Chapter 2

I walked fast, but I didn't make a sound.

Two minutes later, the message was "recall" in the chat window.

Like he'd suddenly regretted lying to me.

I stared at the line that read "The other person recall a message," my throat tightening.

I pretended I never received anything at all and didn't reply, cooperating, just like always.

Truth was, I should've expected this long ago.

That night Vincent was showering, I accidentally found an encrypted folder on his phone —"Progress."

Inside were ninety-six videos.

Every single one matched a time I'd been "pranked."

Searching for the bracelet in the rainy night. The fever. The competition I got stood up for. The times he "got the time wrong." The drafts that got ruined. The humiliation I swallowed until my teeth ached...

All of it was treated like levels in a game, recorded and archived.

The password was Sienna's birthday: 12/24.

He lied to me and said it was the day he first met me.

Last December 24th, I stood in the snow waiting for him for three hours, clutching two cups of hot cocoa, sending message after message: "Where are you?"

By the time my lips turned purple from the cold, he finally showed up, wrapped his scarf around my neck one loop at a time, and murmured,

"Sorry. Something came up."

The truth of that "something" was: he was at the White family's villa putting a birthday crown on Sienna, lighting candles, filming videos—and he didn't remember I was in the snow outside until it was late at night.

Back then, I thought his scarf was warm.

Now I knew it wasn't cherishing.

It was compensation. Dismissal.

A bone tossed to a dog.

My fingers trembled as I opened his pinned chat with her. My heart slammed against my ribs, again and again.

In that pinned conversation, he reported "progress" to Sienna almost every day:

[Today I told her I had to work late. Actually I took you to Disney World. She waited at the house until 3 a.m. I'm dying of laughter.]

[I deliberately told her the competition time was two hours later. The way she ran out in her pajamas was so funny.]

The last one stopped on the day of the class reunion.

That day, Sienna "accidentally" spilled scalding coffee, and Vincent reflexively reached out to shield me.

I was stupid enough to be moved, thinking: at least, when in danger, he chooses me.

But in the chat log it said:

[Just touching her feels dirty. I went home and sprayed disinfectant three times.]

In that instant, I finally understood.

What I thought was him "choosing" me was just his body's reflex.

His heart had never stayed with me for even a second.

I called my dad. On the other end of the line was the wind of a Paris night, mixed with cafe music.

"Dad," I forced my voice to stay steady, "I want to come live with you. I want to immigrate to Italy."

There was a beat of silence, then his voice brightened with joy he couldn't hold back:

"Baby, you finally came around!"

My nose tingled. I clenched my teeth and only managed a quiet "Mm."

Five years ago, after mom died, he moved his business to Italy—the place where they fell in love.

He said he wanted to stay there with her.

And I stayed in America for Vincent. I refused to study abroad. I turned down my dad's invitations again and again. I barely saw him all year.

I used to think I could warm Vincent's ice into something tender.

I forgot one thing:

Ice melts into nothing but cold water.

The "true love" I threw myself into like a moth to flame was just a "prank game" for a group of people around a table.

And I was the joke Vincent used to please the woman he loved and to keep his balance in the family.

I inhaled. My voice finally went completely cold:

"Dad, when I leave... help me do one thing."

His tone turned sharp with caution. "What is it?"

I stared down the dim wall sconce at the end of the hallway like it was an invisible exit, and I spoke slowly:

"Arrange the news that I'm already dead," I said. "Make them believe I died in a plane crash. I want to disappear from Vincent Jones's world completely."

He didn't understand why I'd do it. The line went quiet for a long time, but in the end, he still agreed.

"Claire," my dad said low, "are you sure?"

My throat tightened. I answered with a soft "Yes."

A plane crash.

That would be my final gift to Vincent Jones.

And the name "Claire Bennett”, I would make him spend the rest of his life regretting it.