Chapter 3
My whole body trembled violently. I couldn't believe it. The future could actually be changed!
I hurriedly grabbed my pen and flipped open the love letter. The newest line said: [Mrs. Summers really got into trouble. Thank you for warning me. I managed to protect Anna, kept her hand safe, and saved her dream. But... Mrs. Summers didn't make it, anyway.]
My fingers trembled. There was just no way to guard against Rachel's schemes.
No matter how many times I tried, my mother's fate always ended the same way.
I couldn't save her.
Just thinking about how 30-year-old Michael gazed at Rachel with such tenderness made my heart feel nothing but numbness from all the pain.
Without hesitating, I pressed on.
I wrote: [Would you save Anna one more time?]
[How?]
[Just keep your distance. Let her be. That way, she won't end up betrayed by the future you or left wounded and scarred all over.]
[No way!] His handwriting was neat and determined. [When I was a freshman in high school, Anna was bullied, so I skipped class and taught that guy a lesson. After that, no one at school ever dared to bother her again.]
He went on: [Anna never liked the school breakfast, so I learned to cook. I tried new recipes for her every morning. Every extra bite she took just made me so happy.]
He added: [I know I love her, and I'd never betray her, not ever.]
Every word from 18-year-old Michael pulled me right back to those precious moments of my youth.
But now, it was all in the past. What I had with the 30-year-old Michael was beyond repair, completely shattered.
My eyes welled up, and I let out a choked sob.
Suddenly, 18-year-old Michael asked, "Why are you crying again?"
I blinked, caught off guard. "Wait... you can actually hear me now?"
"Yes," he replied. "I can hear you."
I glanced down. When did my fingertips brush the pen? Ink was already smearing across my skin.
He spoke in a low voice, "So... you're Anna from the future?"
"Yeah," I replied.
He sounded hurt and confused. "Why won't you let me love you? Don't you know how much you mean to me?"
My lips twitched. I was just about to say something when a phone call rang out, abruptly cutting off our conversation.
As soon as I picked up, 30-year-old Michael's voice came through, crisp and commanding.
He said, "Anna, I've sent you the location. Be at the restaurant in ten minutes."
Then he hung up without waiting for a reply.
Eighteen-year-old Michael kept waiting for my reply, but when none came, his love letter ended up packed from top to bottom with confessions—every inch a testament to how deeply he cared.
The last line read: [I'm sorry. I don't want to be without you. I still want to tell you how I feel.]
I lowered my eyes and carefully put away the pen and paper, slipping them into my pocket.
Alright then, I'd let him hear for himself all the crap 30-year-old he actually said.
As I stepped into the private room, I saw Michael gently wiping some cream off the corner of Rachel's mouth with his finger.
The whole room was filled with teasing remarks and laughter. As soon as Michael saw me enter, he quickly withdrew his hand and said in a slightly embarrassed tone, "We were playing Truth or Dare. I lost, so I had to help Rachel wipe the cream from her mouth."
"Hm." I slipped my hand into my pocket and felt for the pen.
Glancing over at 30-year-old Michael, I asked, "So, why did you call me here?"
Michael's eyes went cold. "I called you here so you could pay for what you did. Six years ago, you went to the cops and framed Rachel for your mother's murder, throwing her right into the center of that witch hunt.
"The Summers family never held it against you, but what you did left a shadow on Rachel's heart. It messed her up. She's been battling depression ever since. And today, on her birthday, she just wants one thing from you— an apology."
I couldn't help but laugh bitterly to myself.
So he'd known I went to the cops about my mom's murder all along, huh? Turns out, he and the Summers family were both putting on the same act—pretending not to know a thing, making me think I was in the dark.
And I'd actually wasted my energy worrying he'd stand up for me. Like he'd ever mess with trouble just for me.
Guess I was just overthinking it. Nobody asked me to care.
I lazily lifted my eyes at Michael. "What if I told you I didn't frame her? Every word was the truth."
Michael let out a mocking chuckle, his gaze colder than ice.
"Rachel said it herself. You turned everyone against her and left her shivering in a T-shirt during winter. That's undeniable. So apologize now. Otherwise, don't blame me for what happens next," he warned, his voice low and menacing.
With that, Michael gestured for his assistant to bring something over.
The moment I recognized that painting, my heart nearly stopped. I stared in disbelief.
It was my most treasured work, the masterpiece I'd created before my hand was injured.
That painting was the only thing that kept me going, locked up in my home safe like the most precious secret. Yet now, it was laid bare for everyone to see, completely exposed and defenseless.
"If you don't apologize today, I'll destroy this painting right here." Michael threatened, his voice dark and sharp.
He raised his glass of red wine, and that threatening look hit me like a punch. Just seeing it made my heart tighten up.
He knew exactly how much this painting meant to me. That was the whole point—he was threatening me with the one thing I couldn't bear to lose.
Ridiculous. After all these years trusting Michael, he stabbed me in the back over some lies, getting my weak spot right in his grip and forcing me to apologize.
I tightened my grip, my voice soft and strained. "Alright. I'll apologize. Just please, don't hurt my painting."
I glanced at Rachel, deliberately ignoring the satisfied little smirk on her face, and dipped my head ever so slightly.
"I'm sorry. Back then, I accused you before I got all the facts straight. I was wrong," I said, forcing out the words even though my heart was ice.
Rachel gave me a gentle, almost gracious smile. "Thanks for apologizing. Honestly, I don't hold it against you."
She started walking toward me, but just as she passed by Michael, she suddenly lost her balance and tumbled right into his arms. In that split second, his hand jerked, and the wine in his glass spilled straight onto my painting, staining it crimson in front of everyone.