Chapter 2

Spring came quickly.

After Christmas Eve, the relationship between Ella and me changed subtly. She wasn't exactly warm, but she no longer treated me like a tool.

At least, she would occasionally ask one more question.

"What do you do on weekends?" she asked casually one Friday afternoon in the car.

"Nothing."

"Don't you have friends?"

"No."

She glanced at me and didn't ask further. But she had her assistant order a case of beer and deliver it to my room. No card, no note. The assistant said, "Miss Hawke had this sent."

I put the beer in the fridge and didn't drink a single bottle. Not because I wasn't grateful, but because I wasn't sure if she honestly cared or if she was just doing what a "good boss" should do.

This uncertainty was more agonizing than clear indifference.

That spring, I started noticing a name: Lucas.

The first time was on her phone screen. I was standing behind her waiting for the elevator when she looked down to reply to a message, and the notification popped up—"Lucas: Miss you too." She flipped the phone over quickly, the movement unnaturally brisk.

The second time was at the company. A man in a light blue shirt appeared at the end of the corridor, and Ella's expression changed instantly—that change wasn't panic, or surprise; it was an instinctive physiological reaction. Pupils dilated, shoulders slightly back, the muscles at the corners of her mouth twitching upward involuntarily.

Her whole being lit up.

The man walked over, spoke a few words to her with a smile, and then looked at me.

"This is Kane, my security consultant," Ella introduced.

"Lucas Winter." He extended a hand.

I shook it. His hand was soft, nails neatly trimmed, wearing a silver ring on his ring finger.

Later, I looked him up. Thirty-one years old, oil family, businesses in Texas and Louisiana. Criminal record—DUI, resisting arrest, Las Vegas casino brawl. Every charge eventually went nowhere. Good lawyers, or good money.

But Ella didn't care. Or rather, she chose not to see it.

It took me months to confirm this fact. Not from her lips—she never mentioned Lucas. But from the gaps in her behavior.

For instance, she would suddenly zone out during meetings, staring out the window. That zoning out wasn't fatigue; it was a quiet state of being immersed in some memory. For instance, the suitcase she packed for business trips always contained a men's cashmere sweater that wasn't her size—dark gray, folded perfectly, hidden in a side compartment.

I never asked.

If I asked, I would be overstepping. The boundaries of a security consultant are clear: protect her body, do not touch her heart.

In the summer, something happened.

Lucas had racked up a gambling debt in Las Vegas. Not a small sum; the other side threatened to take his life. When Ella received the call, I was in the kitchen brewing coffee.

She took the call right in front of me.

"How much do you owe?" Her voice was low, heavy with suppressed anger.

The person on the other end said something.

"I’ll handle it." She hung up, stood there for a few seconds, then took a deep breath and dialed another number—her financial advisor.

"Transfer two million from my private account to..." She looked at me, stood up, walked to the balcony, and closed the door.

I didn't follow. But I saw her silhouette through the glass. She stood there, one hand on her hip, the other holding the phone, her shoulders slightly hunched.

That posture didn't look like a woman in control of an empire.

It looked like a single mother fixing a leaking pipe in the dead of night.

The next day, she flew to Las Vegas. Without me.

"Personal trip," she told me at the airport. Her assistant, driver, even the flight attendants on her private jet were left outside the cabin. Just her and Lucas, doors closed, flew for three hours.

I sat in the base office, staring at her schedule.

This was the second time. The first was that Christmas Eve when she chose to eat cake alone. But that wasn't "choosing someone else"—that time she just didn't want to socialize. This was different. This time, she chose to be with another person while leaving me outside.

Echo didn't appear. But I felt something quietly snap inside me.

On the day of the beginning of autumn, I worked late. After finishing a stack of security reports, I walked out of the office building and found Ella’s car still in its dedicated spot.

She hadn't left.

I hesitated, then walked toward her office. The light was still on.

The door was ajar. She was sitting behind her desk, holding a picture frame. In the photo was a young man standing on a yacht deck, laughing flamboyantly.

Lucas. A younger Lucas.

She didn't notice me. Her thumb stroked the glass surface of the frame back and forth, as if caressing a person's face.

I stepped back and returned the way I came.

In the elevator, I looked at my face in the mirror. Thirty-four years old, bridge of the nose broken twice, a scar on the left eyebrow, dark circles under the eyes from years of chronic sleep deprivation.

I suddenly remembered one thing: Ella had never looked at a photo of me. It wasn't that she didn't want to; it was that she had never asked me—"What did you look like before?"

In her eyes, I had no "before."

In September, Lucas came to Houston for a charity gala. Ella invited him, seated at the head table. My spot was in the corner, best for observing the room.

All night, she barely left his side.

When they danced, her hand rested on his shoulder, his arm around her waist. The lights dimmed; she leaned her head against his neck.

Everyone saw that dance. Including me.

When the dance ended, Ella looked toward my corner. Just a glance. There was something in her eyes—not guilt, not avoidance, but more like a confirmation—confirming that I was still standing there, confirming that I hadn't left yet.

Then she turned her head and hooked Lucas’s arm again.

I suddenly remembered what Echo had said: "The target’s emotional center is currently not on you. You need to win her heart, not her habits."

Habits. I was that habit.

After the gala, I drove back to the estate. Ella left in Lucas’s car. She didn't say goodbye to me.

At two in the morning, her headlights appeared at the estate gate. I stood behind the second-floor window, watching Lucas drop her off, kiss her forehead, and leave.

Ella stood at the door for a while. The streetlights stretched her shadow long and thin, dragging it on the ground like a lonely tail.

I had insomnia that night.

Not because she kissed someone else. It was because I was thinking, if I had never been sent by Echo on this mission, if I were just an ordinary person, meeting Ella Hawke in another city, another life—

Would she glance at me?

Or rather, would she even be able to see me?

The next morning, I met her in the kitchen. She was wearing her robe, hair in a mess, brewing coffee. Seeing me, she was stunned for a second, then smiled.

"Morning."

"Morning."

"How was last night's gala?" she asked, her tone as relaxed as talking about the weather.

"Everything was normal."

"That's good." She poured two cups of coffee and pushed one toward me. "Any plans for today?"

I picked up the coffee, looking at the heat rising in the cup.

"You have a board meeting at 3 PM," I said. "Tomorrow morning fly to New York to meet the Department of Defense procurement representative. The day after tomorrow..."

"Stop." She smiled and interrupted me. "I’m not asking about my schedule. I’m asking about yours."

I looked at her.

"You don't need to schedule it," I said. "I'm going with you."

Her smile paused. It didn't disappear; it just paused. Like a record skipping a frame.

Then she turned toward the dining table, back to me, and said, "You can take a day off occasionally, you know."

Not an order. Not a notice. A probe.

I stood in place, holding the coffee, not drinking it for a long time.

Because I suddenly realized a problem: When she said "You can take a day off occasionally," she wasn't giving me freedom. She was giving herself a reason to not see me every day.

My existence, to her, was a reminder. A reminder that someone was always watching her, a reminder that someone’s time was always revolving around her, a reminder that—

She owed me something.

But she didn't want to owe.

I set down the coffee cup.

"We'll see," I said.

The oak leaves outside the window had started to change color. Autumn was here.

And Lucas’s cashmere sweater was still in the side compartment of her suitcase.

I walked into my office and closed the door.

Sunlight leaked in through the slats of the blinds, drawing parallel lines on the wall. I stared at those lines for a long time.

The first time I was abandoned was that engagement night. She chose to fly away with Lucas, leaving me behind.

The second time I was abandoned was when she went to Las Vegas to handle his gambling debts, not bringing me.

The third time...

No. The third time hadn't come yet.

But I had already started counting.

That's the problem—when you start counting the number of times someone ditches you, you already know, it won't stop.