Escape My Father's Best Friend's Obsession

Two o'clock in the afternoon, SoHo Gallery.

I was adjusting a David Hockney print on the wall, wearing a beige turtleneck sweater, an A-line skirt that fell past my knees, and makeup so subtle it was barely visible—the "pure and flawless" look Caelius demanded.

My phone buzzed.

I instinctively pulled it out, expecting his punctual afternoon greeting.

But what flashed on the screen was a news alert from The Wall Street Journal—

"Financial Mogul Caelius Blackwood Engaged to Media Heiress Helena Ashford, Union of Two Business Empires Rocks Wall Street"

In the photo, his hand gently cupped Helena's face, those silver-gray eyes gazing at her with tenderness. She wore a white Chanel suit, her smile elegant and poised.

And me?

I stood in the gallery wearing the conservative sweater he'd chosen, like a pet waiting for its master to come home.

I looked down at myself—dust on my hands, grime under my nails from adjusting the frames, my fingers bare and empty.

She got the engagement ring and the world's blessings.

What did I get? Eight years of secrecy and the lie of "we'll go public after you graduate."

She was the future Mrs. Blackwood.

What was I? A rat hiding in the basement, never to see daylight?

"No... impossible..."

Crash!

The crystal vase slipped from my hands, shattering on the marble floor.

Blood.

Crimson blood flowed from my palm, cut by glass shards, dripping onto the white floor like some cruel sacrifice.

"You bastard..."

My voice echoed through the empty gallery, then broke into suppressed sobs. At my feet lay the remains of the vase—worth fifty thousand dollars. Sarah would kill me.

But so what?

Compared to the agony of my heart being torn apart, what was fifty thousand dollars?

"Evelyn? My God, what happened?!" Sarah's scream came from across the room.

I looked up at her horrified expression. What did she see? A trembling, blood-covered madwoman with hollow eyes?

"Nothing." My voice was mechanically calm, terrifyingly so. "Just slipped."

"Slipped? Look at your hand! I'm calling an ambulance—"

"No!" I shouted, then realized my outburst and lowered my voice. "I said I'm fine."

I clutched my bleeding palm and rushed to the restroom, slamming and locking the door behind me.

The woman in the mirror was frighteningly unfamiliar.

Pale as paper, empty eyes, and that eerie smile at the corner of my mouth—when had I started smiling?

"Eight years." I spoke to my reflection, my voice trembling. "Eight whole years, Evelyn. What were you waiting for?"

At my parents' funeral when I was fifteen, he walked toward me in a black suit. Those silver-gray eyes looked at me with gentleness for the first time: "Don't be afraid. I'll take care of you forever."

Liar.

On my eighteenth birthday night, he pressed me into the sofa in Blackwood Manor's study, kissing me until I could barely breathe: "You're mine, Evelyn. Always."

Liar!

Every weekend throughout my four years of college, he would pick me up. When I asked when he'd make our relationship public, he always said: "After you graduate, baby. We need to take it slow."

Fucking liar!!

I punched the mirror.

The glass didn't break, but my knuckles began to bleed. The pain cleared my head a little, but also made me angrier.

Buzz.

My phone vibrated again.

A text from Caelius: [Come to Blackwood Manor tonight. I need to talk to you.]

I stared at those words on the screen and suddenly laughed out loud.

How would the old me have reacted to this message?

My heart would have raced, I would have immediately fixed my appearance, checked my makeup in the mirror to make sure it hadn't smudged, nervously wondering what he wanted to say—was he finally going to make our relationship public? Was he going to take me to some important dinner?

I would have left an hour early, afraid to keep him waiting.

I would have practiced in the car how to speak, how to smile, how to be a girl "worthy of him."

I would have arrived at the manor like a little dog waiting for its master's touch, looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to say "my good girl is home."

How pathetic.

How ridiculous.

How fucking disgusting.

He needed to talk to me? About what? To tell me he was getting married but I could still be his mistress? To tell me Helena was just a business arrangement and I was the one he truly loved?

Or like every time before, look at me with those silver-gray eyes and say: "Evelyn, you know you're the one I care about most"—then press me into bed, and after finishing, have the driver take me back to that monitored apartment?

"Go to hell."

My finger hovered over the delete button.

Trembling.

It was our first photo together—taken secretly on my eighteenth birthday night in Blackwood Manor's study while he held me. I remembered the moonlight that night, remembered how tender he sounded when he said "you're mine."

My finger shook harder.

Delete? Really delete?

Eight years of memories, erased with one touch?

No.

I took a deep breath and pressed delete firmly.

The photo vanished.

Then the second one, the third... My hand stopped shaking.

By the last photo, my fingers were ice-cold and steady.

Chat history.

Call logs.

One by one, clean and efficient.

With each deletion, my heart broke a little more.

But simultaneously, an unprecedented rush of euphoria was rising—the euphoria of breaking free from a cage.

The Evelyn who would lose sleep all night over one text from Caelius was dead.

"Evelyn?" Sarah knocked on the door. "Are you okay? I'm really worried..."

I took a deep breath, turned on the faucet to wash the blood from my hands. The wound was still bleeding, but I didn't care anymore.

"Great." I opened the door and flashed Sarah a perfect smile. "Never been better."

She handed me a band-aid, her eyes full of suspicion: "Are you sure? Do you want to go home early?"

"No need. I still have work to finish."

For the next few hours, I worked like a robot—organizing artwork, greeting clients, processing orders. Everyone who saw me said I was particularly efficient and professional today.

No one knew my heart had completely collapsed.

At six PM sharp, I clocked out.

The familiar black sedan was parked outside the gallery, driver Tom already holding open the rear door.

"Miss, the boss is waiting for you."

The old me would have obediently gotten in the car, like a tamed little deer.

But that Evelyn was dead.

"How long has he had you watching me, Tom?" I stopped at the car door, my voice cold as ice.

Tom's expression froze: "Miss, I don't understand what you mean..."

"Stop pretending!" I cut him off. "GPS tracking? Phone surveillance? Or are there bugs in this car too? Tell me, Tom, how much did Caelius Blackwood pay to keep me imprisoned?"

"Miss, the boss is just concerned about your safety..."

"Safety?" I laughed coldly, pulling out my phone and waving it in front of him. "Or is he worried about what 'irrational' thing I might do after seeing today's news?"

Tom's silence was answer enough.

"Tell him not to worry anymore." I turned and walked away. "The game is over."

"Miss! Mr. Blackwood, he..."

"Get lost!"

That shout made everyone on the street turn to look. I didn't care. Let them look, let all of New York look.

It was the first time I'd ever said "no" to anyone connected to Caelius.

The feeling... was fucking incredible.

When night fell, I stood below my apartment building, looking up at my third-floor window.

Behind the curtains, the red light of the surveillance camera was blinking.

Was he watching me? At this very moment, was Caelius sitting in Blackwood Manor's surveillance room, looking at my image on the screen, thinking about how to "handle" me?

I pulled out my phone and dialed his number.

The phone rang.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

I could imagine his expression when he saw the caller ID—first surprise, then relief, finally that confident smile of someone who controlled everything.

Just before it was about to connect, I hung up.

Then turned off the phone.

"This is just the beginning, Caelius." I turned toward the subway station, a cold smile curving my lips. "You taught me what suffering means. Now I'm going to return the favor."

The subway roared into the station, and I walked into the car and sat down.

Lights flashed past the windows, the thundering of wheels filled my ears. I closed my eyes and suddenly thought of a question—

When did it all really begin?

Eight years ago.

The night of my eighteenth birthday.

The night I thought I would finally have his heart.