The Final Note

Julian’s first hundred-thousand-person concert. He stood on stage, singing the love song I’d written for him years ago, then turned around and proposed to his new flame. The camera slowly panned across the audience, grazing over me for a single second. After the show, a force yanked me into a car. He grabbed my wrist, his voice vicious: “Why did you have to show up? What do you want? How do I get you to leave me alone?” I paused, then answered, “Give me three million more.” A contemptuous smile curled his lips. He wrote a check and threw it in my face. “I knew you only cared about money.” Later, he rushed to the hospital, eyes red-rimmed, asking the doctor, “What will it take to cure her?” I sighed softly. “Julian, you know perfectly well. Late-stage cancer. No amount of money can change that.”

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1

The doctor handed me the diagnosis just as Julian’s call came in. I gestured for the doctor to stay quiet and answered. But it wasn’t Julian on the line—it was a crisp, unfamiliar female voice. “Miss Claire, Julian is at a critical point in his career. Your capabilities are limited, and you can no longer serve as his manager. Starlight Entertainment will offer you reasonable compensation. We expect you to cut all contact with him from now on.” She talked for a long time. When I didn’t respond, her tone finally cracked with impatience. “What else do you want?” I said quietly, “I want to see Julian one last time.” A brief silence. Then I heard that achingly familiar voice, cold and indifferent: “Grant it.” It was Julian.

2

Before I left the hospital, the doctor urged me repeatedly: “Miss Claire, your cancer cells have started spreading. You need to begin chemotherapy immediately.” I murmured an acknowledgment, folded the diagnosis into my bag, and left. The meeting was set in a penthouse suite at a hotel. When I pushed the door open, the room was a mess, thick with an indescribable, intimate scent. A wave of nausea surged up my throat. I rushed to the bathroom and retched for a long time, nearly bringing up bile. Julian stood by the window, his face cold as he watched me. “What compensation do you still need to discuss in person?” Rosalind lounged on the sofa, peeking out. “Sister Claire, greed knows no bounds. You were just a manager—how much more do you think you deserve?” She was Julian’s junior at the same agency, with a pretty, doll-like face. I stared at her, dazed for a moment. Two years ago, Julian had just signed with Starlight when he met Rosalind. She was clearly interested in him, but back then, Julian’s eyes were only for me. When did things start to change? Probably a year ago, one winter night. Julian had an event, and his turn was coming up, but he hadn’t come out from backstage. I went in to find him and saw Rosalind in the dressing room, her back to him, wrapped in his arms. He was leaning down to fasten the clasp of her necklace. “What perfume is that? It’s nice.” “Water lily.” The clasp clicked shut, and Rosalind turned with a smile. “If you like it, Brother, I’ll get you a bottle sometime.” As she spoke, her lips brushed his cheek, almost imperceptibly. They both froze. In the charged silence, Rosalind looked up, her ears and face flushed red. “Claire, handle this quickly. We have an event tonight.” Julian’s icy voice snapped me back to reality. I swallowed the pain and forced a smile. “The price you gave me before was for a manager. But you know our relationship isn’t that simple.” Julian reacted sharply. He stood up, his eyes cold and piercing as he stared at me. After a moment, he softened his voice and said to Rosalind, “Step out. I’ll talk to her.” As soon as she left, he strode over and grabbed my wrist. “Claire, are you trying to ruin me?” Once, when he looked at me, his eyes burned with fiery love. Now, there was only bone-deep loathing. He looked like he wanted to kill me. I struggled to lift the corners of my mouth. “You never told them we’re married, did you?” “No, I didn’t.” His grip tightened, as if he wanted to hurt me. “Lucky for you, that marriage certificate is the only reason you can blackmail me now, isn’t it?”

3

I remembered two years ago, when he took me to the civil affairs bureau to get our marriage certificate. He said, “From now on, every cent I earn is our shared property. Claire, I’ve been waiting for this day since I was eighteen.” Back then, Julian was like a clingy puppy, dragging me along to every music festival performance. But I never thought that one day, that puppy would turn around and bite me. I stared into his eyes and said calmly, “I want sixty million.” He hadn’t been famous long; that was roughly what he’d earned. Giving it to me would leave him strapped for cash. “Impossible.” He let go and looked at me coldly. “If you really want to end this, name a reasonable price, and we’ll talk. Claire, you’re not as valuable as you think.” We’d been together for eleven years, from the very bottom to where we were now. And in one sentence, he summed it up—Claire, don’t overestimate your worth. Julian stormed out. I walked to the door just in time to see Rosalind fall into his arms, soothing him with soft words. Two sentences from her, and his expression softened. He pulled her close. As he looked up, he clearly saw me at the door, but he didn’t hesitate. He kissed her. Rosalind murmured coquettishly, “Easy, Brother.” I stood in the room, the scent around me slowly closing in like a tide, drowning me in a suffocating near-death sensation. The truth was, I was alone now. I didn’t need that money. But… I was in so much pain. So much pain. I couldn’t think of any other way to make him suffer as much as I did, without dragging myself down too.

4

That night’s event was live-streamed. Julian and Rosalind walked the red carpet together, smiling as reporters asked, “Now that you’re both at the same agency and close as siblings, are wedding bells on the horizon?” Rosalind blushed and stayed silent, while Julian replied calmly, “We’ll let things take their course.” “We heard your former manager was let go for incompetence and embezzlement.” “Let the past be the past. I don’t want to dwell on it.” I stood by the window, my trembling hand shutting off the livestream. Moonlight poured in, pale and cold. That night, I dreamed of the past again. Julian and I had always lived here. When he wrote a new song, he’d lean by the window and play it for me. Outside, the city lights glittered—songs that millions would later sing, but back then, I was his only audience. Julian said, “Sister, wait until I make it big. At my first hundred-thousand-person concert, I’ll propose to you in front of the whole world.” And when he finally did reach the spotlight, the first person he cast aside was me. When I woke up, the sharp pain in my stomach nearly made me pass out. The sun was blazing, but it couldn’t chase away the chill. The room was empty. All these years, Julian was all I had. My only friend had gone abroad for grad school after college and eventually settled there. She never liked Julian much. We rarely talked anymore. I fell off the bed, curling up on the floor, drenched in cold sweat. A sweet, metallic taste rose in my throat. That’s when Julian called. “Have you thought it over?” His voice was cold and impatient, but he was still trying to reason with me. “Ask for less, and I’ll pay you quickly. We’ll end this, and you can do whatever you want. Dragging it out does you no good.” “Claire, say something.” The pain finally subsided. I slowly sat up, leaning against the bed frame, my voice rushed. “Fine. Half, then.” He seemed surprised I’d agreed so easily. “Really?” “Yeah. But come home. Bring the first guitar you ever had, and sing me a song.” I didn’t know what I was holding onto. Maybe when you’re about to die, you cling to the parts of life you can’t let go. When Julian came back, I happened to be downstairs. He got out of the car, Rosalind trailing behind him. I couldn’t help but sneer. “Can’t bear to be apart for even a second?” She linked her arm through his, her smile magnanimous and weary. “Sister Claire’s probably just getting old. She wouldn’t understand young people’s fun. That’s just how it is in the honeymoon phase.” How could I not understand? Julian and I had a honeymoon phase that lasted so long I once thought it would last forever.

5

Before Julian came upstairs with me, Rosalind deliberately left a lipstick mark on the collar of his white shirt. “Don’t be long. I’ll wait downstairs.” Her voice was sweet, her expression reluctant. “We still need to catch the sunset at Bay Park later.” That was the voice she used to sing duets with Julian. He nodded. Upstairs, Julian walked in and sat down on the old sofa. He took the guitar off his back. “What do you want to hear?” “The Proposal.” His hands froze. He frowned, looking at me like I was some kind of freak. I wondered what flashed through his mind in that moment. Was it eighteen-year-old Julian and twenty-year-old Claire, sitting side by side in a corner of the school field, him playing the guitar in the dark without missing a single note? After he finished, he’d put the guitar away and pull me against his shoulder. “This is the best song I’ve ever written, for my dearest Claire.” But now… After a long pause, he let out a cold laugh. “Trying to play the emotional card, huh? Claire, I’m telling you, it won’t work. If you want to hear it, I’ll play it.” He butchered the love song, playing it in broken fragments. I couldn’t help but sigh. “Your singing’s gotten this bad… and you’re famous now. There’s no justice.” The jab hit a nerve. He nearly jumped off the sofa. “You have no right to say that! I trusted you completely back then, handed you everything. And what did you do? Your judgment and skills were terrible. If I hadn’t gotten away from you, I’d still be a nobody.” A wave of bitterness rose in my throat, and I swallowed it down. I looked at him and nodded. “You’re right. My judgment was terrible.” “Enough.” He put the guitar away and held out his hand impatiently. “Your phone. Give it to me.” “Why?” “I’ll give you the money, but I need to delete the old photos and messages, don’t I?” He raised an eyebrow. “Or do you want to keep them to blackmail me again?” I reached into my bag and pulled out my phone. The folded diagnosis slipped out and fell to the floor. My heart nearly stopped for a beat, but I quickly realized how ridiculous my reaction was. Julian didn’t even glance at it. He just took my phone and deleted everything related to him, including the cloud backups. He knew perfectly well I’d never expose any of it. I was terrified of endless arguments and debates. Back when Julian was first getting famous, he got caught up in a plagiarism scandal. His social media was flooded with hate. He couldn’t handle it, so I dealt with it all. One night, working late, I opened a private message and saw a bloody, grotesque image—Julian’s face photoshopped onto a mangled corpse. After that, I never posted anything online again. Julian finished deleting everything and stood up. “Come on. Let’s get the divorce done before the civil affairs bureau closes.” On the way, I sat in the front passenger seat while he and Rosalind sat in the back. He didn’t even bother hiding it from her—he must have already won her over. The rearview mirror showed it all clearly. Rosalind played with his fingers, saying casually, “That guitar’s so old. Let me get you a new one, okay?” “Sure.” Julian agreed without hesitation. Rosalind looked up and glanced at me, her words pointed. “Some things are old and worn out. They should’ve been thrown away long ago.” The painkillers weren’t enough. The ache in my stomach grew sharper. Sweat beaded on my forehead, and I finally couldn’t hold back. “Julian, if your girlfriend says one more word, I’ll add another ten million. Otherwise, forget the divorce.” Rosalind finally fell silent.

6

We made it to the civil affairs bureau just before closing. Julian and I got our divorce certificate. He and Rosalind went to Bay Park to watch the sunset. I took a cab to the hospital. We went our separate ways. On the way, the driver had the radio on. It was playing Julian’s song—his debut album, *To My Beloved*. Back then, his voice was still clear, every word sung with deep emotion. But that beloved had been killed off last autumn. I remembered last autumn. Julian finally shot to fame with an album nominated for a top award. At the same time, the company assigned him a new manager. I’d been stuck in a hotel for two weeks, hiding from the reporters swarming my neighborhood. That night, he came back from the celebration, reeking of alcohol and an unfamiliar perfume. Water lily. I sat on the sofa, watching him quietly. “Julian, I need to go out.” “No.” He walked over and stood in front of me, looking down. “Some of our old dates might’ve been dug up. The reporters are looking for evidence. Don’t ruin this for me.” My heart ached. I looked up at him. “So what am I? Something shameful? Do I have to hide here forever for your career?” His eyes darkened with irritation. “What’s your problem?” “Claire, you’ve changed. I stayed up for days writing songs, got edited badly on that variety show—did you even care? Now I’ve won an award, and you can’t even say congratulations?” With that, probably overwhelmed by the alcohol, he slammed the door and left. The one who changed first was accusing me of changing. I blinked, thinking I was smiling, but tears were streaming down my face.

7

At first, I didn’t check into the hospital. I just went for regular treatments. With that money, I bought the old rented apartment I’d lived in for years. It was a rundown place, and the landlord gave me a good price because of my long tenancy. She even asked me repeatedly, “Miss Claire, are you sure you want to buy this place?” I nodded. I was going to die soon. If I died in someone else’s house, it would cause them a lot of trouble. Thirty million was a huge sum. Buying the house took less than a tenth of it. I set aside enough for treatment and donated the rest. The third time I collapsed at home from vomiting blood, I had no choice but to check into the hospital. “You should have a family member take care of you.” But I had no family. I’d never known my father. My mother raised me alone, but she had a congenital heart condition and died before I came of age. The doctor suggested I hire a nurse. “Given your condition, you’ll soon have trouble moving around. You’ll need help with some things.” “I’ll think about it.” The TV in the ward was playing an ad for Julian’s solo concert. He was going to perform at the city’s new stadium—the first venue in the country to hold a hundred thousand people. The camera zoomed in on his sharp features, softened with a hint of warmth. “I’ve been waiting for this day for so long. I hope all my fans who love me can come.” For some reason, I thought back to five years ago. A legendary singer was on tour, and Julian bought two tickets to take me. When they played *She Came to My Concert*, he suddenly grabbed my hand. “One day, you’ll come to my concert too.” He said it solemnly, his eyes shining like stars in the dark. “Sister, believe me.” I always believed him. Why else would I have quit my job to be his manager, without even a fixed salary? In the beginning, he was good to me. He deposited all his earnings from songs and performances into my account. Young people can’t keep secrets. He’d post cryptic lines on social media, and his few fans would guess endlessly without understanding. Only he and I knew—they were secret confessions meant just for us. But later, Julian deleted them all. Back then, Julian never called me by my full name. When he was being sweet, he’d call me Sister or Claire. On special occasions, he’d call me Senior. Julian was my junior in high school. He was two years younger, two grades below. We met in summer. He was walking with some friends, spinning a basketball, when he bumped into me and sent the exam papers I was carrying flying. It was near the college entrance exams. The school held an art gala for the graduating class. Julian went onstage with his guitar—tall and lean, with sharp features. He said, “I’m going to sing Jay Chou’s *Her Eyelashes* for Senior Claire from Class 6.” “Senior, wait for me two years. We’ll meet again in college.”

8

That day, I was in the ward, hooked up to painkillers and anti-nausea meds, when two young girls appeared at the door. They were from a milder ward upstairs. They whispered to each other, heads together. “Is it her?” “Looks like her, but thinner and older.” I called them in. “What’s up?” My voice rasped like a broken bellows from all the vomiting. They shuffled in hesitantly, looking at me with hopeful eyes. “Sister, do you know Julian?” I froze. “How could I not? His concert ads have been running for a month.” “Did you date him?” One girl pulled out her phone, tapped a few times, and handed it to me. It was a short video, probably shot on a phone, slightly blurry. But I could still make it out—a beach at a music festival. It was drizzling. Julian and I were walking, one behind the other. I was carrying his spare guitar. Suddenly, a gust of wind hit. Julian stopped, took off his jacket, and wrapped it tightly around me. Then he slung the other guitar over his shoulder and pulled me close as we walked. I watched, my vision blurring. I’d almost forgotten we had moments like that. “Sister, why are you crying?” The girl’s clear voice pulled me back. “So is it really you and Julian in that video? Did he dump you after he got famous and get with Rosalind?” I didn’t know how to answer. Luckily, a nurse came in for rounds and ushered them out. I grabbed my phone and saw that Weibo was in an uproar. Someone had leaked that old video, claiming I was more than just Julian’s manager—that we’d been in a relationship, and he’d abandoned me for fame and fortune. Scrolling further, I saw that while I’d been offline, sick and in pain, he and Rosalind had gone public with their relationship. A new hashtag was trending at number one: “Julian Responds.” He’d written a lengthy post. First, he admitted to our relationship. Then he pivoted, saying he hadn’t been able to make it big and didn’t want to waste my youth, so we’d parted ways. Even though we’d been apart for a while, and the feelings had faded even longer, I could tell the post wasn’t in his voice. It was probably a PR move from his agency. Soon after, he called, asking me to cooperate and clarify things. “Sorry, I’m busy.” I was about to hang up when Julian shouted, “Claire, you took thirty million from me. We broke up amicably.” Amicably? I was just too sick to fight. I didn’t have much time left. I didn’t want to be tangled up in these trivial grievances while battling cancer. “Wrong, Julian. We got divorced, not broken up.” Julian hung up on me. That night, I started vomiting blood uncontrollably, and then my nose started bleeding. The doctor examined me and said the cancer had spread. I needed surgery immediately. So I didn’t look at my phone for days. When I finally did, the online tide had turned completely against me. Julian had released a few photos. A dim KTV room. Me sitting among several men, holding a bottle, a humble, ingratiating smile on my face. He captioned them with just four words: “The innocent know.” But they spawned endless vicious speculation about me. That I was greedy and vain, that I’d latched onto richer men when Julian’s star seemed to fade. My phone fell onto the blanket. I doubled over, my heart and stomach clenching with sharp, unbearable pain. I could barely breathe. Before this, I thought nothing could be worse than the torment of cancer and chemotherapy. But I was wrong. There was something worse. I didn’t believe Julian had forgotten. In that photo, I was drinking myself sick to land him a spot at a major gala, guzzling with investors until I vomited blood. One of them had clapped me on the back, calling me a heroine, and finally agreed to give Julian the chance. Even the doctor had said my stomach cancer was linked to the stress and excessive drinking from my work.

9

I created a new Weibo account, wanting to post something to clear my name. But my finger hovered over the screen, frozen. What could I say? I’d changed my phone earlier this year, when we were already estranged. There wasn’t much of Julian on it, and he’d deleted the rest during our last meeting. In the end, I just took a photo of the divorce certificate. But I couldn’t bring myself to post it. The surgical wound still throbbed. Painkillers dripped into my veins. And then it hit me. That day we met, Julian must have tampered with my phone. That night, another anonymous transfer hit my bank account, with a note: “Don’t fight it. It won’t end well for you.” Clearly from Julian. He’d already mastered the ways of a top celebrity—vigilant, decisive, ruthless, trying to solve everything with money. But I couldn’t help remembering years ago, during that plagiarism scandal. The accuser had crumbled, offering Julian money to admit guilt. Julian just scoffed, tossed the card back, and said, “You think money can fix everything? Dream on.” He grabbed my hand and walked away, then pulled me into a hug in a secluded corner, holding me so tight it felt like he wanted to merge me into him. “Sister,” he mumbled, “one day, I’ll be at the top. No one will ever humiliate me again.” Now he’d done it. By humiliating others with money. I started coughing and retching again, my mouth filling with bitter, metallic bile. I pressed the call button. The nurse rushed in and went to get the doctor. The young doctor stood by my bed, looking at my bloodstained phone. His eyes held full understanding. “Claire, your condition is worsening. If you let your emotions get the better of you, it’ll only make things worse.” I stared at the ceiling and said, “I’m sorry.” “You didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t apologize.” He prescribed sedatives, but the nurse held my wrists and couldn’t find a vein to insert the needle. Finally, she managed to put a port in my bruised forearm. I curled up in the dark ward, acutely aware of my life ebbing away. In the following days, I slept more than I was awake. Whenever I dreamed, it was always of a younger Julian and myself. Sometimes, another person appeared in my dreams. She’d watch coldly as Julian clung to me, and after our dates ended and he left, she’d immediately warn me: “Claire, get a grip. His dreams are too big. They’ll lead you astray.” I’d smile helplessly. “But I love him.” “You’re such a… hopeless romantic.” She’d ignore me and go smoke on the balcony. Through the haze, her sharp-featured face would blur. “Claire, keep messing around with Julian. If he never makes it big, you’ll be stuck with him forever.” “A younger guy? Whoever dates one is asking for trouble.” “Don’t call me. I’ve got enough on my plate with my thesis.” When I opened my eyes, I thought I was still dreaming. Vera stood by the bed, her eyes red. When our gazes met, her lips trembled, and tears spilled down her cheeks. I stared at her, dazed, until her face—so much more mature now—blurred, and I realized I was crying too. “When did you come back?” “You think I wanted to?” Her tone was harsh as she crouched down to tuck in my blanket, her voice suddenly hoarse and faint. “A couple of days ago, I fell asleep in the lab. I don’t know why, but I dreamed of you.”

10

Vera and I weren’t friends at first. In fact, she resented me for taking the national scholarship she’d been after. She was fiercely competitive, always striving to be the best, and looked down on me for never fully committing to my studies because I was always running off to Julian’s gigs and dates. It wasn’t until our junior year, during the 800-meter run, that I collapsed from low blood sugar. She picked me up and carried me to the campus clinic. “You’re so light. Spend less on your little boyfriend and take care of yourself.” That’s how we became friends. I asked Vera, “You just came back like this? What about your program?” “What about it? I’ve got my PhD. I can afford a few months.” She pulled out a pack of cigarettes, then, remembering she was in a hospital room, shoved it back irritably. “Claire, if I hadn’t come back on my own, were you planning to keep your illness from me?” I closed my eyes, suppressing the rising nausea in my throat. “What good would it have done?” It would only make one more person sad. “How would it not help?” She gritted her teeth, veins bulging on her forehead. “At least someone would be here to deal with that idiot Julian! Claire, I told you—he’d do anything to climb higher, even sacrifice anyone.” I looked at her furious eyes and whispered, “I’m sorry.” And then her anger dissolved into tears. She hugged me tightly, her hand tracing the bony ridges of my back, sobbing brokenly. “Claire, do you know you’re my only real friend? What am I supposed to do when you’re gone?” I didn’t know what to say, so I apologized again. “What did you do wrong? Why are you the one apologizing?” She was right. It wasn’t my apology to make. The one who should apologize was standing atop his towering heights, waiting to walk his bright, untroubled path. I pulled out my phone to check the countdown. Three days until Julian’s concert. The biggest in the country. Ads for it were plastered all over the city. He and Starlight were banking on this show to propel him to an untouchable level of fame. Maybe it was seeing Vera, but I felt a little better. I didn’t vomit as much those days, and I managed to choke down a few more spoonfuls of bland liquid food. She sat by my bed, telling me about her life abroad. “American food is awful. They don’t understand that the highest compliment for a dessert is ‘not too sweet.’” “And my classmates—they’re so racist. They think a Chinese person can’t do anything. In the end, they all fell short of me.” Vera always put on a cool, aloof front in public, but I knew she was a chatterbox. Whenever she achieved something, she’d go over every detail again and again, never getting bored. I loved listening to her. But I probably wouldn’t get to hear much more. On the day of the concert, I begged the doctor to double my painkiller dose. Then I changed into regular clothes, put on makeup, and painted my pale lips with lipstick. Chemotherapy had left me nearly bald. Vera bought me a wig. When she dropped me off at the stadium, she was uneasy, repeating her warnings: “If you feel unwell, call me. Revenge isn’t worth your health, got it?” I nodded. I walked into the stadium with the crowd, the sound of a violin drifting through the air. I took a seat in the front row of the inner section and pulled my mask higher. Around me were young, energetic girls, chattering about the concert setlist. They tried to include me. “Sister, are you a fan too? I heard Julian’s going to propose to Rosalind tonight. Is it true?” My smile was hidden behind the mask. “I heard that too.” Throughout the show, I sat in the audience, quietly watching Julian. He sang many songs, but none from his first album. He didn’t want to remember anything about me. Except… this one. “Next, I’m going to sing a song called *The Proposal*. I’m dedicating it to Rosalind. Thank you for staying by me, even when I had nothing, all these years.” The song was unchanged, word for word. Except for the name in the last line. Eighteen-year-old Julian sat in the dark, finished playing, and grabbed my hand tightly when I asked him about it. “I don’t care! I just know we’ll be together for years! When I make it big, I’ll buy you the most beautiful wedding dress!” Amid the roar of the crowd, Rosalind walked onto the stage in a white wedding dress. Her sparkling eyes were filled with tears, but her smile was brighter than anyone’s. Cameras flashed. People around me were taking photos. I stood up and walked out. The girl who’d spoken to me earlier asked in surprise, “Sister, aren’t you staying? There are more songs.” “No, I’ve heard enough.” I’d already heard my favorite song plenty of times, back in the summer when I was twenty. At the stadium entrance, a sharp pain shot through my stomach. My vision darkened. I doubled over, clutching my aching abdomen, and stumbled into the restroom. By the time the pain subsided, the concert was over. I walked out a side exit, pulling out my phone to call Vera, when a strong hand yanked me into a nearby van. Julian grabbed my wrist, his voice vicious. “What are you doing here?” He must have just come off stage; the glittery eyeshadow at the corners of his eyes was still fresh. I looked at the empty seat beside him. “Where’s Rosalind?” He ignored the question. “Why did you have to show up? What do you want? How do I get you to leave me alone?” So I was the one who wouldn’t let him go. I thought for a moment and said casually, “Give me three million more.” Julian’s eyes were contemptuous. He wrote a check and threw it in my face. “I knew you were just after the money.” I tucked the check away. His manager pushed me out of the van, and I staggered a few steps before steadying myself. Julian’s voice came from behind me. “Don’t make yourself so pitiful, coming here to play the victim. I won’t give you any more money next time.” Eleven years. And now, this was all that was left between us—just suspicion.

11

Vera and I got back to the hospital late that night. She helped me take off my makeup and change clothes, then asked, “What do you want to eat tomorrow?” We both knew I couldn’t eat anything but specific liquid foods. But I humored her. “I’d love to try one of those sickeningly sweet American cakes. See how bad they really are.” “That’s easy. I’ll go out tomorrow and search the whole city for one.” After a few more words, I pulled out the check and handed it to her. “Vera, here’s a little gift.” Under the dim hospital light, she saw Julian’s signature and froze. “He saw you?” “Yeah. He told me not to make myself so pitiful, or I wouldn’t get any more money.” Vera’s eyes reddened. “I’ll kill him.” I patted her hand, about to say something, but a wave of drowsiness washed over me. “Let me sleep first. We’ll talk when I wake up.” I slept for a very long time. Scenes from my dreams flickered by like a movie. I was eighteen. My mother had just died from not finding a matching heart donor in time. I placed her ashes in a suburban cemetery and stayed home for days before returning to school. On my first day back, I ran into Julian. He bumped into me, scattering my papers everywhere. He hurried to help me pick them up, but before he left, he tugged on my school uniform and murmured, “Senior, my name is Julian.” I was twenty-two. I used the money I’d earned from part-time jobs to buy a new guitar case and brought it to Julian. We sat in a corner on the upper deck of a sightseeing bus. Autumn leaves spiraled down and landed on his head. He casually shook them off and handed me the guitar. “Sister, try playing it.” I didn’t know how, so I just plucked a few random strings. He clapped and cheered. “Best sound in the world!” I was twenty-six. After we got our marriage certificate, I was cooking noodles in the kitchen when Julian came up behind me and wrapped his arms around me. He pressed his face into my shoulder, his voice a little hoarse. “Sister, I’m hungry.” “Don’t distract me. The noodles will be ready soon.” “I’m hungry for something else.” He turned me around to face him. “Tonight’s our wedding night. You know what that means, right?” I was twenty-eight. On the first day of autumn, I went to visit my mother’s grave. When I came back, everything of his was gone from the house. I called him, but no one answered. Late that night, Julian sent me three words: “It’s over.” The dream was long and vivid, as if I’d never wake up. Later, I learned I’d been unconscious for five days. My vital signs had weakened so much that the hospital issued a critical notice. When I opened my eyes, the light was blinding. Vera’s voice, thick with fury and hatred, reached my ears. “Get out!” I turned my head with difficulty and saw her standing at the door, arms spread wide. And in front of her stood Julian.

12 (Julian’s POV)

After a flawless exit from the stage, Julian let out a long breath and headed to the dressing room to remove his makeup. His manager, Leon, met him with a grave expression. “Claire was sitting in the audience.” He froze. Leon continued, “She still can’t let go! She took all that money from you, and now she’s trying to leech off you again. Julian, if you don’t deal with her, you’ll always have this hanging over your head, no matter how famous you get.” Julian wanted to say that Claire wouldn’t do that. But then he remembered the thirty million she’d just taken from him, and he kept the words to himself. Maybe she had changed. So he followed Leon out, not even bothering to remove his makeup, and met her in the van. The lights inside were dim. He couldn’t see her expression clearly, but her face was very pale, and she looked thinner. Julian felt a surge of inexplicable anger. She had thirty million. How could she still be living like this? Maybe Leon was right—she saw him as a cash cow now that he was famous. But when he grabbed her wrist, something felt off. They’d always been strapped for money, so Claire had always been thin. But not this thin. Her wrist was so fragile it felt like it might snap. And when he pushed