Chapter 5 Have You Been Doing Well These Years

Celestial University was celebrating its 100th anniversary. They called it an anniversary celebration, but it was really more like a huge social party. The campus was full of alumni in suits and ties, standing in small groups, holding champagne glasses. The air had this smell of money mixed with fancy degrees. Everyone was polite, but everyone also kept their distance.

Emily walked alone down the tree-lined path decorated with donation banners from different graduating classes, feeling like an outsider.

But still, this place had way more warmth than the Smith Villa—that ridiculously huge, ice-cold mansion. The trees here, the red brick walls, even the sparrows by the roadside felt more welcoming than those marble floors so shiny you could see your reflection in them.

"Emily?"

A man's voice came from behind her, gentle and a bit uncertain.

Emily turned around and saw a familiar face. It was John Williams. A former classmate who was now the youngest associate professor at the music school. He wore gold-rimmed glasses and looked more scholarly than he did back in school, but his eyes were still just as warm.

"John." She nodded at him as a greeting.

John pushed up his glasses, looked her over, and instead of asking the usual polite questions, he asked directly: "These years... have you been doing okay?"

Emily didn't say good or bad. She just pulled at the corner of her mouth, giving him a smile with no warmth: "Getting ready for a divorce."

John was clearly surprised for a moment, but just for a second. The surprise quickly turned into an "I see" kind of understanding. He was smart—he didn't ask why, just changed the topic: "Divorce might be good. Come back. The department just started a new chamber orchestra, and we really need a strong concertmaster. Before our teacher retired, the last time I saw him he was still talking about you, saying that the whole of Celestial University owes you a concertmaster position."

Emily's heart felt like something had gently bumped into it.

Concertmaster.

That was so far away, it felt like a past life. She'd been away from this world for seven whole years. Seven years where her hands touched not the bow, but cold kitchen utensils, James's favorite coffee, and the building blocks her son scattered all over the floor.

"I'm afraid..." she started instinctively, her voice a bit dry, "I'm afraid I can't do it anymore."

"What are you afraid of?" John cut her off directly, his tone carrying an unquestionable trust. "Our teacher's exact words were: 'Emily's hands were born for the violin. Never mind seven years—even if she didn't touch it for ten or twenty years, as soon as the bow touches the strings, her soul comes back.'"

Those words were like a rusty key that suddenly unlocked the door to Emily's heart that had been sealed for seven years. The hinges creaked, and seven years of dust came tumbling down.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened them again, the confusion and fear were gone, replaced by a fire that had been lit again.

"Okay." she said. "But I need a little time to handle the transition."

"No problem." John smiled, just like he did back in school, like an April breeze. "The whole orchestra is waiting for you."

The two chatted casually about old times for a bit, then John was called away by some alumni friends.

Emily was about to turn and head toward the concert hall when a sharp, impatient voice cut in.

"Emily, what are you dawdling around here for?"

James's sister, Cleo Smith, was somehow standing behind her. She had her arms crossed, chin held high, wearing designer brands from head to toe, with that arrogance typical of the Smith family written all over her face, like it was carved into her bones from birth.

"The nanny at home took the day off, and Erik is crying for your baked mac and cheese. Come back with me now, make it, and then you can call yourself a car to come back."

Her tone was like ordering a servant, so natural it couldn't be more natural. As if Emily had spent these seven years being nothing but an accessory to the Smith family.

Emily looked at her and suddenly found it really funny. How had she put up with this before?

She didn't move, her tone flat as a glass of water: "Cleo, you seem confused about something. First, I've already moved out of the Smith Villa. Second, I wasn't your family's nanny before, and I won't be in the future."

Cleo's expression froze. She looked Emily up and down, her eyes full of contempt: "You moved out? Emily, what game are you playing? Playing hard to get? That trick won't work on James. Take a good look at yourself—without the Smith family, what are you?"

In her eyes, all of Emily's resistance was just a cheap trick to get more money.

"What I am is none of your business." Emily said, then didn't even bother to look at her again and turned to leave.

"Stop right there!" Cleo's face turned ugly, her voice rising several notches, sharp and piercing. Several alumni who were chatting nearby all turned to look.

One woman who knew Cleo walked over in her high heels, glanced curiously at Emily's retreating figure, and asked: "Cleo, who's that?"

Cleo's face looked terrible, standing there awkwardly. She couldn't very well say in front of all these people that this was her disobedient brother's wife who was in the middle of a divorce, could she?

She forced a smile through gritted teeth and waved her hand: "Just a friend, that's all."

Emily's steps never stopped.

She didn't care anymore how Cleo saw her or what other people said about her. Just like a person doesn't care what the ants on the roadside think of them.

That evening, James brought Erik back to the empty mansion.

As usual, he casually tossed his car keys on the cabinet in the entryway, then habitually pushed open the master bedroom door.

Inside was pitch black.

There wasn't the usual dim bedside lamp on. And there wasn't that person who was always curled up in the corner of the sofa with a book, waiting for him to come home.

The bed was made perfectly, the blanket folded into a neat square, like a hotel room—cold and sterile, without a trace of that familiar scent.

James's heart felt like someone had scooped out a piece with a spoon, empty and uncomfortable in a way he couldn't describe.

"Mr. Smith." Echo was somehow standing at the door, head bowed respectfully.

"She still hasn't come back?" James's tone was a bit harsh, though he didn't notice it himself.

"Mrs. Smith hasn't been back since she left the day you returned." There was reproach in Echo's expression.

James laughed coldly: "Not coming home—I think she's just gotten wild, forgotten she's someone with a husband and a son."

In James's view, this was just an excuse for her to avoid responsibility, to not watch the kid at home or make him coffee at the office.

He snorted coldly, "If she's got the guts, she better never come back!"