was somewhat surprised but didn't speak, just listening quietly.
"I admit, what initially attracted me was indeed your profile, which resembled Rachel's. This I cannot deny, nor am I worthy to deny." He closed his eyes painfully. "But later, what I fell in love with was your subtle tenderness when comforting patients, the stubbornness and light in your eyes when debating psychological theories with me, and your foolishness in being willing to have dinner with me for three years despite seeing through my coldness and selfishness."
He smiled self-mockingly. "I was too stupid, too presumptuous. I imprisoned myself with an imaginary tombstone, and cruelly hurt you in the process. I mistook my guilt and obsession with the past as evidence of my love for you."
He took a deep breath, finally mentioning that name: "About Rachel Morgan... I want to tell you something, things you might not know. Later on... she wasn't doing well, and what was between us was far from the perfect picture you might imagine. She suffered from severe depression, and in the later stages... she would even harm herself and those around her in extreme ways. My memories are mixed with many complicated emotions—guilt, regret, and anger at my inability to save her... These emotions distorted me, making me see you as a lifeline for redemption, but I almost dragged you into the abyss with me."
His confession had no flowery words, it was even somewhat disorganized, but the pain and sincerity behind it couldn't be faked. Claire, as a psychologist, could clearly discern that this wasn't a hastily fabricated lie, but the genuine self-disclosure of someone who had experienced intense inner struggle.
She looked at his pale, haggard face, at those eyes that were once filled with the desire for control, but now contained only humility and pleading. In a hardened corner of her heart, a tiny crack seemed to have silently appeared.
Perhaps he truly wasn't only loving that shadow anymore.
But she simply stood up in silence, tucked in his blanket, and said softly, "Rest well, and stop doing those meaningless things."
After speaking, she turned and left the hospital room. No promises, no forgiveness.
But this time, as Lucas watched her retreating figure, there was no longer despair in his eyes.
Because he had seen it—that brief moment when her eyes flashed with something other than complete coldness.
He knew that the long road of "winning back his wife" had perhaps just begun to show a faint glimmer of dawn. And he would have to use genuine change and patience to gradually reclaim her heart.
