Chapter 4

I pull out the calm I've trained myself into these past weeks. "Help with what?"

Their engagement gala has a top-tier event planning team handling everything.

They don't need an ex-girlfriend stirring things up.

"Greet the guests. You know everyone at headquarters — keep them comfortable."

He exhales smoke. "Serena also thought it'd be nice for you to witness our happiness."

I let out a small laugh. That last part is the real point.

"Sure." I pull out my phone to take notes. "I'll confirm the details with you at the office tomorrow, Mr. Krest. If there's nothing else, can I go?"

His fiancée just left. He won't need me staying the night.

After all, a mistress only serves one purpose.

He narrows his eyes. "You're not upset?"

"Would you like me to be upset, Mr. Krest?"

He doesn't answer. He stubs out his cigarette, walks over, and grips my chin. "Ivy, honestly. You've changed a lot lately."

"Changed into—" He tightens his grip. "Something a little irritating."

I keep my eyes down. "What would you like me to be, Mr. Krest? I can adjust."

Back then, what drew him to me was exactly this — the fact that I was close enough to have him but never once asked for anything.

He used to call it dignity. Now he calls it irritating.

The one who changed was never me.

"Forget it." He stares into my eyes for a long time, then lets go. "Go home."

I turn to leave, but he wraps his arms around me from behind.

His chin rests on my shoulder.

His voice comes out muffled: "Do you know why I won't let you go?"

He means the Mistress Agreement binding me to him.

I don't know either.

At the very least, I thought two people who don't love each other could split peacefully.

"Because you're too obedient. You never make things hard for me, never fight with me, never ask where I've been or who I've seen. Not like her — checking up on me every damn day."

His arms tighten. "Sometimes I think, if you just had a proper family behind you, I wouldn't have to marry someone else."

I almost laugh.

In the end, he's blaming me for not having a better bloodline.

But he forgets — he's the one who pursued a girl with nothing.

"Mr. Krest," I gently peel his hands off me, "what color should I wear to the gala? I'll get something ready."

His hands freeze in midair.

Maybe the evening wore him out. He doesn't have the energy to push back.

He lets me go.

Outside the hotel doors, I realize my palms are bleeding where my nails dug in.