Chapter 3

Chloe's POV

He closed the distance in two strides and seized my wrist.

The grip wasn't overly forceful, but it locked down like an iron clamp.

I glanced down at his hand wrapped around my wrist, not bothering to pull away.

"What are you trying to do?" he asked, dropping his voice.

"Once I graduate, I'm moving out. I won't bother you anymore," I told him, looking at him calmly.

"Move?" He let out a cold chuckle, tightening his grip by another fraction. "Did I say you could move?"

My wrist was turning white under his pressure, but I didn't try to wrench it back. I just stood there, completely silent.

"You're staying right here in this city. After graduation, you'll join the family firm. I'll arrange it for you," he demanded, glaring down at me.

"I'm not working for your family."

"This isn't a negotiation."

"Once I graduate, I can go wherever I want. Is your company really lacking one more person?" I asked.

"Whether we lack people is up to me to decide," he cut in, letting go of my hand and turning to head down the stairs. "Where you move and where you end up is also my call."

He took two steps down, stopped, and added without looking back, "Don't think bringing up Liam means I have no way to deal with you."

I stood frozen in place, a faint red ring left behind on my wrist. I looked down and rubbed it gently.

In my previous life, he used to grip me just as tightly.

Back then, I foolishly thought it meant he cared. The more it hurt, the more I believed he couldn't bear to let me go.

This time, I saw through it completely. What he wanted was for me to have nowhere else to run.

My studies, where I lived, what firm I entered after graduation—he wanted to dictate every single piece of it. The moment I said no, I was considered a troublemaker.

I pulled the door open and walked out.

That evening, some classmates invited me out for a get-together.

I accepted. Then I sent a text back to the apartment, telling them not to wait up on dinner for me.

The hangout was at a local bar.

By the time I arrived, the booth was already half full. Seeing me walk in, everyone started clamoring for me to sit in the middle.

"You look so much better lately! You seemed in such a bad place before," the girl sitting next to me leaned over and whispered.

"I've been sleeping better," I replied, taking a sip of my juice.

"Hey, what about that guy you were chasing, Zach—" another guy started asking.

"Don't bring him up," the girl beside me instantly stepped on his shoe.

The group quickly shifted, begging me to tell them about Liam and asking when he was coming back. I smiled and steered the conversation away.

In this room, I wasn't just someone's tagalong.

Sitting here, I was just Chloe. Not the girl the entire social circle had laughed at twenty-seven times over.

A little while later, the private room door suddenly swung open, and a guy walked in holding an enormous bouquet of red roses.

It was the classmate who had been pursuing me for the past six months.

Amidst a chorus of teasing and cheers, he squeezed his way over to me, bent down, and held the flowers right up to my face, his cheeks burning bright red. "Chloe, I've liked you for so long. Just say yes to—"

The entire room erupted, people pounding on the tables and shouting for me to say yes.

I was just about to turn him down when the door was kicked open with a loud bang. The noise abruptly died down.

Zachary stood in the doorway.

God knows how long he had been standing out there, his face thunderous.

His eyes swept over the guy holding the flowers, swept over the bouquet, and finally locked onto my face.

"Impressive, Chloe. You really line up men one after another, don't you?" He bit out every single syllable, his voice cutting clean through the lingering noise.

The room plunged into utter silence.

The boy's grip slipped, and the bouquet dropped to the floor, red petals scattering everywhere.

He opened his mouth to explain, but not a single word came out.

Before I could even speak, Zachary strode forward, hooked an arm around my waist, and swept me right off the chair into his arms.

"Zachary, put me down! Everyone is watching!" I grabbed a fistful of his dress shirt.

I shoved against his shoulder, but he didn't budge an inch. Instead, his arm locked around me even tighter.

"Now you know how to be scared?" He looked down at me coldly. "Why weren't you scared when you were taking flowers from him?"

As he walked past the bouquet on the floor, his shoe came down and crushed it, sending petals flying into the corner.

Not a single person in the room dared to utter a word.

I was just out having a casual dinner with friends, yet he had to control that, too.

Tomorrow, when the people in this room saw me again, they would only remember me being carried out like a piece of property.

In my mind, I bumped my departure date up even earlier.

The car was waiting downstairs.

Claire was standing by the door, a light cardigan draped over her shoulders. Seeing Zachary carry me out, she immediately hurried forward, wearing an impeccably practiced smile. "Oh my goodness, how did she drink this much? Chloe must be drunk, let me help her."

Half-supporting and half-guiding, she shoved me into the back seat, dropping her voice. "You must feel so wronged, Chloe. Don't be mad at him. He was just worried about you. He really cares."

I leaned against the car door, closing my eyes, and didn't respond.

I had heard that line more times than I could count.

Once upon a time, I actually believed it. I believed that the harsher his scolding, the more he cared about me.

After driving half a block, Claire turned around from the passenger seat and said softly, "Chloe, don't blame him. That's just his temper. He can't stand seeing you get taken advantage of."

I opened my eyes, caught a glimpse of her face in the rearview mirror, and closed them right back up.

Early the next morning, Claire's assistant came to pick me up, saying Zachary wanted me to come along to the photo studio.

The studio was ablaze with bright lights.

Zachary was dressed in a sleek black suit, and Claire wore an elegant white dress, the two of them standing side by side in front of the backdrop.

Whenever the photographer told them to get closer, they leaned into each other a little more. When he told them to smile, Claire rested her head softly against Zachary's shoulder.

When changing for the second look, Claire deliberately picked a dress that matched the exact color of Zachary's tie.

I sat on a folding chair in the far corner, holding a clipboard, jotting down every single request from the photographer.

The photographer glanced over and asked, "Who's that?"

Claire smiled and answered smoothly, "A friend of mine, just here to help out."

During a break, Claire walked over carrying two cups of warm water and handed one to me. "Tired? Thanks for coming all this way. When we pick the photos later, help me see which set looks best. I trust your taste."

I took it, murmured a quiet thank-you, set it down by my feet, and didn't drink a single drop.

I sat in that studio all day long, playing the role of a helpful friend, holding a clipboard in my hands.

It didn't hurt. I just wanted to record everything cleanly so this whole charade could end sooner.

By dusk, the three of us stopped by a nearby restaurant to grab dinner.

I headed back to the parking lot to grab a jacket I had left behind. When I walked back, I froze right outside the glass doors of the restaurant.

Under the awning by the entrance, Zachary had a man pinned against the wall by his collar, slamming his fist straight into the man's face.

The man stumbled back against the wall, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, stammering frantically, "Mr. Walker, I swear I only said two words to Miss Evans..."

Standing outside, I recognized the guy.

He was the one who had stopped Claire outside the studio earlier this afternoon, talking to her for ages before Claire brushed him off with a sweet smile.

Through the glass, I watched the man beg for mercy over and over. I watched the veins bulge violently on the back of Zachary's hand as he twisted the man's collar.

Just because someone spoke a few extra words to Claire, he could beat a man half to death.

My grip on the jacket tightened and tightened, crushing the fabric into an unyielding, permanent crease.