Chapter 1

At 3:40 a.m., my Maybach drove into the private driveway in Beverly Hills.

The moment the engine turned off, I didn't get out of the car immediately.

The $80 million mansion was unusually quiet under the moonlight—quiet in a way that seemed off.

I opened the car door, and the California night breeze carried the scent of cheap men's cologne.

It wasn't the Creed Silver Mountain Water I use, but some kind of cheap stuff you can buy at an airport duty-free shop.

The smell lingered in the air, as if someone was deliberately announcing something.

As I stepped into the entryway, the crystal chandelier automatically turned on.

Everything seemed normal—the Italian marble floor was spotless, the original Monet painting on the wall was still in its place, and Chloe's favorite bouquet of preserved roses from Ecuador sat on the entryway.

But my gaze lingered on the entrance to the wine cellar.

The thermostat door was ajar, and the number on the temperature display made me frown—22 degrees Celsius.

I remember it very clearly; the optimal storage temperature for the Bai Ma Zhuang wine stored there from 1947 was 12 degrees Celsius.

Someone tampered with the wine cellar and had no idea about the rules.

I didn't say anything, but went to the study and brought up the mansion's security monitoring system.

This system is a conglomerate-level configuration, with sixteen hidden cameras, so well that even the cleaning lady is unaware of their existence.

I opened the video from yesterday afternoon.

In the picture, Chloe, wearing the La Perla lace nightgown I gave her last month, walks into the living room arm in arm with a young man. The man is in his early twenties, wearing a tight T-shirt that reveals the muscles he's built up at the gym.

I recognize him—Zach Lane, the young heartthrob who recently became a sensation in that Netflix teen drama.

Chloe's smile was exaggerated, not the kind of professional smile that only appears in front of the camera.

She stood on tiptoe, hooked her finger under Zach's chin, and said something. Zach lowered his head, and the two kissed.

I stared blankly at the surveillance footage , feeling no anger, no heartache, not even surprise.

It's like reading an experimental report whose results you already knew.

The scene continues. They kiss from the living room to the bedroom, their clothes scattered all over the floor.

Chloe's acting was as exaggerated as ever; her moans sounded so artificial, like something out of a third-rate pornographic film.

I fast-forwarded to the next morning.

Zach, shirtless, looked around the bedroom like a nouveau riche touring a mansion.

He walked into my walk-in closet, picked up a Vacheron Constantin watch, played with it for a moment, and then casually tossed it back into place.

Then he saw the safe.

"What's in here?" Zack asked.

Chloe yawned as she walked over, casually typing in the password—her birthday, which I'd never changed. "They're all old relics, the junk that Arthur, that damn mama's boy, insisted on keeping."

She opened the safe, and Zach's eyes lit up.

He picked up the brooch—a Victorian blue diamond brooch, my mother's most prized possession. The 12-carat aquamarine center diamond was surrounded by 82 smaller diamonds, its craftsmanship so exquisite that even the British Museum offered to acquire it.

"Is this true?" Zack asked.

"Of course it's fake." Chloe laughed dismissively. "Arthur's just a paid personal assistant; how could he afford the real thing? You can find tons of these cheap rhinestones on Taobao for three hundred yuan."

Zach looked at the brooch with some disappointment.

"But the craftsmanship is quite exquisite." Chloe suddenly leaned closer and said in a condescending tone, "How about I give it to you? Consider it a souvenir."

"Is it really okay?"

"Of course. They're just taking up space anyway." Chloe waved her hand. "My husband's a tasteless pauper, he's always clinging to these fakes like they're treasures."

Zack smiled, pinned the brooch to his T-shirt, and looked himself over in the mirror. "Then I won't be polite, honey."

"Take it," Chloe said, leaning against him. "Once I dump that loser, you can have whatever you want."

The monitoring ends here.

I turned off the screen, leaned back in my chair, and lit a cigarette. The smoke rose slowly in the dim light of the study, and I stared at it, my mind calm.

Five years have passed.

Five years ago, I met Chloe at a charity gala.

At that time, she was a struggling third-tier actress in Hollywood, drinking with the producer until she had a stomach hemorrhage for a supporting role with only three lines.

I watched her squatting outside the bathroom, vomiting, her makeup smeared with tears, and suddenly I found this woman quite interesting.

It's not because she's pretty—I've seen plenty of women prettier than her.

It was not because of the ambition and resentment in her eyes, but because of the wild beast trapped in a cage, desperately trying to break free.

I wondered what she would become if given the chance.

So I concealed my identity and approached her under the guise of a "personal assistant," helping her land a leading role at Universal Pictures, introducing her to top agents, and even using my family's resources to propel her to the position of Oscar-winning actress.

I thought I was conducting a social experiment.

Now it seems the result is quite obvious.

I stubbed out my cigarette, took out my phone, and dialed a number.

"Mr. Rockwell," the voice on the other end of the phone said respectfully, "What can I do for you so late?"

"Matthew," I said, looking out at the night sky, "prepare a divorce agreement for me."

"Understood. Do I need a clause requiring me to leave with nothing?"

"No," I said, "Let her take what she deserves—which is zero."

There was a two-second silence on the other end of the phone. "Sir, Ms. Chloe's assets..."

"They're all under a trust, right?"

"Yes, sir. The mansions, sports cars, jewelry—all the high-value assets are under the ownership of the Rockwell family trust. Ms. Chloe only has the right to use them."

"Very good," I said. "Also, give me a list of all the projects and endorsements she's currently in talks with."

"A Universal trilogy, a Netflix limited series, and a global ambassadorship with Bulgari," Matthew said quickly. "What do you need me to do?"

"Make them all disappear."

"clear."

I hung up the phone, and it immediately vibrated. A text message.

Chloe: "Arthur, come to the set at 10 AM tomorrow. I'm shooting promotional photos for Bulgari. Remember to bring me some bird's nest. Oh, and I gave away that fake brooch you bought; it was just taking up space anyway. You don't mind, do you? It's cheap stuff, and buying another one wouldn't cost much."

I stared at the text message for a few seconds.

Then I replied with a single word.

Me: "Okay."

send.

I stood up, walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, and looked down at the myriad lights of Los Angeles. The city remained vibrant even at night, its neon lights flashing like countless greedy eyes.

I suddenly remembered what my mother said to me before she passed away.

"Arthur, remember, never have unrealistic expectations of anyone. Human nature cannot withstand the test, especially those you have done favors for."

At the time, I didn't think much of it.

Now I understand.

I picked up my phone and dialed Matthew's number again.

"gentlemen?"

"We'll start tomorrow," I said, "and then we'll close the net."