02

Mia's POV

Zoe knew better than anyone how I'd gotten through these years.

Back then, I went to London to find her while pregnant, nearly scaring her to death. Then I gave birth to Leo and raised him alone until now...

"So what does Calvin mean now?" Zoe nudged me.

I hung my head, my voice soft, "Zoe, Calvin and I are impossible now."

Not to mention he hates me now, plus he's the head of the Rothschild family—I'm completely out of his league.

"I... I'm going to take a shower first." Not wanting to discuss this with Zoe anymore, I fled into the bathroom.

Hiding in the bathroom, I finally couldn't help but cry.

Over these five years, I'd imagined countless scenarios—maybe on a street corner in some city, or at an opening reception at some gallery—where we would run into each other by chance.

I would rush up to explain, would tell him we actually have a child, would beg him to forgive my lies from back then.

But when I saw him today, all those words got stuck in my throat, and I couldn't say a single one.

The way he looked at me now was exactly the same as when I broke up with him years ago—full of disappointment and disgust.

Moreover, even if I said it, would he believe me?

Even if he believed me, would he come back to me?

No, he hates me.

He might even already have a fiancée, a suitable match for an arranged marriage.

I crouched on the tile floor, letting the hot water pour down my back, sobbing until my whole body shook.

Zoe's footsteps approached the door. She waited a while, then gently knocked on the door frame. "Come out, Mia. Stop crying."

I didn't move because I didn't want her to see me in such a pathetic state.

Zoe waited a while longer. Seeing I wasn't moving, she quietly left.

The next day I didn't have to work, so I went to look at the company-provided apartment.

Although the decor was from the 1980s, it was clean, and only ten minutes' walk from the office. I was quite satisfied with it.

"Mommy, you're back?"

As soon as I returned to Zoe's apartment, Leo quickly ran up to me.

Leo is four years old this year. His eyes look very much like mine, but the contours of his brow bone already faintly show shadows of another person.

I changed my shoes and ruffled his soft hair: "Did you brush your teeth?"

"I did, and washed my face by myself too."

"Good boy." I crouched down to meet his eyes. "Go wake up godmother for breakfast, okay?"

"Okay!"

He pattered toward Zoe's room in his little crocodile slippers, knocking on the door while shouting: "Zoe! Zoe, wake up! Time to eat!"

Zoe came out with a head full of messy curls, vigorously rubbing Leo's face: "Little loudmouth, you're so noisy!"

Leo broke free and ran back to me.

I took his hand to the kitchen and arranged the croissants and scones I'd bought on the table.

After washing up, Zoe came over and stuffed a scone in her mouth. "Didn't you have the day off today? Why did you get up so early?"

"The company apartment is ready. I went to look at it today," I poured milk into Leo's cup, "The environment is good. I've decided to move there with Leo today."

Zoe's chewing slowed down. "Why the rush?"

"Well, I'll take advantage of having time today to get it sorted out quickly. Otherwise, if I get busy later, I'll have to keep bothering you, which would be awkward."

"What bother—"

"Zoe," I interrupted her, "You've already helped me so much."

She looked at me for a while without further persuasion: "Alright then, I'll drive you guys over in a bit."

The move went smoothly. We didn't have much stuff and packed up quickly.

Zoe busied herself helping us the whole time, first carrying boxes upstairs, then accompanying us to a nearby supermarket to buy new daily necessities.

I wanted to keep her for dinner, but Zoe suddenly had something come up at school, so I could only see her off with some regret.

Before leaving, she hugged me tightly, "Call me if anything comes up. I can come over anytime."

My heart warmed, and I nodded, "Okay."

The apartment wasn't large. I chose to set up Leo's room first, changing his sheets to his favorite deep blue ones with rocket patterns.

Leo arranged his picture books on the shelf one by one, then ran back to the living room to help me fold clothes.

"Mommy, where does this go?" Hearing his voice, I looked over. Leo was holding up a T-shirt that was obviously not my size.

I took it from him, and memories flooded in like a tide.

That was Calvin's T-shirt. He often wore it while cooking for me in the kitchen. In many of the photos I took of him, he was wearing this shirt.

When I was packing my luggage back then, I didn't take it out, and over five years I never threw it away.

"Mommy?" Seeing me spacing out, Leo called me again.

"Put it in the cabinet." I stuffed the T-shirt into the bottom drawer. "It's just an old shirt, I'll donate it another day."

Leo cheerfully responded and, after putting away the T-shirt, started folding his little socks.

I watched Leo's small figure, and my nose started to sting again.

He's always been especially sensible, never crying or fussing for his daddy. When other children ask, he just says daddy is working far away.

It's my fault.

On Monday, I finally completed all the work handovers and officially started working at the London headquarters.

Blackwood Gallery's Mayfair headquarters was much larger than the Hong Kong branch—a three-story Victorian building with uniformed doormen at the entrance.

I wore my only decent business suit and repeatedly checked my appearance in the elevator.

Ethan Blackwood's office was on the third floor.

The door was half-open. I knocked and walked in. He was standing by the window on the phone, his figure tall and slender, his curly hair somewhat flattened by London's humid air.

"Sit." He pointed to a chair and continued speaking fluent French to whoever was on the line.

I sat down and waited for him to hang up.

Ethan turned around, his bedroom eyes lingering on my face for two seconds: "Mia, didn't you sleep well over the weekend?"

"A bit of trouble adjusting to the new bed."

He smiled without pressing further and pushed a document toward me: "Next week's Sotheby's evening auction, you're coming with me. That batch of Impressionist collections needs revaluation reports. You're familiar with this field."

I took the document, feeling inexplicably uneasy.

"Problem?" Ethan keenly caught my expression.

"No," I lowered my head to flip through the document, "I'll finish it as soon as possible."

"No rush." He came around the desk and leaned against the edge, looking at me. "I heard someone from the Rothschild family came to the preview that day."

My fingers froze mid-page turn.

"Calvin Rothschild," Ethan's voice was light, "new chairman of the foundation, thirty-three years old, unmarried. You know him?"

"No." My answer came too quickly, making me seem guilty instead.

Ethan raised an eyebrow but didn't press further.

He straightened up and returned to his chair. "You can go. I'll call if I need anything."

I stood up. When I reached the door, his voice followed.

"Mia, the Rothschilds aren't easy to deal with. If you know them, that's good; if you don't—" he paused, "don't force yourself to get to know them."

I replied with a soft acknowledgment and closed the door.