Chapter 3
But Cyrille Salvastre held me back.
"I'll pick you up tonight," he said.
"It's okay, I can get home myself..." I replied.
"I'll pick you up," he repeated, his voice firm.
I had no choice but to nod.
Only when his car disappeared from sight did I finally breathe a sigh of relief.
When I'm with Cyrille, it always feels like there's a weight on my chest—I can barely breathe.
'This guy is way too overbearing,' I thought.
As soon as I walked into the office, my colleague came over.
"Nikki, did you hear? Yverson's childhood sweetheart tried to kill herself on the rooftop of their company yesterday. Yverson played the hero and saved her, and now it's all over the local news," she said.
She handed me her phone.
The headline was hard to miss: [Local Hero Saves Girlfriend Battling Depression].
The photo showed Yverson holding Winnie, her tear-streaked face pressed against his chest, looking heartbreakingly fragile.
Yverson's face was etched with concern and anxiety.
As I stared at the photo, a chill swept through my chest.
'So that's why he ditched me yesterday—to put on this grand show of heroism and deep devotion,' I thought.
'What a joke,' I muttered to myself.
That afternoon, I got a call from an unknown number.
It was Winnie.
"Nikola, did you and Yver have a fight?" Her voice sounded frail, almost timid, as she tried to sound me out.
I wasn't in the mood to play along with her drama.
"What do you want?" I said, keeping it short.
My chilly tone seemed to make Winnie stumble, like she didn't know how to respond.
"I... I just wanted to explain. Yesterday was really just an accident," she said, her voice shaky.
"Yver didn't mean to ditch you. I was just... really messed up emotionally," she continued softly.
"So please, don't blame him, okay?" she asked, almost begging.
She kept calling him "Yver" like it was second nature, all sweet and close.
I gave a sarcastic laugh.
"Winnie, save that routine for Yverson. No need to put on a show for me," I said.
"I know exactly what kind of person you are," I added.
There was silence on the other end.
After a long pause, her voice returned—this time, all the fake fragility was gone.
"Nikola, who do you think you are to say that to me?" she snapped.
"You're just some old spinster nobody wants, and you only met Yver because of a blind date!" she sneered.
"If I hadn't been abroad getting treatment these past few years, you think you'd even stand a chance?" she scoffed.
"Yver loves me—he always has!" she shouted.
I just listened calmly as she ranted on the other end.
If this had happened yesterday, her words might have actually hurt.
But now, all I hear is pointless noise.
"Are you done?" I asked.
"If you are, I'm hanging up."
"You!" Winnie snapped, her voice shaking with rage. "Nikola, don't get too smug! Yver will come back to me sooner or later—just you wait!"
I hung up and blocked her number.
Finally, the world was quiet again.
Just as I was about to get off work, Yverson unexpectedly showed up at my company.
He was blocking the entrance, and as soon as he saw me come out, he rushed over and grabbed my wrist.
"Nikola, tell me—what's the deal with your husband?" he demanded.
His grip was so strong, it made my wrist ache.
"Let go!" I struggled, trying to break free.
"I'm not letting go until you tell me what's going on with your husband!" Yverson demanded.
All my colleagues were staring at us.
I felt a wave of embarrassment wash over me.
"Yverson, there's nothing between us anymore. My life is no concern of yours," I said coldly.
"Nothing between us?" Yverson scoffed, like it was some kind of joke. "We were about to get married yesterday! And now you just say it's over, just like that?"
"You were the one who walked away," I retorted.
"I had my reasons!" he shouted. "Winnie can't survive without me, but you're so strong—you can just move on and keep dating, right? Why can't you try to understand me for once?"
I cut him off.
"Enough!" I snapped.
"Yverson, get it through your head—you're the one who walked away from our marriage, not me," I said, my voice icy.
While we were in the middle of our heated argument, a sleek black Bentley suddenly pulled up right in front of us.
The window slid down, and Cyrille's icy, sharp features appeared.
He took one look at Yverson gripping my wrist, and his face turned stormy.
"Let her go!" Cyrille's voice cut through the air, cold and sharp.
Yverson was caught off guard for a moment when he saw Cyrille.
"Wait, you're that guy..." Yverson stammered.
"I'm her husband," Cyrille repeated, his tone icy. "Let her go. Now."
Yverson didn't let go—in fact, his grip on my wrist got even tighter.
He gave Cyrille a challenging glare.
"This is between me and her. It's none of your damn business," Yverson sneered at him.
Cyrille unbuckled his seatbelt and got out of the car.
He walked right up to us, his height giving him a commanding presence as he looked down at Yverson.