04
I bury my head in the book, before Lincoln looks at me.
He stands on the podium and begins introducing himself, "Hello everyone, I am Lincoln Daniels, CEO of the North American architecture company Future. It's a pleasure to meet the art talents from our country's top art academy today."
His voice fades as my mind drifts to last night when I was awakened by the cold at the hall entrance and saw those enigmatic eyes.
Suddenly, the girl next to me tugs at my sleeve. I turn to look at her. She points at me with her mouth, "Are you daydreaming? He's asking you a question!"
I quickly lift my head and meet Lincoln's eyes.
"The third girl from the left in the second row, yes, you," he says, looking at me as if I am a stranger. "When was the Ronchamp Chapel built?"
I freeze, feeling my face flush with heat.
The girl next to me eagerly tugs at my sleeve again and whispers, "Nineteen fifty-five."
"1955," I answer.
Lincoln nods and then turns to the girl beside me, "You seem to enjoy answering questions."
Though it sounds like a criticism, his gentle tone and smile make it seem like a joke.
The girl boldly raises her hand, "I also enjoy asking questions."
"Oh?" Lincoln leans on the table on the podium, seems to be listening attentively.
"Mr. Lincoln, are you single?" she asks, causing the whole class to erupt in laughter and even whistles.
"If you're curious," Lincoln smiles, "I can answer that after class."
I continue burying my head back in the book.
When Lincoln finally says, "That concludes today's lecture," girls immediately surround him for autographs and photos.
I quickly pack my things into my canvas bag and leave through the back door of the classroom.
I have no classes in the afternoon, so I buy a sandwich at the café by the school gate to stave off hunger, then head to the parking lot and drive away.
As I buckle my seatbelt, someone suddenly taps on my window. I look up to see Lincoln's face through the glass.
He points down, signaling me to lower the window.
I glance around the parking lot; there's no one else around.
"What's the matter?" I ask after opening the window.
Lincoln bends slightly, smiling at me with eyes that seem to glow in the dim parking lot, "Aren't you curious how I answered your classmate's question?"
"That has nothing to do with me," I say, staring straight ahead.
"I said I already have a girl I like."
"I need to go, bye," I say, starting the car.
But he grips the window, "My car broke down. Can you give me a ride?"
I look at his face outside the window, unsure if he's telling the truth.
Lincoln points to a silver Bentley in the corner, "The transmission is broken. I just called a repair service."
I shake my head, "My car is a second-hand Seat Ibiza. You might not be used to it."
I bought it with money I earned from summer jobs. It's cheap, but it makes me feel at ease.
"It's okay," Lincoln says, opening the back door and getting in.
I frown slightly as I look at him through the rearview mirror, "You can call a taxi."
"Ali—" he draws out my name, "we're family, aren't we? You can't even give me a ride?"
His phone suddenly rings. He glances at the screen and shows me the number. "Your dean is inviting me to dinner. I'm straight and really don't want to get involved with him. Ali, please take me away, just this once."
I look at him in silence for a moment, then start the car.
Lincoln has a room in the Daniels' old mansion, but he doesn't live there. He gives me the address of a luxury penthouse in Canary Wharf, surrounded by commercial buildings and shopping centers.
It's not rush hour, so the roads are fairly clear. But the further I drive, the more my palms sweat.
The car feels too small, even though he's just sitting in the back, quietly looking at his phone, I feel uneasy.
The car suddenly stops at an intersection.
"What's wrong?" Lincoln asks, looking up.
I unbuckle my seatbelt and get out. There is a black stray dog in front of the car. It's snowy, and its fur is spotted with white.
It had suddenly darted out into the intersection, and if I hadn't braked in time, it would have been crushed under the wheels.
The dog looks up at me with wide eyes. It's skinny, with matted fur like an old rag, but it seems healthy with no visible injuries.
I pull over to the side of the road and take out the unfinished sandwich from my bag, offering it to the dog.
The dog seems to be very hungry, devouring the sandwich in big bites.
I can't help but crouch down and pat its head. In the next moment, a large hand starts patting my head too.
I jump up and step back.
Lincoln stands opposite me, "This dog doesn't seem to have an owner. So pitiful. Why don't you take it back to the old mansion and keep it?"
I shake my head, "I don't like dogs."
Lincoln looks at me and then suddenly chuckles, "Ali, I think you have a habit of saying one thing but thinking another."
I frown slightly.
"Isn't it my brother who doesn't like dogs? I bet if you brought this dog home, he'd kick it out immediately."
The little black dog has already finished the sandwich and is now licking the wrapper, unaware of the conversation between the two humans.
I pick up the wrapper and throw it in a nearby trash can. Then I turn to Lincoln, "Since you know I'm your brother's wife, you shouldn't have—"
"Shouldn't have what?" Lincoln exhales visibly in the cold air, "Patted your head?"
"We shouldn't have any intimate actions," I declare sternly. He's really overstepping.
Lincoln looks at me for a couple of seconds, then smiles, "How about I tell you a little story? It's about my brother."
It's starting to snow again.
"When my brother was thirteen, a relative came back from America and brought him a model rifle as a gift. I spent two weeks trying all sorts of ways to take that rifle for myself, but once I owned it, I never touched it again."
"I don't know why, but the angrier my brother got, the happier I felt."
I frown, watching him through the falling snow, "So, you're saying you've always wanted to take away the things your brother has? From childhood to now? "
"You're an exception," Lincoln shrugs, "because you're not a thing, you're a beauty."
I take a deep breath and turn to leave.
I get into the driver's seat, start the car, and leave this man standing on the roadside.
Lincoln stands there in the snow, waving goodbye with his bandaged hand, smiling.
I change direction and, twenty minutes later, arrive at a suburban nursing home.
My mother lives here, in room 203.
It's snowing now, so there are no patients sunbathing in the garden as usual. I walk through the snow, take the elevator to the second floor, and find the door to 203 open, with a cleaning cart in the hallway.
I walk in and see a cleaner vacuuming the floor.
"Where's the patient who lived here?" I ask.
"The one with kidney disease? She's been taken home. Are you her family?"
I rush out of the nursing home, drive to my uncle's house, and burst in, not even bothering to change shoes, shouting, "Mom? Mom?"
"Ali, you're back?" My aunt appears from the first floor in a bathrobe, yawning, "I just got off the plane and was getting over the jetleg. You woke me up."
"Where's my mom?" I pant.
"She's in the attic," my aunt points upstairs.
I hurriedly run up the stairs.
"Why don't you change your shoes?" my aunt yells after me.
I rush to the attic and see my mother still asleep. Her face is gaunt, her body unnaturally swollen, and she looks in poor health. Over the past year since my marriage, she's been vomiting more frequently and requiring dialysis more often.
Not wanting to wake her, I gently close the door and go back to the living room.
My aunt is now sitting on the sofa, arms crossed, seemingly ready for a conversation. "Now you can relax, right? Actually, your mother can do dialysis at home just as well—" she starts.
"Why did you bring my mom back?" I stand in front of her, fists clenched. My mom has lived in the peaceful nursing home for years, with professional medical staff caring for her 24/7.
"Sit down first, don't get excited," my aunt says, taking a sip of tea and adjusting her bathrobe. "To be honest, we don't have money anymore."
I shake my head, "That's impossible. Before my dad died, he transferred his shares in the company to uncle. Where did all that money go?"
I was only eight at the time, and my mother, an artist living in her own world, was clueless about finance and management. My father entrusted the two of us to his brother.
"You know, during the pandemic, your uncle's investments failed, and the family's funds were depleted—"
"But I married Mateo just as you said! And now you tell me we're out of money again?!"
"The problem lies right here," my aunt pauses, "when you first got married, because of the backing from the Daniels Group, our family was able to catch a break.
But a year has passed, and Mateo has never given our family any substantial help.
There are constant rumors: some say his father is dying, and the Daniels brothers are fighting for power; others say you and Mateo don't get along and are heading for a divorce.
Now the banks refuse to lend us money, other companies are watching the situation, and with your cousin studying in the US, our family is in dire need of money. .."
I take a deep breath, not wanting to waste time listening to her ramble. "Just tell me what I need to do for you to send my mother back to the nursing home."
My mother is the only emotional support in my bleak life. I can't risk her well-being in the slightest.
"There is actually a way," my aunt smiles.
"What is it?"
"Have a child with Mateo." She reaches out and pats my hand in a mock display of affection. "If you get pregnant and have a baby, the rumors will be dispelled."