5

Freya

I stopped in my tracks. The corridor was long, footsteps muffled in the carpet, wall sconces on both sides casting warm halos that couldn't warm their way inside.

In the second I stopped, my mind was racing—how much did he know, how long had he been standing there, did he actually guess that I had beaten up Field?

I turned around.

Fox Nelson stood there in the corridor, leaning against the wall in a casual posture, so casual it was like he was waiting for some old friend rather than having just witnessed a not-so-dignified incident.

"Yes, sir, I am a nurse." I answered frankly—there was nothing to hide about this.

"Freya Raphael," he began slowly, a faint curve at the corner of his mouth, "Kelan Fergus's niece, licensed private nurse at St. Mary's Hospital. Although you've only worked for five years, your ratings are extremely high." He paused. "You are an excellent lady."

I looked at him without speaking.

He knew my background so clearly—either he had investigated long ago, or he had specifically asked someone tonight. Either way, it meant this wasn't a spur-of-the-moment idea.

He took out a business card from his suit pocket and placed it in my palm, his movements unhurried, as if this were just an ordinary matter: "My mother's condition hasn't been good lately, emotional issues. The doctor diagnosed her with depressive tendencies and she needs someone to specifically look after her—both companionship and nursing care are needed." He said, "I'm considering hiring a private nurse for home service."

Hearing his purpose, I silently breathed a sigh of relief—so he wasn't looking to cause me trouble.

I lowered my head to look at the business card. Fox Nelson, gold lettering, thick paper with a heavy feel. On the back was printed a line of small text—the name of a famous investment firm.

"I need to think about it," I said. Kelan would interfere with whichever position I took.

"Of course," he nodded, "no rush. You can contact me after you've considered it." His expression was composed without any pressure, which made me relax.

I thought he was indeed a very gentlemanly man.

I tucked the business card into a hidden compartment of my purse, nodded slightly at him as acknowledgment, then walked around him toward the main hall.

The banquet hall was still buzzing with noise, everyone busy networking with each other. Everyone wore those false smiles on their faces, eyes hiding calculations, trying to extract useful information from others.

The crystal chandelier illuminated every smiling face brightly. Champagne formed tiny bubbles on the glass walls. The scents of fur and perfume mixed together—elegant yet somewhat stifling.

I stepped back into this sea of voices, my face resuming that obedient, soft, harmless smile.

Kelan appeared beside me almost immediately.

"Where did you run off to," he scolded in a low voice, his tone calm.

"The restroom," I said.

He glanced at me from head to toe. No obvious emotion, yet it made me feel like every inch of me had been examined. Then he frowned slightly, staring at the red mark on the back of my hand for several more seconds, but ultimately said nothing.

He turned slightly, placing a hand on my shoulder with just the right pressure, guiding me in another direction.

"Tracy is over there, follow me."

Tracy stood in the middle of a group of people, laughing loudly and forcefully, as if afraid others wouldn't notice her. I averted my gaze, lowered my head to suppress the corner of my mouth, and quietly shrank into the edge of the crowd.

Kelan introduced to the guests he knew: "This is my daughter Tracy. I believe you've all heard of her. Tracy is extremely talented in painting. Next month, her solo exhibition will officially open at the North Shore Gallery." He patted Tracy's shoulder, unable to hide his pride. "Everyone must come support her."

Appropriate exclamations arose from the crowd.

"My goodness, your daughter is truly exceptional, and so young."

"A genius. A true genius."

"Your family always impresses us."

Tracy's smile rose even higher. She turned to glance at me, something sharp flashing in her eyes before returning to that delicate appearance, saying softly: "Everyone flatters me. I still have far to go."

I stood at the edge of the crowd, holding a champagne glass, maintaining that safe smile at the corner of my mouth, but my mind was on another matter—most of the paintings in that exhibition were ghostwritten by me.

I was sixteen when I painted those landscapes. Kelan had me copy a batch of old works, saying it was practice, saying it was to let me experience techniques. I thought it was just one of his ways of managing me. Later I gradually understood that he kept those paintings for a purpose. Prices, sources—those clear brushstrokes hid a set of unclear accounting logic. Money washed in, flowed out, clean and untraceable.

And the signature hanging on the gallery wall was Tracy's.

I took a shallow sip of champagne and said nothing, just stood quietly in place, accompanying them in being praised, accompanying Kelan's satisfied smile, accompanying Tracy in accepting praise she didn't deserve.

"Freya is so well-behaved," Kelan suddenly turned to look at me and smiled, his voice not loud, just enough for me to hear, "standing aside being happy for Tracy, very good."

This was both praise and a warning—he was afraid I was unhappy inside, afraid I would expose that Tracy's paintings were done by me.

I wouldn't get angry. After all, those paintings had already been tainted, weren't clean anymore. When trouble came, Tracy would bear that responsibility too.

"Tracy is amazing, of course I'm happy." I raised my eyes and smiled at Tracy, my mouth curved obediently, but my eyes held no warmth.

Tracy lowered her eyes and cast me a triumphant smile—this was her moment of triumph.

The incident came very suddenly, so suddenly I didn't react at first.

Field squeezed through from the side of the crowd. His hair was somewhat disheveled, his tie crooked, the smile gone from his face. His eyes held embarrassment and some unclear resentment, like a drowned dog that had been shut out but wasn't willing to give up.

"Mr. Kelan," he spoke, his voice not loud but several people around heard, "Your niece Freya hit me!"

The air was quiet for about two seconds.

I didn't move, just raised my eyes to look at him calmly.

He looked at me too, his eyes holding hatred, embarrassment, and a hint of threat. He thought I would panic.

Tracy was the first to react, with startling speed.

"What?" She whipped around to look at me, her original smile disappearing completely, "Field, what did you say? She, she was actually so bold, she dared hit you!"

"In the restroom," Field straightened his shirt, lowering his voice, "I just said hello, and she suddenly attacked. My wrist still hurts." As he spoke, he lifted his wrist to show Tracy, revealing a slightly red mark. "I don't want to make this a big deal. After all, I'm a gentleman, and considering she's a woman I don't want to make an issue of it, but she shouldn't have attacked me when I let my guard down. This seriously hurt my dignity!"

Tracy's eyes immediately reddened.

That's how she was—tears came faster than any reasoning. No matter who was involved, no matter whether there was a problem with the situation, as long as Field frowned even slightly, her emotions could reach their peak within three seconds. She had maintained her relationship with Field for three years using this technique, probably thinking the same technique could solve all the world's problems.

"Freya," she turned to grip my arm, her eyes vicious as she demanded, "You bitch, did you seduce him in the bathroom!"