Chapter 2

2.

I smashed my phone against the wall.

The iPhone screen shattered into a spiderweb, but it was still lit. Sophia's name was still displayed in the call log.

Call duration: 1 minute 32 seconds.

One minute and thirty-two seconds.

I spent one minute and thirty-two seconds listening to a man tell me Sophia was in his bed.

"Fuck!" I punched the wall. The drywall cracked.

A sharp pain shot through my knuckles, but it couldn't compare to the tearing sensation in my chest.

Who was that man?

His voice was somewhat familiar, but I couldn't remember where I had heard it.

Deep, lazy, carrying that triumphant "I won" tone.

*"She's very likely to wake up in someone else's bed. For example, mine."*

That sentence was like a nail driven into my brain.

Sophia in someone else's bed.

Sophia being held by someone else.

Sophia being... by someone else.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

I swept all the bottles off the coffee table. Amber liquid mixed with glass shards, the air reeking of alcohol.

My breathing was rapid, my temples throbbing.

I needed to calm down.

I needed...

Fuck, I needed Sophia back.

I walked to the window and lit a cigarette.

3:00 AM in Manhattan. The city that never sleeps. Car lights flowed in the streets, neon lights flickered. Countless people chased, sank, and got lost in this city.

I used to think I was the master of this city.

28 years old. Hedge fund manager. Seven-figure annual income.

I drove a Porsche 911, lived on the Upper East Side, drank at The Campbell, ate at Per Se, and slept with the most beautiful women.

I thought I had everything.

Until this moment, I realized―

I had absolutely fucking nothing.

My phone rang.

It was Marcus.

"Jackson, are you okay? I heard a loud noise just now..."

"I'm fine," I said, my voice hoarser than I imagined.

"Really fine? Need me to come over?"

"No." I took a deep breath. "Marcus, look someone up for me."

"Who?"

"The man who just answered Sophia's phone," I said. "Find out who he is."

"But... how do we check? You don't even know his name."

"His voice was familiar." I tried hard to recall. "Deep, a bit raspy, with a bit of a West Coast accent... Shit, I've definitely met him somewhere."

"West Coast accent?" Marcus paused. "Sophia is in Los Angeles right now, right?"

"Right."

"Could it be a friend from her college days? Didn't she graduate from UCLA?"

UCLA.

A thought suddenly flashed through my mind.

"Julian," I said, my voice low through gritted teeth. "Julian Ford."

"Who?"

"Julian Fucking Ford." I repeated, every word squeezed out from between my teeth. "Heir to the Ford family. I faced off against him on a project two years ago. That bastard almost stole my deal."

"Wait," Marcus's voice turned serious. "You mean *that* Julian Ford? One of the early investors in Tesla, currently worth... how much again?"

"Two hundred million," I said. "Dollars."

Silence on the other end for a few seconds.

"Jackson," Marcus said cautiously. "If it's really him... how do you think Sophia knows him?"

I closed my eyes.

A scene suddenly surfaced in my mind.

Six years ago. UCLA alumni reunion.

That was the first year Sophia and I were together.

She dragged me to the UCLA reunion, saying she wanted me to meet her college friends.

I actually didn't want to go. I graduated from Columbia. UCLA, that kind of West Coast "sunshine school," wasn't on the same level.

But Sophia begged me for a long time, looking at me with those puppy dog eyes.

"Jackson, please. This is important to me."

In the end, I went.

The party was held at a beach house in Santa Monica. A group of young people were drinking, dancing, and chatting about Silicon Valley startups.

I was out of place.

Sophia kept holding my arm, introducing me to her friends.

"This is my boyfriend, Jackson Hayes," she said, her face full of pride.

Then, I saw him.

Julian Ford.

He was standing on the terrace, wearing a simple white T-shirt and jeans, holding a beer, chatting with a few people.

But when Sophia walked into the room, his gaze immediately shifted.

Just for that instant.

I saw the light in his eyes.

It flashed by, but it was bright.

Sophia didn't notice. She walked over smiling and gave Julian a hug.

"Julian! Long time no see!"

"Sophia," he said. His voice was light, but I heard the suppressed emotion. "How have you been?"

"Great!" Sophia let go of him, pulling me forward. "Here, let me introduce you. This is Jackson, my boyfriend. Jackson, this is Julian, my... friend from college."

She paused, then added:

"Julian is really nice. He used to help me with calculus all the time in college."

Julian extended his hand. "Mr. Hayes, I've heard a lot about you."

I shook his hand, squeezing hard, like I wanted to crush his bones.

"Mr. Ford," I said, smiling professionally. "Sophia never mentioned you."

That was a lie.

Sophia mentioned him many times.

"Julian is treating everyone to coffee today."

"Professor Julian said my paper was written well."

"Julian fixed my computer, he's seriously amazing."

The "Julian" in her mouth carried a kind of intimacy and trust.

The kind of intimacy I spent a long time trying to get from her.

After that night, I told Sophia:

"Stay away from that Julian."

"Why?" She was confused. "Julian is a good person."

"The way he looks at you isn't right."

"What way?"

"The way a man looks at a woman," I said. "Sophia, don't be stupid. That man likes you."

She paused, then laughed.

"Jackson, you're overthinking it. Julian wouldn't like me; we're just friends."

"Just friends?"

"Yeah," she said, her tone certain. "And besides, even if he likes me, so what? The one I like is you."

She said it so naturally, so sincerely.

I believed it at the time.

Or rather, I chose to believe it.

Because I was Jackson Hayes. I had plenty of confidence.

But now, six years later.

Julian Ford answered Sophia's phone.

At 3:00 AM.

In her bed.

"Fuck." I lit another cigarette and took a harsh drag.

Marcus asked cautiously on the other end, "Jackson, what do you plan to do now?"

"I'm going to Los Angeles," I said. "First flight tomorrow."

"But..."

"No buts," I interrupted him. "Marcus, help me find out where Julian lives. Also, book me a flight and hotel."

"Okay." Marcus sighed. "Jackson, I hope you know what you're doing."

I hung up the phone.

***

**Sophia's Perspective**

The next morning, I was woken up by the sun.

I opened my eyes, and the first thing I saw was the Pacific Ocean outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. The waves surged, sunlight danced on the water, and a few seagulls circled in the sky.

I was dazed for a few seconds before remembering where I was.

Los Angeles. Four Seasons. Julian's suite.

Julian.

I turned my head sharply, but the other side of the bed was empty. The sheets were still warm, but he wasn't there.

"Julian?" I called out.

No answer.

I sat up and found a glass of water and two painkillers on the nightstand, weighed down by a note:

*"Breakfast is in the living room. I'm going to a meeting, will be back at noon to pick you up. ―J"*

The handwriting was elegant, just like him.

I picked up the water, drank it down in gulps, and then lay back on the bed.

Memories of last night came flooding back like the tide.

Riley's party.

Alcohol.

Julian.

And... Jackson's phone call.

I picked up my phone. There were over a dozen missed calls on the screen.

All from: Jackson Hayes.

And countless texts:

"Sophia, we need to talk."

"Where are you?"

"Who is that man?"

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Answer the phone."

"Sophia!"

"I know you can see this."

The last one was sent at 4:00 AM:

"Sophia, don't push me."

I stared at that text for a long time.

"Don't push you?" I muttered to myself, then laughed. "Jackson, what right do you have to say that?"

My finger hovered over the screen, hesitating for a few seconds.

Then, I made a decision.

I blocked Jackson's number.

All contact methods. Phone, text, WhatsApp, Instagram.

Blocked everything.

After doing this, I suddenly felt refreshed.

A lavish breakfast was laid out on the dining table in the living room.

Croissants, fruit, yogurt, coffee, orange juice.

And a bouquet of flowers―white roses, very elegant.

I sat down and took a bite of a croissant. The aroma of butter spread in my mouth, the crispy crust carrying a hint of sweetness.

So delicious.

I couldn't remember the last time I had a proper breakfast.

For the past few years, my breakfast was usually a cup of black coffee, hurriedly drunk while standing in the kitchen before rushing to work.

Jackson never ate breakfast. He said breakfast made him sleepy and affected his work efficiency.

So I didn't eat either.

Thinking about it now, it was ridiculous.

Why did I stop eating breakfast just because he didn't?

My phone rang.

It was Riley.

"Morning, you little slut." Her voice was full of gossipy excitement. "How was spending the night with Julian Ford?"

"Riley!" I blushed.

"Hahaha, what are you shy for? We're all adults." Riley laughed wickedly. "Seriously, a man like Julian, you'd be crazy not to sleep with him. Do you know how hard he is to book? Half the socialites in LA want to climb into his bed."

"We didn't..." I wanted to explain, but didn't know how to say it.

Something did happen last night, but "that" didn't happen.

Julian kissed me, held me while we slept, but that was it.

"Didn't what?" Riley didn't believe it. "Sophia, stop pretending. I saw the way Julian looked at you. That guy wanted to devour you."

"He was... very much a gentleman," I said.

"Gentleman?" Riley scoffed. "Honey, 'gentleman' describes British people. A man like Julian Ford is a predator. A gentle predator."

I didn't speak.

Because she was right.

The way Julian looked at me really was like looking at prey.

But not that crude, possessive look.

It was that... "I will eat you slowly, bit by bit, making you unwilling to run away" kind of look.

"By the way," Riley suddenly said. "Did you block Jackson last night?"

"Yeah."

"Good!" Riley said excitedly. "I knew you would. Sophia, you know what? I've been waiting for this day for a long time."

"What do you mean?"

Riley sighed.

"Sophia, for the past few years, every time you mentioned Jackson, your voice was careful. Like... like you were afraid of saying something wrong, afraid he'd be angry, afraid he'd be unhappy."

I froze.

"Was I like that?"

"Yes," Riley said. "Very obvious. Babe, do you know what loving someone should feel like? It should be relaxing, happy, making you feel like you're becoming better. But with Jackson, you became more and more careful, less and less like yourself."

My eyes suddenly felt a bit hot.

"Riley..."

"Don't cry." Riley said. "You should celebrate. Sophia, you're free. That bastard isn't worth your tears."

"I'm not crying," I said, but my voice was already choking up.

"Okay, okay, you're not crying." Riley laughed. "Anyway, Ben and I are going to see a play tonight. Do you want to come? Or... do you have other plans?"

"What plans?"

"Like, plans with Julian?" Riley grinned.

"I... I don't know," I said. "Riley, I don't know what Julian and I are."

"Babe, what you are isn't important," Riley said. "What's important is, are you happy?"

I paused.

"I..."

I thought about how it felt when Julian held me last night.

Warm. Safe. Comfortable.

No need to be careful, no need to worry about saying the wrong thing, no need to wake up at 3:00 AM to confirm he was still there.

"I'm very happy," I said, my voice light but certain.

"That's enough then," Riley said. "Sophia, remember, you don't owe anyone anything. You just need to be good to yourself, even better."

After hanging up, I stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, looking at the Pacific.

The waves beat against the beach one after another, never stopping.

I suddenly remembered the scene where Jackson and I first met seven years ago.

Seven years ago, New York. An art gallery opening reception.

I had just moved to New York, working at a small PR firm, salary three thousand five hundred a month, living in a shared apartment in Brooklyn.

That day, the company took a job helping an up-and-coming artist run a gallery opening.

I was in charge of reception, wearing a black dress from Zara, stepping in high heels bought on sale at TJ Maxx.

Jackson was the last to arrive that night.

He wore a dark blue suit, the Cartier watch on his wrist flashing under the lights. When he walked in, everyone's eyes turned to him.

He had that aura.

Cold, handsome, successful.

The kind of man that makes girls fantasize "what if he chose me."

I walked over with a champagne tray. "Sir, would you like a glass of champagne?"

He looked at me.

Just one glance.

But I felt all the blood rush to my face.

"What is your name?" he asked.

"Sophia," I said. "Sophia Blake."

"Sophia." He repeated my name, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smile. "A beautiful name."

"Thank you," I said, trying to remain professional. "And you are?"

"Jackson Hayes."

When he said that name, there was a tone of rightful pride.

As if the whole world should know who he was.

"Mr. Hayes, nice to meet you," I said. "Are you interested in tonight's exhibition?"

"No." He was direct. "I'm not interested in art. I came with a friend."

"Oh." I didn't know what to say.

He looked at me again, then said:

"But now, I'm a little interested in this party."

It took me a moment to realize what he meant.

My face burned instantly.

After that night, he added me on Instagram.

The next day, he messaged me:

"Dinner?"

I stared at that message for a long time.

I knew I should say no.

I knew he was a playboy, the type to play and leave.

But I still replied:

"Sure."

Because I was 22, new to New York, full of fantasies about this city.

Because he was Jackson Hayes, the kind of man I thought only appeared in movies.

Because I was too young, not knowing that some men look at you with love, while others look at you just wanting to play.

For our first date, he took me to Per Se.

I was wearing that most expensive Zara dress I owned, spent an hour on my makeup, nervous with sweaty palms.

"You look beautiful," he said, pulling out the chair for me.

"Thank you," I whispered.

That meal cost eight hundred dollars.

For me at the time, that was a whole week's wages.

I was very careful when ordering, always choosing the cheapest items.

He noticed, laughing as he said:

"Sophia, don't worry about the price. I'm treating tonight. Order whatever you want."

"But..."

"No buts," he said. "I like you, I want to give you the best."

I thought at the time that his "giving you the best" was sincere.

I thought he would always treat me like this.

Seven years later, today, I finally understood.

The "best" he gave me was just stuff he could give effortlessly.

A meal, a bag, a trip.

But he never gave me the most important things―

Respect.

Commitment.

And, real love.

The doorbell rang.

I wiped the corners of my eyes and went to open the door.

It was Julian.

He was still wearing his clothes from the morning, a light gray shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms.

"Hi," he said, handing me a bag. "Bought you something."

I opened the bag.

Inside was a set of yoga clothes from Lululemon, and a pair of running shoes, Nikes.

"I noticed you only brought a small bag last night," Julian said. "I thought you might need these. If the size is wrong, we can go exchange them."

I froze.

"You... how did you know my size?"

Julian smiled, a somewhat wicked smile.

"Guessed."

Then he leaned closer, his voice low:

"Although if you let me check, I could be more certain."

My face instantly turned red.

"Julian!"

He laughed loudly, took a step back, and raised his hands in surrender.

"Kidding, kidding. Sophia, you are too easy to tease."

I glared at him, but couldn't help smiling too.

This feeling was strange.

With Julian, I could relax, laugh, be myself.

No need to be careful, no need to worry about saying the wrong thing.

"By the way," Julian suddenly said. "Do you have plans today?"

"No."

"Then would you be willing to accompany me somewhere?"

"Where?"

Julian's eyes sparkled.

"A special place. You'll like it."