05

Mia's POV

Friday afternoon, archive room.

The air was filled with the mixed scent of old paper and desiccant. I was crouching in front of a file cabinet, organizing photos from last season's auction by date.

When the front desk intercom rang, I was wiping my fingers with a wet wipe.

"Mia, there's a delivery for you," Linda from the front desk's voice came through the receiver, her tone carrying a hint of gossipy excitement. "It's really big, I'm having someone send it up to you."

I frowned. I didn't remember ordering any delivery to the office...

"Is there a mistake—"

Before I could finish, Linda had already hung up.

Five minutes later, when the security guard appeared at the archive room door pushing a cart, I was nearly startled by the size. The box was half a person's height, standing squarely on the cart.

There was no logo on the box, no brand markings, no tracking number, only a gold-embossed card clipped to the packaging string.

I opened the packaging, and when I saw what was inside, I gasped.

Inside was a gown. Deep blue velvet flowed with a dark luster under the archive room lights, every line screaming expensive.

The card slipped from the packaging crevice and landed on the dress.

I picked up the card. Gold-embossed letters slightly raised under the light: "Charity Auction, Saturday 8 PM, We sincerely look forward to your attendance. —Rothschild Foundation"

Although the signature was the foundation, I immediately recognized it as Calvin's doing.

Ready to advance or retreat indeed.

"Wow!"

This voice startled me. The card nearly fell back into the box.

The receptionist had somehow come upstairs and was clinging to the door frame, her eyes wide as saucers, her jaw nearly dropping to her chest.

"Mia, who sent you this? It's so romantic!" Linda came closer, reaching out to carefully touch the gown's hem. "Oh my God, this dress looks so expensive. Did your boyfriend send it, or is it an admirer?"

"Wrong delivery," I said calmly, tucking the card back into the packaging crevice. "I'll contact them to return it."

"But the recipient clearly has your name written on it," Linda looked confused, tilting her head at me. "The person who delivered it specifically said your name, Mia Sterling."

I pulled at the corner of my mouth, wanting to smile to brush off this topic, but my facial muscles weren't cooperating, making my expression look somewhat frightening instead.

The awkward silence lasted two seconds. Linda probably finally read something from my expression, made an excuse about "things at the front desk," and scurried away.

The door closed again.

I carried the box to the innermost corner of the archive room, set it on the floor, and squatted down against the wall.

I hesitated for a long time, my finger sliding back and forth on my phone screen, but eventually pressed that number.

"Mia?" Zoe answered quickly. Leo's babbling voice came through in the background—probably feeding him dinner. "What's wrong? Are you off work yet?"

"Zoe," I lowered my voice, even though there was no one else in the archive room now, "he sent me a gown, for the auction."

The other end was silent for a full two seconds, then erupted in a shriek that made me hold the phone five centimeters from my ear.

"Wear it!" Zoe's voice was high and urgent, Leo hearing the commotion and humming nearby. "Mia, did you hear me? Wear this dress to the auction! This is your chance! Oh my God, I can't believe it!"

"Zoe—"

"Let me finish," she didn't give me a chance to interrupt, her words coming rapid-fire. "Go to the auction, talk to him, clear up the misunderstanding from five years ago. Tell him why you broke up, tell him about Leo, tell him those things you said weren't sincere—"

"Impossible." Perhaps my tone was too decisive, because Zoe finally stopped.

"Zoe, he's now the head of the Rothschild family." I said it word by word, as if repeating a fact to myself that needed constant reinforcement. "Not a poor student cooking mulled wine pears in a rental. He sent me this gown, maybe to watch me make a fool of myself in it, maybe to use this dress to remind me how big the gap between us is now, or maybe—"

Maybe just to humiliate me. These words stuck in my throat unsaid.

"Or maybe he just wants to see you." Zoe's voice suddenly softened, mixed with a low sigh.

Leo had probably been given a picture book or toy. The background quieted considerably.

"Mia, you left him back then to protect him, not because you didn't love him. You said those hurtful things because you were afraid he'd work even harder for you, you didn't want to be a burden to him. It wasn't because you didn't love him—it was precisely because you loved him too much."

Zoe paused. "Now he's right in front of you. Why are you running away?"

I closed my eyes, my eye sockets involuntarily moistening.

"Because I'm not sure if he still—" I gripped my phone tightly, my thoughts in complete chaos.

I wasn't sure if he still loved me, wasn't sure if he still hated me, wasn't sure if there was already someone else by his side, wasn't sure if this gown was an invitation or a declaration of war.

I was unsure about too many things, and any one of them was enough reason for me to run away.

"Do you regret it?" Zoe suddenly asked.

I froze.

"Leaving him back then, do you regret it?"

The archive room lights dimmed for an instant, then brightened again.

In that less-than-a-second flicker, I saw many things.

I saw that kitchen where you couldn't turn around, red wine bubbling in the pot, him wearing an apron and turning his head to taste, looking as serious as if doing something tremendously important.

I saw the bowl of mulled wine pears he brought to me, the pear flesh cooked to a translucent amber color, him nervously watching me taste it, waiting for my review.

I saw his back at two in the morning still hunched over materials and homework under the desk lamp, occasionally turning to glance at me to make sure he hadn't woken me.

I saw the disbelief in his eyes when I gritted my teeth and broke up with him.

"Regret." I heard my voice squeeze out from my throat, hoarse beyond measure. "Every single day I regret it."

Zoe on the other end was silent for a moment, then her voice became decisive again.

"Then go. Wear this gown, go to the auction, say what you really want to tell him." She paused, then added, "If you don't go, I'll take Leo to knock on the Rothschild family door. I mean what I say."

"Zoe—"

"Stop overthinking it." Zoe's tone suddenly softened, becoming again that sister who took me in when I was most devastated and helpless, who held my hand in the hospital and told me not to be afraid.

"And stop letting yourself continue to regret. You've already regretted for five years. That's long enough." With that, Zoe hung up.

I squatted in the corner, watching the phone screen gradually darken, but countless questions kept circling in my head.

Wear it or not. Go or not. Speak or continue staying silent.