08
I rush outside to get help to pull them apart. By the time the lawyer begins reading the will, both their faces are bruised.
As expected, Mr. Daniels leaves the company and the old mansion to Mateo and the cash and overseas properties to Lincoln.
Mateo, having taken more punches during the fight, signs the papers with the lawyer, and then turns his attention to me.
"You, come with me," he says, beckoning me.
I nervously follow him through a door into the hospital stairwell.
"Now that the old man is dead, what are you planning to do?" he asks, lighting a cigarette without looking at me.
Actually I've been thinking about this question since I married Mateo. If Mr. Daniels died, how could I protect myself and mom?
My uncle and aunt only treated us well because they thought my marrying into the Daniels family would bring them endless benefits.
But now, with the only person who could force Mateo to stay married to me gone, Mateo could rightfully kick me out of his life.
"We—we can't get divorced," I say, grabbing Mateo's sleeve.
He shakes off my hand and looks at me through the smoke. "Reason?"
I rack my brain for a benefit of our marriage to Mateo and finally say, "Now that you're taking over the company, having a stable, married image will reduce some resistance."
I think for a moment and add, "If you're worried about your lover, I'll explain to her. As long as we don't divorce, I can do anything."
Mateo turns to extinguish his cigarette and throws it in the trash.
"You can let Luna live in the old mansion too," I suggest.
Mateo looks at me. After a few seconds of silence, he chuckles. "Ali, has anyone ever told you that the Morris family members are like a certain creature?"
"What?"
"Leeches. Once they latch onto another creature, they never let go, even if they are beaten. "
I stay silent for a few seconds, take a deep breath, and ask, "So, do you agree?"
Mateo walks past me and exits the stairwell.
The door closes with a bang.
I suddenly feel a mix of relief and exhaustion, walk down a few steps, and then collapse onto the stairs.
Then a pair of shoes appears in my view. I look up and see Lincoln's face.
"My condolences," I say, standing up.
Despite having seen him argue with his father before, a father is still a father, and he must be sad.
"Condolences? I should set off fireworks to celebrate the old man's death," Lincoln smirks. "And I should be saying that to you."
"Me?"
"You'd rather let my brother's mistress move into the old mansion and live with you than divorce him. Should I praise your generosity or your stupidity?"
I shake my head and look into Lincoln's eyes. "You heard everything?"
Standing two steps below me, he looks me in the eye. "Uh-huh."
"You don't understand."
"I don't understand your feelings for my brother. Do you love him that much? Or do you think that by playing the role of a perfectly tolerant wife, he'll eventually come back to you?"
I frown slightly.
"Look at me. I look a lot like my brother, don't I?" Lincoln's chest rises and falls as he breathes. He grabs my wrist, placing my hand on his face. "Why can he have you, but I can't?"
"Let go of me!" I struggle to push him away but fear shouting because someone might hear outside.
Lincoln holds me tighter. He firmly grasps my wrists, then uses one hand to hold them while the other grabs my chin.
His face comes closer. Before I can react, his lips are on mine. This kiss is different from our first in Las Vegas—there's no gentle care, only force as he pushes his tongue past my teeth, exploring and sucking on my tongue.
"Has my brother ever kissed you like this?" he asks between kisses.
I struggle, hitting him with my restrained hands, but he grips them tighter.
I try to close my mouth to bite his tongue, but I can't because his other hand is pinching my cheeks.
In a panic, I lift my leg and strike his crotch hard. He groans and bends over, releasing me.
I quickly run up the stairs, about to push open the door to escape, but I feel unsatisfied.
I rush back down the stairs and slap him across the face with all my strength. His face turns red, and so does my hand.
Then, I quickly run away.
The funeral for Mr. Daniels is next week.
The power struggle among the Daniels family brothers has settled, and many notable figures from the business world are coming, primarily to establish good relations with the new head of the Daniels family, rather than just to bid farewell to Mr. Daniels.
I wear a black dress, standing beside Mateo, bowing and shaking hands continuously until my legs ache.
My uncle and aunt have also arrived.
My uncle chats with Mateo, offering standard non-sense condolences like "Please accept my sympathies."
My aunt pretends to shed a few tears and then pulls me aside with a smile, saying, "It looks like Mateo still has a place for you in his heart."
I knew it. She's worried that Mateo might divorce me, and that's why she's here to see me today.
"Yeah," I say, pursing my lips, not wanting to talk to her any longer.
"Any news about your belly?" she asks.
I take a deep breath, trying not to lose my composure at the funeral, and respond calmly, "Mateo's father just passed away. Do you think he's in the mood for making love right now?"
"Yes, yes, you're right," she answers with another smile.
While we're talking, I feel someone's gaze on me. I turn my head and see Lincoln.
I don't linger on him and instead focus on the white bouquets guests have brought in memory of Mr. Daniels.
"Auntie, a few of the flowers have fallen over. I'll go fix them."
I take this as an excuse to distance myself from these two people I don't want to see.
By the time the funeral is over, I am utterly exhausted. Once back at the old mansion, I immediately go to my room for a hot shower.
After coming out of the bathroom, I reach for the body lotion on the shelf to apply it all over.
The next moment, I notice a tube labeled "Bruise Cream" beside the lotion. It was prescribed by the doctor during my last hospital visit.
It works well, and every day after my bath, I apply it to my face and back in front of the mirror. Now my skin has completely healed.
I can't help but recall the day at the hospital when I almost fainted while waiting in line, and Lincoln suddenly caught me.
He took me straight to see the doctor.
For a while, I thought he was different from Mateo. Despite his flirtatious behavior, he seemed like a gentleman at heart. The nurse misunderstood him as a domestic abuser, and I even explained that he was a good person.
How could I forget? He and Mateo both have the last name Daniels.
I toss the cream into the cabinet and close the drawer.
After applying the body lotion and drying my hair, I lie on the bed, contemplating my next steps.
Mateo hasn't divorced me yet, but it's only a temporary decision. Once he totally stabilizes his position in the company and the Daniels' stock price settles, I'll truly have to say goodbye.
Ultimately, my main goal now should be to make money. Money is crucial—it can pay for my tuition and provide my mother with better care in a nursing home. But without a college degree, it's hard to find a job.
I take a deep breath and idly scroll through my phone.
At eleven o'clock at night, a notification in the St. Martin's student group chat catches my attention.
An alumnus who has graduated and now runs an art studio is looking for teachers to guide and train students aiming to get into St. Martin's.
They specifically need someone to guide fashion design portfolios, so they're recruiting in the group.
I sit up abruptly, open my laptop, and compile all my classwork and grades from my first two years into a file, which I then email to them, scheduling it to send at nine in the morning.
The next day, I keep checking my email. In the afternoon, I see a new message in my inbox. They invite me for an interview the next day.
I decide my outfit should be simple with a touch of design. After much thought, I choose a black turtleneck sweater and jeans, black boots, and a black coat.
The only standout feature is my silver tassel earrings.
The studio is located in the Greenwich Peninsula's Design District, a community specifically created by London to support the creative industries, with many creative offices established there.
I arrive at the studio according to the address provided, and tell the girl at the reception desk that I'm here for a job interview.
She warmly escorts me to meet the boss.
The studio isn't very big and is divided into many small rooms. Through the glass doors, I can see that each room has a table, a few chairs, and a blackboard. Some rooms are occupited inside, where teachers are giving one-on-one lessons, and the blackboards are filled with brainstorming ideas.
The receptionist opens a door at the end of the hallway and says, "Vivian, she's here."
"Thank you," a beautiful woman's head appears from behind the computer.
The receptionist closes the door, leaving the two of us in the room.
"Hello, my name is Ali Morris, I'm here to apply for the fashion design teacher position." I feel a bit nervous and subconsciously tighten my grip on my bag strap.
She smiles at me, "Please, have a seat. I'm Vivian."
"Thank you." I sit in the chair opposite her.
She turns the computer screen ninety degrees so I can see it too. "Your work is very stylish and professional. Your grades are also very high..."
I nod, noticing her slight frown, and my heart skips a beat.
"But—" she pauses and then continues, "the only issue is that you haven't graduated yet. If you want to independently guide students on their portfolios, it might not fully convince them."
"So..." I swallow.
I had anticipated this issue when I sent my job application, but when the studio invited me for an interview, I thought I still had a chance.
Vivian smiles again, "So, can you work as a teaching assistant here?"
"Of course!" I relax.
My work hours are flexible. On weekdays, I can interact with students online, mainly introducing them to the history of fashion, the pros and cons and properties of different fabrics, the current trends in fashion, and some well-known designers.
Only on weekends do I clock in at the studio.
When people get busy, time suddenly flies by. On Saturday evening, as I'm getting ready to pack up and go home, Vivian suddenly calls out to me and asks if I want to join the evening's party.
"It's not a formal event; we're just relaxing at a nearby bar, kind of like a team-building activity. And, of course, it's on me," Vivian winks.
"I'd love to," I reply.
I can't refuse.
Vivian is a great boss, and since I'm new, refusing to participate in group activities would make me seem unsociable.
After the studio closes, our group of more than ten people splits into two groups waiting for the elevator, then heads downstairs.
The creative district is quite large. As I walk with Ava, the receptionist who welcomed me on my first day, I suddenly notice a strikingly lit sign in the dark.
"Future?" I read out instinctively.
Ava nudges me with her elbow, "That's the famous North American architecture company. They just opened a branch in London, and I met their CEO a few days ago."
The world is so small.
I sigh lightly and shift my attention, "Are we almost at the bar?"
"Oh, it's just around the corner," Ava replies.
Since it's winter, I order some warm red wine. After I sit down, Ava continues the previous topic in my ear, "You haven't seen Future's CEO. You have no idea how handsome he is."
"He started his own company before turning 30! His father left him enough money to last a lifetime, yet he's also very talented! I'm really curious what kind of woman could be his wife."
Vivian overhears our conversation and comes over to clink glasses with us.
She smiles at Ava and then at me, saying, "Don't mind. Ava's always like this. She took the receptionist job here just to run into that man."
"?" I widen my eyes. Someone would go to such lengths for that jerk.
Ava sighs softly, "I originally applied for a job at Future, but they're too strict. Even the receptionist needs an architecture degree, so I had to settle for second best."
Vivian feigns anger, "Am I mean to you? Future's janitors don't have educational requirements; you can go there right now."
Ava quickly begs for mercy, hugging Vivian's arm, "No, no. Vivian, you're the best."
Vivian lightly pats her.
Ava releases her and stirs the ice in her glass with a straw, sighing softly again, "Actually, being a janitor is fine too. But the uniform isn't nice. I still hope to look elegant when I meet Lincoln."
Vivian sets down her glass and pretends to pinch Ava.
We all burst into laughter on the booth.
The next second, Vivian suddenly stops.
"I'll never do it again, Vivian, please let me go." Ava buries her face in the sofa, still begging for mercy.
Vivian pokes her arm, "Look who's here."
Following Vivian's gaze to the door, I see the man currently at the center of public opinion.