01

Mia's POV

Christie's London headquarters, last day of the spring auction preview.

I was crouching in a corner of the exhibition hall adjusting the angle of a Modigliani portrait when the director's lowered voice came through my earpiece.

"Nightingale's friend has arrived."

I didn't turn around. My knees were already going numb from crouching too long, so I simply continued fine-tuning the painting's hanging hook.

"The provenance of this 'Lady with a Fan' is questionable."

A voice came from behind me, low and familiar—a voice I would never mistake, even in death.

My hand froze, then a sudden buzzing filled my ears. The director seemed to be saying something else through the earpiece, but I couldn't make out a single word.

Calvin Rothschild, the person I'd been hiding from for five years.

Three months ago, I'd just seen a photo of the new chairman of the Rothschild Family Foundation in The Art Newspaper.

The headline read boldly: "Old Money's New Head, 33-Year-Old Takes Control of Billion-Dollar Family Trust."

The man in the photo had cold, austere features, completely different from the young man in my memory who would cook mulled wine pears for me.

"Excuse me, staff member," Calvin's voice drew closer, "I'm asking you about this painting's provenance."

I slowly stood up. Over these five years, I'd learned to control my expressions. I turned around and gave him a standard professional smile. "Mr. Rothschild, the provenance documents for this painting are in the curator's office. Would you like me to take you to review them?"

Calvin's pupils contracted sharply. He stared at me intently.

"Mia Sterling." He called out my name accurately.

The people around us instantly fell silent. The chairman, reading the room, tactfully led the others away to attend to other exhibition guests.

"Mr. Rothschild has such a good memory." I struggled to maintain my smile. "Just a brief encounter five years ago, yet you still remember me."

"Brief encounter." Calvin chewed on these words, his lips curling into a smile without warmth. "Does Miss Mia have a poor memory now? Back then you said you wanted to marry 'someone who could give you security.' Did you find him?"

I instantly clenched my hands, my nails digging deep into my palms.

That night five years ago, in the student apartment in Zurich.

"Why?" Calvin stood at the door, his scarf still stained with blood, looking at me with red-rimmed eyes.

"We're not suitable. I want to marry someone who can give me security. You're very smart, but you have no money, so unfortunately..." I said through gritted teeth, forcing out this lie.

In reality, I had just found out I was pregnant, but I knew Calvin's account only held his meager teaching assistant salary. I didn't want him to bear more burdens for me—after all, at that time I thought he was truly poor.

"Thanks to Mr. Rothschild's concern," I heard myself say, "I found him."

"Then congratulations." Calvin's eyes darkened. He let out a heavy breath, adjusted his cufflinks, "Withdraw this painting from the auction. Selling something with questionable provenance will only bring trouble."

With that, Calvin turned and left, his retreating figure just like when he left years ago.

I stood there. The numbness in my knees had spread to my calves, as if countless ants were gnawing at my bones.

I looked down at my work shoes that I'd worn for five years, feeling completely out of place with the crystal chandeliers and Persian carpets here.

Of course, even more out of place with Calvin.

Over these five years, I'd turned myself into a screw, fitting tightly into slots labeled "single mother" and "independent woman," but today Calvin's appearance had caused cracks to appear in all these slots simultaneously.

The preview ended at nine in the evening.

After checking in with the director, I grabbed my bag and rushed out.

It wasn't until I got in a taxi that I finally breathed a temporary sigh of relief.

A month ago, I was transferred to the London headquarters for work. They called it short-term support, but in reality the branch was planning layoffs, and I didn't want to lose my job, so I agreed to come.

The employee apartment provided by headquarters wasn't ready yet, so my child and I were temporarily staying at my friend Zoe's place.

Zoe is currently pursuing her PhD at LSE. She had just submitted her thesis and happened to have time to help me look after my child temporarily.

One reason I wanted to stay at the branch was that I had just arranged for my son to attend a school there, and coming here meant I needed to pull strings to get his enrollment sorted out.

After nearly an hour of bumping along in the taxi, by the time I returned to Zoe's apartment in Kentish Town, it was already ten at night.

"You're back? Leo's already asleep. He was very good, bathed and went to bed by himself, didn't need me to do anything." Seeing me come in, Zoe greeted me with a smile.

"Zoe, thank you so much for this." I smiled at Zoe with a hint of apology.

I had just arrived at headquarters and had many things to hand over, with no time to look after my son. Fortunately, Zoe helped me take care of Leo, otherwise I wouldn't know what to do.

Zoe waved her hand, "Why be so formal with me? Taking care of him is what I should do."

She seemed to notice I wasn't in a good mood and pulled me to sit on the sofa.

"Mia, what's wrong? You look so unhappy. Did someone bully you?"

I shook my head, "No."

"Then what is it?"

I leaned on Zoe's shoulder, hesitated for a moment, then spoke.

"I saw Calvin today."

"What?!" Zoe shrieked in shock, turning sharply toward me.

I hadn't expected her movement and fell unprepared into her arms.

Zoe pulled me up, looking at me with a serious expression.

"Did I hear that right? You saw him?"

I nodded.

"Are you sure you saw a living person and not a ghost?" Zoe looked at me suspiciously. I could feel her mentally calculating how likely it was that I had developed a mental illness from lovesickness.

"It's not a hallucination, it was really him." I sighed helplessly.

Upon hearing this, Zoe was silent for a while before asking, "Did you explain to him? Did you tell him about Leo?"

I shook my head.

Zoe frowned. She seemed to think of something, and her expression suddenly changed: "Calvin's married?"

"Haven't heard that."

"He has a fiancée?"

"I don't know." I smiled bitterly. "I didn't ask, and I have no standing to ask."

"Did you only find out today what his family does?"

"Well, I found out three months ago, but today was the first time I saw it in person," I paused, "He's from the Rothschild family, yes, that one you're thinking of."

Zoe gasped, and the pillow in her hands slipped to the floor.

She bent down to pick it up, her voice changing pitch: "Didn't you say his family owned a small gallery?"

"That's what he said, and that's what I believed."

"Then why did he lie to you?"

"He hid his identity when he went to Zurich to study for his PhD. The school I attended was sponsored by his family's foundation." I pulled at the corner of my mouth. "I guess he wanted to test me."

"That counts as a test?" Zoe's voice suddenly rose. "If he had told you earlier, you two wouldn't have—"

She didn't finish, but we both understood.

"Zoe," I heard myself say, "Those shoes he was wearing were custom-made Berluti. One pair costs enough for Leo and me to live on for three years."

My smile was ugly.

"How can I tell him? Tell him I dumped him because he was poor, only to discover I dumped a billionaire? Tell him I secretly had his child, and now the child is five years old and I can barely afford his school tuition?"

"I can't say it. What right do I have to say it?"