Chapter 7

After Alvin returned home that evening, I pretended to be indifferent. I asked him, "What should we do if we get tired of each other in the future?"

He paused, pouring water into a cup. "Do you despise me?"

"I was just thinking," I said, "after being together for so long, will we one day forget our original intentions? Having experienced the initial joy of our first meeting, does that feeling still remain after all this time?"

A brief silence followed my question. He told me not to overthink it, offering no further explanation. The moment the door closed, I collapsed onto the sofa, tears falling silently. I couldn't help but wonder what he was like with her. Would he look at her so tenderly, kiss her passionately, embrace her warmly? The surging emotions overwhelmed me, plunging me into despair. The pain was unbearable, tearing me apart. If only life could be as it was when we first met.

The next day, I frantically caught up on my work, trying to avoid thinking about him. Zayden, on the other end of the video conference, frowned, his face filled with concern.

"Mr. Mercer," he said, "Pinnacle Group suggested replacing the old materials with new ones to save costs, but the market release of this material has been brief. If we can prove the risks of replacing a large number of old materials, perhaps we can negotiate for more time. Otherwise, even if we come up with a new plan within three days, the chances of success are not high."

I supported my forehead, my head spinning. I didn’t know if it was exhaustion, but the fever lingered, returning repeatedly.

"Okay," Zayden said, "leave this to me. You don't look well. Rest today… Tomorrow…"

The sound in my ears faded. Suddenly, everything went black.

In a daze, I dreamt. In the dream, Alvin was eighteen, sitting at the Horne family desk, quickly writing. After finishing his homework, he sat quietly beside me, occasionally cutting fruit or pouring me a glass of milk. I joked, asking if he was raising me as his daughter. Young Alvin glared silently, his ears quietly reddening.

The scene shifted. Outside the middle school classroom, I was surrounded by girls.

“What’s the use of having good grades?” one sneered. “Unfortunately, you don't have a good father.”

“Haha, or a mother,” another chimed in.

Each sentence was a knife, stabbing into me. Their malice imprisoned me, leaving me defenseless. Then, a pair of warm hands firmly grasped mine. Eighteen-year-old Alvin, his face cold, said firmly, "An excellent person will shine no matter where they are. She is excellent, more excellent than any of you.”

I hadn't cried at their harsh words, but his words made me weep uncontrollably, releasing all my pent-up grief.