04

Calvin's POV

Rothschild Foundation headquarters.

I stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows, holding a cup of coffee that had long gone cold, quietly gazing at London's eternally burning lights, lost in thought.

Tonight, Mia Sterling sat in another man's car, passing through the rainy night, being driven home.

"Calvin."

My father's voice surfaced from the depths of memory, carrying that bone-deep authority that could make one's spine tighten without raising his voice.

Three months ago, in this very room, at that mahogany desk behind me, he pushed the family trust seal toward me.

"You should have had enough fun." That's what my father said at the time. He stared at me with a serious expression, his eyes containing an authority that didn't allow me to object.

In his perception, everything I'd done during these five years away from the family could be dismissed with that single word.

Backpacking was "playing around," getting a degree unrelated to finance was "playing around." Squeezing into a 30-square-meter rental and sharing a kitchen with others was probably just some kind of performance art willfulness in his eyes.

I didn't argue back.

He thought these five years were about playing, escaping, squandering the freedom the Rothschild name brought me.

He didn't know what I'd lost, or rather, he simply didn't care what I'd lost, as long as I was willing to sit in this chair now and keep the family business running. That was enough.

As for my mental health and such, I don't think that was within his consideration.

In the Rothschild family's discourse system, "mental health" itself was too plebeian a term.

"Mr. Rothschild."

Henry's voice pulled me back to reality. He was standing in front of the desk, holding a tablet ready to report.

He'd probably waited at the door for a while, waiting for me to emerge from some state he couldn't understand but was tactful enough not to disturb.

This was his greatest virtue and why I chose him—people serving the Rothschild family needed to learn when to be blind and deaf.

"The withdrawal procedures with Sotheby's have been completed. 'Lady with a Fan' will be returned to the original collector for a new provenance review."

He swiped the screen. "Also, the guest list for next week's charity auction has been confirmed. Ethan Blackwood from Blackwood Gallery will attend, bringing an assistant."

He paused, clearly having anticipated my next question and prepared the answer in advance: "The assistant's name is Mia Sterling."

"Arrange her seat next to mine."

Henry's eyebrows moved almost imperceptibly—probably the limit of his expression management. "Sir, Miss Serena Vance was originally arranged on your right."

"Move her to the second seat." I waved my hand impatiently.

"Yes."

Henry made a note on the tablet, put away the device, bowed slightly, then turned and left.

I walked to the safe on the wall and entered the password. Inside were no jewels, no important documents, only an old sketchbook.

The cowhide cover was badly worn, the corners curled and fuzzy, two of the binding threads on the spine were broken, and the edge of one page even poked out a little.

I gently took out the sketchbook and turned to the last page.

The paper showed a drawing of me.

Mia's brushwork had a special quality—not exactly refined, even crooked in some places, but she could always capture something others couldn't.

In the drawing, I was standing in front of the kitchen stove, wearing an apron washed nearly white, my profile illuminated by warm light from the flame, holding a small pot with mulled wine pears about to finish reducing.

Next to it was a line written in pencil, the handwriting already somewhat blurred.

"Mulled wine pears, the most delicious lie in the world."

Back then, the apartment kitchen we lived in was so small you couldn't turn around. She insisted on squeezing in to help me, and ended up clumsily knocking over a bottle of red wine, half of it spilling on the floor tiles. When she crouched down to wipe it up, she laughed so hard she couldn't straighten up, saying look, look, even the wine doesn't want to be cooked. I asked what should we do then, she said we still have to cook it, worst case we'll just add more sugar.

Later she took a bite of the stewed pear, looked at me with squinted eyes, and said Calvin, you know, mulled wine pears are the most delicious lie in the world. When pears are cooked soft they don't taste like pears anymore, and when you add too much sugar it doesn't taste like wine anymore. Just like between us, we've mixed in too many things we shouldn't have, and in the end no one can say what it really is.

At the time, I thought she was just making a witty remark and didn't take it to heart.

Only later did I understand that every word she said was serious.

Five days ago, at Christie's preview, I recognized her at first glance.

Mia seemed not much different from five years ago, just a bit thinner and more efficient.

I actually wanted to ask her who that person who could give her security was, but I ultimately didn't ask.

Because I was afraid the answer was real, afraid she had really found someone else, afraid she really considered me a past that needed forgetting, afraid the light in her eyes was shining for another person.

So I became a deserter too. Using the withdrawal as an excuse, using the Rothschild patriarch's authority as armor, I left even faster than her, my posture more decisive, as if this could prove I was the one who didn't care.

Deep down, I always thought Mia was lying, that she made up excuses to spite me.

What lack of security, what I couldn't give her the life she wanted—it was all just a dignified way of saying she thought I was poor.

So I told myself over and over: she's vain, she wronged me.

Now she's gotten her wish sitting in a rich man's car. She's not worth any more of my thoughts.

But if that's really the case, why did I lose control tonight?

When I saw that Rolls-Royce stop at the gallery entrance, when I saw that curly-haired man open the car door for her, when I saw her turn her head and smile in the car—

My hand gripping the steering wheel tightened violently, my foot pressed down on the accelerator uncontrollably.

The engine roared as I shot through two intersections. When I came to my senses, I'd been sitting in the darkness, gasping for a while.

My heartbeat was impossibly fast then, my palms full of sweat.

I let out a heavy breath, put the sketchbook back in the safe and locked it, then drove back to my Kensington apartment.

In the apartment, besides the housekeeper, there was only a golden retriever. The space was so empty you could hear your own footsteps echoing in the hallway.

As soon as I opened the door, the little golden retriever came up to me, wagging its tail and rubbing against my pants.

I crouched down and vigorously rubbed its head. Its name was Sunny, a three-year-old golden retriever with beautiful coloring and a very friendly personality.

"Calvin! When we have a big house someday, let's get a big dog, okay!"

Those were words Mia said on a winter evening.

We were squeezed together on the secondhand sofa in that small apartment. She was nestled in my arms playing with her phone when she suddenly held up a photo of a golden retriever to my face, saying we should get one in the future.

I agreed with a smile at the time, because back then I thought this promise would be easy to keep, believing our big house together was just a future that would inevitably come, that nothing could separate us.

Only later there was a big house, and a big dog too, but the person who said she wanted to name the dog Sunny was gone.

I straightened up and looked toward the large mirror in the entryway.

The person in the mirror wore a bespoke suit, a snow-white crisp shirt collar, the family crest pinned to his chest. Everyone knew who this was—

The head of Rothschild, helmsman of a billion-dollar trust, the new face of Old Money, the subject of competing reports by major financial media.

But in my eyes, all I saw were shadows of myself five years ago when I was playing the poor student.

I never expected that what started as a whim of pretending would lead me to meet someone I still can't forget.

Only, all lies eventually exact their price.