Run Away to the Ends of the Earth

The day Sabrina Vaughn returned to London, our company was hosting a mental health sharing session.

A group of colleagues sat listening intently, applauding the "recovery exemplar," when she clicked across the stage in her heels.

The woman wore a cream silk blouse, her chestnut hair swept into an elegant low chignon. She walked to the microphone in just a few steps, flashed a perfect smile, and let her gaze drift deliberately toward me:

"Some people just can't let go of their misfortunes."

"They wear their pain like an identity badge, playing the victim for life."

After finishing, she clasped her hands together elegantly, surveyed the room, and continued:

"True growth means learning to be grateful to those who taught you strength."

"Gratitude, not resentment."

The conference room erupted in thunderous applause.

The previously solemn atmosphere instantly turned electric.

She tilted her chin up slightly, smiling with confident arrogance—that expression I knew all too well. It was exactly the same as when she cornered me in the bathroom all those years ago.

After the sharing session ended, I hurried toward the restroom. I needed somewhere quiet to collect myself.

Just as I reached the restroom door, I heard familiar heels clicking behind me.

Sabrina had followed, deliberately raising her voice for passing colleagues to hear:

"This is the kind of woman your boss chose?"

"What interesting taste."

The hallway fell instantly silent.

The previous murmur of conversations stopped dead.

She held her head high, smiling with complete confidence, as if certain the man approaching from behind would still protect her just like before.

After a suffocating silence, Lucien walked over, pulled out a wet wipe, and gently dabbed away the tears of anger that had spilled from the corners of my eyes.

He looked at me with focused, tender eyes, as if the entire world mattered less than I did.

"Really? I think my taste is excellent."

"Sabrina, you'll get to see our engagement ceremony next week."

Apparently not expecting such a response, Sabrina's smile froze for an instant.

But quickly, she recovered that elegant smile. "Of course, I'm looking forward to it." She left after speaking, her heels clicking crisply down the hallway.

After she was gone, the watching colleagues awkwardly dispersed.

Lucien lowered his gaze, still looking at me with gentle warmth.

But as his hand moved away from my face, he added softly:

"Though... she's not entirely wrong."

Accompanying these words—spoken so low only I could hear—he still smiled with refined elegance. He patted my shoulder, his voice gentle and slow: "Let's go back to the office, shall we?"

I followed behind him, watching his straight back. Was this still the same Lucien who once stood up for me?

I remembered that evening from over ten years ago. Back then, he, who was normally so aloof, had actively defended me when I was being bullied.

The him who preferred avoiding trouble had willingly confronted that group of aristocratic daughters for my sake, telling them "Enough. Get out."

Even when I was trapped in the bathroom by Sabrina and her gang, he would push through the door.

"You're so well-bred, don't let people think upper-class education only teaches you this kind of behavior," he had said to Sabrina then.

Then he crouched down, helping me pick up my scattered books one by one. "You're worth more than any of them," he said softly.

Friends would always tease: "The Yardley heir actually standing up for a miner's daughter."

But I learned later that back then, Lucien's heart belonged to Sabrina.

His defense of me was merely a way to display his gentlemanly demeanor in front of her—wanting the girl he loved to see his sense of justice.

But proud Sabrina never truly looked at him.

So gradually, he discovered something else.

My gratitude, my dependence, my unreserved trust and adoration—these were things Sabrina had never given him.

So I transformed from a protected victim into a substitute for his emotional needs. A more obedient, more controllable version.

I remember what his friend said while drunk, pointing at me:

"He promoted you purely because he's trying to make up for the past."

"You think he really loves you? You're just an outlet for his guilt."

"Poor little substitute."

I didn't believe it then. Looking back now, all the signs were so obvious.

The weather had turned cooler these past few days, and Lucien had been coming home later and later because of the "mental health project."

But I had no standing to question anything, even though we were about to get engaged.

After all, Lucien paid my tuition, covered my treatment costs, and saved my life.

So I didn't even have the right to complain.

I sat at the dining table, staring at the dinner that had gone cold and the bottle of white pills, contemplating whether to reheat the food when Lucien returned.

He hung his coat in the entryway, turned to walk toward me, his eyes carrying fatigue but still that gentle smile.

"Massage my shoulders, future Mrs. Yardley." His tone was intimate and natural.

As if that afternoon's "she's not entirely wrong" had nothing to do with him.

I got up and walked toward him, having him sit on the sofa.

I stood behind him, my fingers pressing into the tense muscles of his shoulders.

He closed his eyes in enjoyment, occasionally letting out satisfied sighs.

"Sabrina officially signed her contract today," he suddenly said. "She mentioned wanting to talk with you privately, to clear up some past misunderstandings."

My hands paused.

"I think it's a good opportunity. After all, you'll be working at the same company now."

It wasn't until he grabbed my hand, pulling me into his lap, pressing against my cheek and whispering softly: "My good girl, you'll cooperate, won't you?"

In our adult years, this kind of intimacy had only existed between us. He was always this gentle and matter-of-fact.

This time, when his fingers inadvertently touched the marks on my wrist, his movements stopped.

We both knew how those scars came to be.

Years of self-harm from depression, healing marks from childhood trauma, and those that Sabrina had burned into my skin with cigarettes, one by one.

But no one had ever asked if they still hurt, including this man who claimed he wanted to marry me.