Chapter 4

Chloe's POV

Word got out that Julian needed seven stitches on the hand he used to shatter the trophy, spending four days in the hospital.

I didn't visit him once.

During those four days, I didn't even bother shooting him a text, let alone making a call.

Lucas dropped by my apartment once, looking uneasy. He mentioned the stitches and asked if I planned to check in on Julian.

I sat at my laptop reviewing the orientation schedule for the university abroad, not even looking up. "No."

"He's in a hospital bed!" Lucas blurted out, getting anxious. "Chloe, just go see him once."

"He sliced his hand open for another woman," I muttered, scrolling down the page. "Why would I go? To watch him act lovesick for someone else?"

Lucas went quiet. He stood by the doorway gripping the handle, giving up on trying to sway me.

I locked myself away from the drama, working at the firm by day and spending my nights packing, hunting for flights, and securing my student visa.

There were eight required visa documents. I listed them out one by one, crossing off each line item as the approvals came through.

I emailed the university to confirm my arrival dates. The admissions office responded fast, attaching a course syllabus that I combed through with absolute precision.

My affairs at the company were handled too; I delegated the critical milestones for three major contracts to trusted team leads.

The closer my departure date crept, the calmer my mind became.

I used to mistake this quiet focus for waiting on someone to change their mind. Now I knew I was simply crossing off an exit checklist.

The day Julian was discharged, he let himself into the apartment. Pushing the door open, he found me crouched on the rug, organizing a storage crate packed with men's pool cues, gloves, and jerseys.

The tension on his tired face relaxed slightly.

"All this..." He walked over, his voice still a little raspy. "You bought this for me?"

I didn't bother looking up. "No."

"Then who's it for?" he pressed.

"For Lucas," I said, snapping the lid shut. "I have no use for your gear."

Julian's hand paused in the air, but then a small smile returned to his lips.

I knew exactly what was running through his head: he figured I was just throwing another temper tantrum.

He knelt down beside me, softening his voice. "Early next month, there's the finals for the world rankings. If I take this last match, I lock down the world number one spot for good."

"Cool," I replied flatly.

"Come sit in my corner," he coaxed. "I know you're still pissed at me. But if you show up and sit where I can see you, I'll know you've forgiven me."

I tilted my head to look at him.

There was something flicking across his eyes that I hadn't seen in a very long time. Desperation. He was practically begging.

I had begged him to spend my birthdays with me. I had begged him to introduce me to his inner circle. He had turned me down every single time. And now, the tables had turned.

"That West End commercial development project of yours," he paused, as if making a massive concession, "I'll hand it to you. I'll talk to my dad and get the board to sign off. You've been trying to land that contract for ages, haven't you?"

The West End development was a bid I had chased for two straight years. Across three rounds of bidding, my firm had been pushed out every time, missing only the backing of the Vance Corporation's partner networks.

I had only ever brought it up to him once in passing. He was busy chalking his cue, gave a noncommittal "uh-huh" without glancing up, and I assumed it went in one ear and out the other.

Turns out, he heard every word. Not only had he heard it, he kept it in his back pocket all this time, saving it as bargaining chip for a rainy day.

The cold, hollow space in my chest twitched with bitter irony.

Everything I had ever done for him was unconditional, free of charge. Yet here he was, pulling out a multi-million dollar business asset just to bribe me into sitting in the stands.

"Deal," I said. "I'll be there."

After I agreed, Julian rode a high for the next few days.

He came back to the apartment earlier than usual, talked more than he ever had, and occasionally asked what I wanted for dinner.

I played along with pleasant nods, but my mind was crystal clear: every ounce of this newfound kindness was purely aimed at that upcoming tournament. He was only putting on a performance because he needed me in that seat.

I simply watched him enjoy the illusion.