Chapter 4

The car window rolled down, and Lucien's face emerged from the shadows, half-hidden in darkness. His eyes were unfathomably deep, like dark pools that draw you in, but I could see the unwavering determination within them.

"Get in, Felicity." His voice was soft, yet carried an authority that brooked no refusal.

"I thought you were still at the hospital with Sabrina." I stood my ground, unmoving.

"That's not important. What matters is that you need me now."

I glanced back at the mining town, recalling my mother's earlier words: "Don't put on those pretentious airs," and the phrase that cut deepest: "Besides him, who else would want a woman from your background?"

It seemed everyone viewed me as a burden, a nuisance, an ungrateful wretch. Everyone except him.

I finally opened the car door and slipped into that luxurious yet cold space.

Lucien reached over to ruffle my hair, pressing a kiss to my forehead. The kiss was light and cold, as if claiming ownership.

"Stop using psychological issues as an excuse to run from reality." His voice was calm as he started the engine. "Next time, I won't have the patience to come looking for you."

I leaned back in the seat, my head buzzing with thoughts, wondering why he still wouldn't believe me. I really was sick. The doctor's diagnosis, the daily medications, the sleepless nights and uncontrollable hallucinations—none of it was fabricated.

But he only saw Sabrina's pain, only believed she deserved sympathy and understanding. While I, in his eyes, would forever be the one who was "too strong to have any problems."

The next morning, I found myself at a high-end jewelry boutique on Bond Street.

Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead, each ray of light a reminder of the extravagance surrounding us. Lucien gracefully pushed open the glass door and nodded to the staff.

"Mr. Yardley! Welcome!" The store manager rushed over immediately. "Your fiancée is absolutely stunning!"

"We need to upgrade the engagement ring." Lucien casually pointed to several pieces in the display case, each with six-figure price tags. "These would all work—appropriate for the Yardley family status."

I tried on those cold diamonds with the staff's assistance, each one feeling as heavy as shackles. Lucien held my hand before the mirror, examining it as if appraising a piece of art.

"You've lost weight recently, Felicity." He kissed my fingertips. "Don't let stress affect your appetite. We're getting married—we can't let others see any cracks."

The staff discreetly stepped aside. Lucien personally fitted different styles on my finger, each time as if marking territory.

"Which one do you prefer?" he asked.

Before I could answer, he'd already decided: "The largest one then—eye-catching enough. People will know at a glance that you're spoken for."

I stared at the massive diamond on my finger, emotions churning within me. Yes, now everyone could see I was "spoken for." But why did I feel like I'd been tagged with a price tag?

At lunch, we went to the restaurant atop The Shard, with all of London's financial district spread below us. I remembered my university days, only able to watch from afar as he dined with other aristocratic girls on campus.

This time, Lucien pulled out my chair and ordered the most expensive set menu.

"From now on, this will be our everyday life." He cut into his wagyu beef, voice gentle. "Taste, status, respect—these are all yours by right."

At a nearby table, a middle-class couple was celebrating their wedding anniversary, the woman's eyes sparkling with tears of joy. Watching them, I felt an inexplicable pang of envy.

Lucien noticed my gaze and reached for my hand: "When we're married, we'll celebrate like this every year, even better. I'll give you the very best of everything."

"The very best?"

"Of course. You deserve it all, Felicity. You've proven that through your own efforts."

After lunch, we passed volunteers collecting donations for a children's hospital. On impulse, Lucien made a donation in my name, and we posed for a photo together. The staff member excitedly said they'd send us the activity photos.

"Look how well-matched we are." Lucien studied our image on the camera screen, nodding with satisfaction. "The perfect golden couple."

By evening, we boarded Lucien's private yacht.

The Thames rippled gently, but the sky was growing overcast—no romantic sunset as expected, only heavy clouds pressing down overhead.

When we reached the highest deck, I began feeling dizzy. I couldn't tell if this was seasickness or if the hallucinations were starting again; the world swayed unsteadily before my eyes.

I gripped the railing tightly, struggling to maintain balance. Lucien stood behind me, hands resting on my shoulders.

"What's wrong? Feeling unwell?"

"I'm fine." I forced a smile. "Just a bit tired."

I realized that Lucien's patronizing attention was the only lifeline I could grasp. But why did I always feel like I was sinking? Why did this sense of "being needed" feel so oppressive?

We drifted on the river for a long time before returning to the dock. As night fell, the clouds finally began to rain.

In the car on the way back, I silently watched raindrops on the window. Perhaps Lucien sensed my low mood, or perhaps he felt he needed to do something to demonstrate his "thoughtfulness."

Back at Lucien's penthouse, he insisted on cooking some home cooking for me.

"Tonight I'll cook—you rest."

He stood in the gleaming, rarely-used modern open kitchen, completely at a loss. I watched him fumble with the appliances, nearly burning the steak.

With a sigh, I efficiently took over the prep work, rescuing the poor piece of meat. From my days in the mining town, cooking had become second nature to me.

Lucien leaned helplessly against the counter, watching me work: "Looks like I chose the right person."

His tone carried a sense of "getting good value," as if I were a carefully selected commodity.

We sat down to this simple pan-seared steak as a late-night snack, and he nodded approvingly: "Not bad at all. This is the feeling of home I want."

In the living room, we sat at opposite ends of the leather sofa, separated by a glass coffee table. Close, yet distant.

I'll admit, up until that moment, I was almost convinced by this feeling of "being needed."

Maybe this was the best I could hope for. Maybe mother was right—besides him, who else would want someone like me?

Suddenly, the doorbell rang frantically, accompanied by heavy pounding.

Lucien frowned as he got up, peering through the peephole. His expression changed instantly.

He opened the door to reveal a woman, soaked through, her makeup streaked and ruined. Her hair clung to her face, and her eyeshadow had smeared into dark patches from rain and tears.

"Sabrina?" Lucien tried to stay composed, but his voice was clearly tense. "It's so late—what happened?"