Chapter 3

Charles pulled me close and, in one swift move, sidestepped out of her way.

Emily missed entirely. Her heel caught, and she landed with a heavy, sickening thud right on the cold marble floor. Her designer white coat was instantly smeared with dust, leaving her utterly disheveled.

A few bystanders couldn't help but let out muffled snickers.

Charles didn't even grant her a glance. His eyes were cold, like he was looking at a pile of worthless junk. "I know my girl better than anyone," he said. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a weight that demanded total silence. "As for you, Ms. Lane..."

He shifted his gaze to Emily's pale face. "I heard your solo exhibition is set to open at the Capital City Art Museum next month?"

Emily froze, and then a flicker of hope and relief crossed her face. She thought Charles was interested—that he was giving her a way out to save face.

Adam immediately seized the moment, desperate to show off. "You've heard of Emily, Mr. Foster? She's the most promising young artist in the country. The museum actually reached out to her for this exhibition."

He looked incredibly smug, as if he'd already reclaimed his dignity in front of Charles by association.

Charles let out a faint, almost cruel smirk. "Is that so?"

He spoke deliberately, every word cutting like a chilled blade. "I just had my legal team do a little digging. Your award-winning piece from the Falora Young Artist Competition three years ago, Dreamscape? Its composition and color palette have a ninety-percent similarity to a piece called Night Sea, published five years ago by an obscure Falora painter named Pierre Dubois."

The color drained from Emily's face instantly. She looked like her bones had been turned to water; she slumped onto the floor, shaking like a leaf in the wind.

Plagiarism was a death sentence for an artist.

Charles didn't look back at her. Instead, he leaned down and gently adjusted my collar, his voice softening so much he sounded like a completely different person. "Let's go inside," he said. "Don't let these nobodies spoil our view."

Adam's face went from flushed red to pale. He opened his mouth, trying to protest, but Charles shut him down with an icy glare. "Say one more word, and you're fired."

Adam clamped his mouth shut, like someone had him by the throat—he couldn't utter a word.

I kept my arm linked with Charles' as we walked past them, not even bothering to give them a second glance.

So, this was what it felt like to have someone truly have your back. It turned out that watching your enemies dig their own graves was incredibly satisfying. At that moment, the three years of foolish love I'd wasted on Adam was finally dead and gone.

After dinner, Charles drove me back to my parents' place.

The meal at The Serenity Room had been exquisite, but I hadn't eaten much. My stomach felt hollow, as if the drama of this Christmas Eve had drained me completely.

The car's heater was humming, and Charles handed me a takeaway cup of hot mulled cider. "This should help you settle," he said softly, his tone full of comfort.

I held the cup with both hands, taking small sips. The spicy warmth slid down my throat, finally taking the edge off the winter chill. He didn't pry into my history with Adam; he just drove in a comfortable silence.

Just as we were about to reach my parents' place, he finally spoke. "Back when I first saw your painting, I actually went to the university to ask about you," he said. "That's when I learned you were dating Adam."

"I had planned to give him a run for his money and win you over fairly." He paused, a hint of regret bleeding into his voice. "But an emergency came up with my family, and I had to go abroad immediately to handle it. By the time I got back, you were already married."

My heart felt like it had been stung.

I thought back to the three years of my marriage—how Adam never remembered my period, never even brought me a glass of water when I was sick. He was always "busy"—busy networking, busy climbing the corporate ladder, or busy pouring his heart out to his "soulmate," Emily, while I was left alone in that chilly house, waiting for him day after day.

My eyes began to sting with tears.

Charles sensed my shift in mood and didn't push. He pulled the car smoothly to a stop in front of my building and unbuckled his seatbelt, but he didn't rush me to get out. He just sat there in the quiet, giving me the breathing room I so desperately needed. His thoughtfulness nearly brought me to tears.

Suddenly, a pair of blinding headlights cut through the dark. A BMW roared up and swerved to a halt, blocking us. It was Adam.

He lunged out of his car, his eyes bloodshot like a raged beast. He began pounding on Charles' window, looking completely unhinged. "Susan, get out here right now!" he roared. "You slut! What did you say to Mr. Foster? Are you trying to ruin me?"

He blamed Emily's scandal and his own humiliation in front of Charles on me.

I was shaking with rage. I reached for the door handle, ready to get out to give him a piece of my mind, but Charles caught my hand. "Stay here," he said firmly. "He isn't worth your time."

Charles stepped out of the car with total composure. Standing at six-foot-two, he looked as steady as a rock, his powerful presence immediately filling the space. Just by standing there, he made a frantic, screaming Adam look like a pathetic clown.

Seeing Charles—his face a hundred times more handsome, his physique through his tailored shirt far more fit—Adam's jealousy and insecurity finally made him lose his cool entirely.

He lashed out with the most vile words he could find. "Mr. Foster, you're actually interested in my hand-me-downs? She's nothing but a washed-up housewife who smells like grease and groceries. Aside from cooking, she's absolutely worthless."

His words were like poisoned daggers aimed straight at my heart. I sat in the car, trembling with fury, as tears blurred my vision.

But Charles smiled. His smile was faint, but it carried a bone-chilling coldness.

He opened the car door, took off his expensive cashmere overcoat, and draped it gently over my shoulders, pulling me into a firm embrace. Right in front of Adam, he leaned down and kissed my forehead, as if I were the most cherished one in his world.

His voice was quiet, but every word was crystal clear, dripping with possessiveness and utter contempt for Adam. "She isn't anyone's hand-me-down," he said. "She's my future wife—the woman I've watched over for three years. Adam, what you tossed aside is the treasure I've always dreamed of holding close."