The last time Stewart asked me to arrange a blind date for him, I didn't set him up with duds or a divorcée with two kids. I just coolly opened my tablet, pulled up a photo, and placed it in front of him. “How about Miss Covington? She’s beautiful, intelligent—exactly your type.” “Most importantly, she’s in love with you.” But Stewart’s gaze never left my face. His voice was tight when he asked, “Vanessa, why aren’t you jealous anymore?” I paused for a second, then smiled. “Mr. Feimster, you can’t be serious. How long has it been since our divorce?” “Once my debt is paid, I’ll resign from my position as your assistant. Just as you’ve always wanted.” And I’ll disappear from your world completely. … Stewart’s eyes lingered on my smile, as if trying to decipher something hidden within it. “It’s just a date my family is pushing for. Just arrange for someone to go through the motions.” His pinky finger tapped twice on the desk—a nervous habit he had when trying to suppress his irritation. “Isla Covington? Cancel it. You know I would never marry her.” “Nessa, I’ve explained this to you a hundred times. She’s just a business partner’s daughter. Looking out for her a little doesn’t mean anything.” “The girl is sensitive; I can’t just reject her outright. Why would you set me up with her? Nessa, that’s not how you play these games…” It had been a long time since Stewart had said so much to me. Around me, he was usually a man of few words. “Mr. Feimster, you’ve misunderstood,” I interrupted, my tone neutral. “The blind date isn't with Isla Covington. It’s with her older sister, Isabelle.” “She flew back into the country two days ago and contacted me herself. This date was her idea. Do you still want to cancel?” His fingers, resting on the table, trembled. Stewart’s head snapped down, his eyes fixing on the tablet. In the photo, a girl smiled softly at the camera, a strand of silky hair playfully brushing her lips. It made you want to reach out and tuck it behind her ear. Stewart’s hand started to lift before he caught himself, pulling it back as if nothing had happened. “Well, since Isabelle just got back, I suppose we should meet,” he said, trying to sound casual as he opened a file to hide his reaction. “We’re just old friends catching up after all these years.” “Very well. Your schedule is light this Saturday. I’ll arrange a dinner for you and Miss Covington.” I was all business as I turned to leave. Just as I opened the office door, Stewart’s voice stopped me. “Nessa, you don’t have to be so formal with me.” He frowned, his tone almost pleading. “Even though we’re divorced, it hasn’t come to this.” “Mr. Feimster, we’re now colleagues, a superior and a subordinate. This is appropriate.” My words were like a punch landing on cotton. Losing his composure, Stewart shot to his feet. “Vanessa, what is your problem today? Are you acting like this just because the date is with Isabelle?” “Don’t you forget, she was forced to leave the country because of you!” I hadn’t thought about the past in a long time. His words were a sudden downpour, reminding me that the cold, damp rain in my heart had never truly gone away. Back then, I was Vanessa Langley, the treasured princess of my family, vibrant and unrestrained. My most rebellious act was “sponsoring” the top student in our year—Stewart Feimster, the boy who had earned his spot at our prestigious private school on a scholarship. People would tease me, asking if I had a crush on him. I’d just laugh, glancing at his cool, indifferent expression. “It’s just an investment. Don’t you think he has potential?” I never expected that I would be the one to get burned by that investment. I fell for the way his long eyelashes would flutter when he looked at me. I fell for the way he’d silently slide over his meticulously organized notes as a form of repayment. Being near him, breathing in the fresh, clean scent of soap on his skin, always calmed me. I confessed my love to him. I talked about marrying him. And Stewart accepted it all. Back then, I had so much that I never cared if my efforts were reciprocated. He was quiet, so I found endless ways to make him blush. He wanted to climb the social ladder, so I provided him with every resource I could. Until the day he became one of Ashton City’s rising stars. He took the project he had poured his soul into and went to the Covingtons. He gave away the project, a culmination of countless resources, for free—all for the chance to meet one person and say a few words. I found out later that the Covington family, as part of their corporate charity work, had once donated a batch of books and clothes to a rural mountain school in Isabelle’s name. Tucked inside one of the books was a note from her—a generic message about the wonders of the world outside, encouraging the children to study hard and leave the mountains. But one boy had taken it to heart. He had cherished it for twenty years. He had walked a long, long road, just to stand before Isabelle and say, “Thank you.” I made a scene. A huge one. The entire city knew he had used me as a stepping stone to get to his idealized love, the woman he’d always wanted. But Stewart simply arranged another private meeting with Isabelle. He apologized to her on my behalf, for the trouble I had caused her. The more I raged, the kinder he was to her. When our families became business rivals, he didn’t hesitate to side with the Covingtons. He used my trust to send my father—my only family—to prison. In that moment, my world came crashing down. My tears, my pleas, were met with his detached reply: “The Langley family’s books were bound to have problems sooner or later. I just sped up the process.” Even when I demanded a divorce, he just remained silent for a long time before saying, “Not now. There are already rumors about Isabelle. If we divorce at a time like this, it will damage her reputation.” He was so considerate of her. And so heartless to me. I think I truly went mad then. I went to Isabelle. I knelt before her, pathetically, begging her to convince Stewart to spare my father. Isabelle took a leisurely sip of her coffee, her elegance a stark contrast to my disheveled state. She smiled. “Don’t be so naive, Vanessa. A man loves me, he’s willing to do anything for me. Why would I possibly object?” Some paparazzi must have snapped a photo, because it caused an uproar online. The headline “Mistress Forces Wife to Her Knees” was everywhere. That day, Stewart’s grip on my wrist was painful. He threw the photos he’d bought off the press at my face, accusing me of staging the whole thing. He wouldn’t listen to a word of my explanation. When the news broke that Isabelle had gone abroad to escape the scandal, Stewart’s anger finally subsided. He lit a cigarette, then another, and another. Through the haze of smoke, he whispered, “Let’s get a divorce.” I closed the door, leaving his words unanswered. Some truths are never heard, no matter how desperately they are spoken. Saturday arrived quickly. I didn’t need to remind him. Stewart left work early and was already in the car. In the silence, he suddenly spoke. “Your father’s next round of medical bills has been paid.” “Thank you, Mr. Feimster. I’m aware.” With one sentence, the distance between us stretched out again. I sat in the passenger seat, watching him in the rearview mirror. He wore his usual suit, but his tie was a perfect Windsor knot, and his hair was meticulously styled. He hadn’t even dressed up this much for our wedding. The young Stewart, even in simple clothes, had a fresh, clean look that made it easy for me to forgive his social awkwardness. Looking back now, I see it was one wrong step after another. As we got out of the car, Stewart glanced back at me, his eyes filled with a warning. “Stay in the car.” I wanted to be sensible, but work couldn't wait. When I walked into the restaurant on a call, I saw Stewart gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind Isabelle’s ear. As he pulled his hand back, he lingered, rubbing his fingertips together. Right after the divorce, I couldn't stand watching him act like this—so obviously in love but refusing to admit it. He thought he was hiding it so well, even fooling himself into believing it was just gratitude. Yet he never once said “thank you” to me, the person who funded his entire university education. “Mr. Feimster…” The moment I spoke, Stewart shot to his feet. He moved to stand in front of Isabelle, his expression hostile. “Vanessa, Isabelle is not someone you can mess with.” I was taken aback. He’d misunderstood. To be honest, since the day we divorced, I hadn't made a single scene. I didn't have the courage, or the desire. Stewart always thought I set him up with terrible blind dates because I was jealous. The truth was, it was the only small act of revenge I could manage. The jealousy was fake; the desire to ruin his dates and annoy him was real. But now Isabelle was back, and she had even approached me herself. “Vanessa, he’s lost that smell of the gutter,” Isabelle had said, looking at a large screen outside the skyscraper. It was broadcasting a live feed of Stewart at a ribbon-cutting ceremony for a new project. “I used to be in love with someone, but now, I just want to find someone who loves me.” I suspected that after Isabelle, I wouldn’t get another chance to arrange a blind date for Stewart again. “Mr. Feimster, it’s a work call. That project…” “Hang up.” “What?” I froze, my throat suddenly tight. “I said, hang up.” Stewart was angry. The last time I’d seen him this mad was when he was just starting his career. He had been working so hard he’d fallen asleep at his desk. A call came in, but I didn’t wake him. I just wanted him to get a little more rest. But when he woke up, his eyes were red with fury. “That was a potential partner I worked for weeks to get in touch with! How could you…” I always thought he was just incredibly dedicated to his work. Now I see, it was just that I was never that important. “Alright.” I ended the call. Just then, Isabelle spoke up. “Stewart, how can you treat your wife like that? You’re not like this at all.” Because you don’t have to do anything, and he will handle everything for you. After you went abroad, his affection even extended to your sister, Isla. But me? Everything I do is wrong. “Miss Covington, you misunderstand. We’ve been divorced for a long time. Mr. Feimster is single. I’m just his assistant.” I tried my best to clarify our relationship, explaining on his behalf. I probably looked more anxious about the misunderstanding than he did. He was the one who had always lashed out at me over Isabelle. Yet now, as I emphasized our professional relationship, he was the one whose face grew dark. The date ended sooner than I expected. I sat in the car, my stomach growling, and watched as Stewart gallantly saw Isabelle to her car, his eyes following it until it disappeared. Then, he opened the driver’s side door and dismissed the chauffeur. It was the first time since the divorce that we had sat side-by-side like this. The small space was filled with the sound of our breathing—one heavy and strained, the other barely audible. “Was that fun, Vanessa? How many times do I have to tell you it was just a meeting between old friends? And still you had to come in and check up on me.” “Mr. Feimster, I must remind you again, we are divorced. The term ‘checking up on you’ doesn’t apply.” I stared out the window at the bustling city, a place where not a single corner felt like home. “And for the record, you say you’re old friends, and I believe you. Whatever you say, I believe.” Stewart slammed his hand on the steering wheel, and the horn blared, a sound as jarring as the unfixable crack between us. “Fine. If you’re so determined to cut ties with me, then I’m done paying your father’s medical bills.” He waited, expecting a reaction. He probably thought I would fall apart, just like I did years ago—scared, helpless, like a Stockholm syndrome patient crawling back into the cage he built for me. But I kept my eyes on the window, not sparing him a single glance. “Suit yourself.”
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "386740", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel