My Billionaire's Last Secret: A Love Forged in Lies

Chapter 3

I just never imagined it would turn into such a farce.

Alex had to go to Europe for business. Before he left, he specifically invited me to dinner. I hadn’t seen him in months, and to be summoned was a delightful surprise. I quickly changed and primped, eager for the evening.

At the dinner, Alex very formally introduced Serena to me. I took Serena’s soft, boneless hand in mine and blurted out, "It's an honor to finally meet you!"

Serena was a quiet girl, and she merely blushed and smiled. Alex shot me a glance. "What nonsense are you spouting now?"

I straightened up. Alex, the great scion, entrusted Serena to me. "I'll be gone for over two weeks, Zoey. Since you're in the city, please look after Serena."

I patted my chest confidently. "No problem at all!"

Serena just gave a gentle, knowing smile. Alex meticulously reminded her not to eat spicy food, as it upset her stomach, and stressed that if anything important happened, she must call me.

A beauty she was, and I admired her.

The moment Alex left, I became her concierge. I sent a daily nourishing soup to her university, just in case she found the campus food unpalatable. Every weekend, I dispatch my driver to pick her up and take her home. Occasionally, she’d text me back, mostly just, "Zoey, I'm doing well. I have classes all the time, so no need to go out. My stomach hasn't bothered me, and I've received all your soups and snacks. Thank you!"

I thought everything would remain peaceful until Alex returned. But then one morning, before I even got out of bed, David Miller’s frantic call woke me. "Zoey, Mrs. Thorne is coming. Her flight lands this afternoon. You need to be careful."

My drowsiness vanished. I shot up in bed. "What? Why is she coming?"

David unusually paused before telling me, "You don't know? Lucas Reed is back in the country."

I must have frozen for a long moment. Then I heard my own dry, brittle laugh. "Oh, I see. Then I'll just make myself scarce."

There were a few people in this world I absolutely couldn't face. First, Mrs. Thorne. Second, Lucas Reed. Especially Lucas Reed. Just hearing his name made me want to run.

And run I did. I quickly packed a bag and drove to a secluded retreat in the Catskills. Mike’s parents originally had a small cabin there, and he’d built a lovely house for them. A clear river flowed in front, green mountains rose behind, and the yard was filled with fruit trees—peach and apple. It was beautiful.

I’d visited Mike’s family before, picking baskets of fresh fruit and loading my trunk with organic vegetables for the city. It was my paradise, my sanctuary. So, when trouble brewed, I fled to paradise.

I didn't even tell Mike. I just drove myself into the mountains. It was the best time of year. Along the highway, farmers were busy planting rice in terraced fields. Every now and then, a lone farmhouse would appear, surrounded by clusters of green trees. The scenery was breathtaking, miles of rolling green hills.

After leaving the highway, it was another two hours of winding mountain roads. By the time I reached Mike's parents' house, dusk was setting in. Watching the wisps of smoke rise from the hollows, my mood lifted. I navigated my nimble sports car along the winding mountain pass, each sharp curve almost giving me a thrill of drifting. Such lavish joy was rare these days. Even though I was on the run, I tried to make the escape as pleasant as possible.

Mike’s parents recognized me and weren’t too surprised by my arrival. I occasionally drove up to pick fresh produce. They were good-hearted, treating me like a neighbor's child, never deferential just because I was Mike’s boss. Mike’s mother went to the backyard to pick vegetables, planning to stir-fry some cured meat for dinner. I joined her, helping wash the vegetables and prepare the meal.

The mountains were incredibly quiet, especially at night. The stars glittered brilliantly, clearly visible above. We sat in the yard, chatting idly. Mike’s mother offered me a large plate of peaches, gently urging me to pick the softest ones.

"Mike's almost thirty," she said, a hint of worry in her voice. "He never brings a girlfriend home. Ms. Vance, you're his boss; you should help him find someone."

I nearly choked on a peach. Swallowing hard, I managed a strained laugh. "Of course, of course. I'll try to set him up with a nice girl."

Everyone called me "Ms. Vance" or "Madam Vance," even Mike sometimes called me "Zoey" when he was formal. I’d forgotten I was younger than him.

That night, I fell asleep surprisingly early and slept remarkably soundly, without a single dream. The faint chirping of birds from the mountain forest behind the house woke me at dawn. Mike’s parents’ curtains were simple, plain cotton, washed and pressed perfectly by his diligent mother. I watched through a gap in the curtains as the sky gradually brightened. The bird songs slowly faded, replaced by the crowing of roosters behind the house. c**k-a-doodle-doo, a truly effective alarm clock.

When Alex called, I was in the vegetable garden with Mike’s mother, picking fava beans. This was the best season for them; stir-fried, they were incredibly tender and soft, almost melting in your mouth. A few more days, and they’d be tough, only good for spiced stewing. I was joyfully plucking the dew-kissed beans when my phone rang. It was Alex on an international call. I didn't dare not answer. Fortunately, communication was advanced now; even deep in the mountains, the signal was full, and the call quality was excellent. Alex asked where I was. I didn’t dare lie.

Alex sounded surprised. "What are you doing alone in the mountains?"

I told him honestly, "Your stepmother arrived, and I figured I had nothing better to do. Came up here to pick some vegetables."

I strictly avoided calling Mrs. Thorne "Mrs. Thorne," remembering that taboo.

Alex scoffed, "Is that all the guts you have? That woman scares you that much?"

I stayed silent. Alex knew I’d suffered a bit under Mrs. Thorne's thumb back in the day, and his favorite pastime was to go against his stepmother. That’s partly why he’d saved me. Otherwise, I’d probably be rotting in a ditch somewhere. The Thorne family was notoriously eccentric, and while Alex never acknowledged Mrs. Thorne as a true Thorne, I still couldn’t afford to cross her.

I updated Alex on Serena’s well-being. Though I'd left, I’d given Mike instructions, and Alex should trust Mike’s efficiency. Indeed, Alex seemed satisfied with my arrangements. He didn't say anything more about it, only, "I'll probably be back next Thursday."

Alex rarely shared his itinerary with anyone. I was surprised, but then I realized he wasn't updating me on his plans. So I quickly said, "I'll let Serena know."

Alex seemed to be in a good mood. He chatted a bit longer before hanging up.

I expected to stay in the mountains for a few days, but trouble struck that very afternoon. Serena was hit by a taxi outside her university. Mike called me, and I immediately drove back to the city, terrified.

Entering the city, I hit rush hour. The air was muggy, heavy with dark clouds. The oppressive sky felt like it was crushing the concrete jungle below. It looked like a torrential downpour was coming. Though it was only six or seven in the evening, the sky was as dark as midnight. Cars had their headlights on, stop-and-go traffic snaked along the elevated highways like a winding river.

I was in my convertible, breathing in more exhaust fumes than anyone else, and worried about the impending rain. Anxious and frustrated, I finally reached the hospital, only to find the underground parking garage completely full. No parking spots. I sweet-talked a security guard for a long time until he finally let me sneak into the doctors' staff parking area. He pointed to a spot, saying, "That's the Chief's spot. He's out of town for a conference, so you can park there temporarily."

I thanked him profusely and sprinted towards the emergency building.

Alex once scoffed at me, saying I was the only woman he’d ever seen who could sprint in four-inch heels. I’d laughed, "Any woman in four-inch heels can sprint, darling. They just pretend to be demure around you. I don't have to pretend, so you finally see it."

Entering the emergency building, I saw a long line of patients waiting for the elevator. Seeing the queue, I decided to take the emergency stairs. It was only seven floors, after all.

On the second floor, a sudden c***k of thunder echoed. Lightning flashed, illuminating the stairwell window, making me jump. A torrential rain began to pour, the sky already dark, and the thunder rumbled louder and louder. This was an emergency stairwell, rarely used, and I was completely alone. The motion-sensor lights were few and far between, only turning on at corners, illuminating the stairwell for fleeting moments. The thunder made them flicker on and off, adding to the eerie atmosphere. It felt like something out of a horror movie. Suppressing my fear, I started to sing. I always sang when I was scared, a habit from childhood. When Mom was busy with her beauty salon, she’d often leave me alone in the house. I’d wake up in the middle of the night, terrified, and sing to lull myself back to sleep. The habit persisted; I was terrified of thunder, so I sang.

I didn't even know what off-key melody I was crooning. Climbing the stairs left me breathless, my singing naturally terrible. As I neared the fifth floor, I suddenly noticed someone sitting on the stairs. Just then, the thunder subsided, and the motion-sensor light didn’t come on. I could only make out a blurry shadow in the darkness, a figure sitting there. I bravely cleared my throat, but the light remained off. I clapped twice, still no light. It must have been broken. Just then, a flash of lightning outside pierced the darkness. In that fleeting moment, as the stairwell was illuminated, I vaguely saw a familiar facial outline.

"You are the wind, you are the rain, the wind and rain are all you."

Zhang Ailing once wrote of Hu Lancheng: "He sat alone on the sofa, the room filled with the golden, powdery tranquility of deep burial. Outside, the wind and rain were magnificent, covering the mountains and fields today." I was a literary teenager then, reciting that line by heart. One day, a fierce storm raged. Lucas was stuck at the airport, his flight was canceled. We were a thousand miles apart, unable to see each other. After talking on the phone, I texted him that line, word for word. His reply consisted of those exact thirteen words.

The lightning had already faded, thunder rumbled, but the lights still didn't come on. The stairwell was pitch black. I scoffed at myself. So much time had passed, and I still thought people looked like Lucas. Right after we broke up, sometimes I’d see a stranger on the street who resembled him and would secretly take a second glance.

They say first love is unforgettable. I think it’s a kind of imprinting, like a baby bird. Your first experience of love, the pain, the wounds, the sweetness, the bitterness – it all hits harder. There’s a famous online photo of an old woman selling tangerines, with crooked handwriting on a cardboard sign beside her: "Sweeter than first love."

The person who somewhat resembled Lucas was strange too, sitting alone in the stairwell. Did they have some heartache? They said many people jumped from hospitals; the windows were all welded shut, opening only a tiny c***k. Was this person a patient or a family member, contemplating something drastic?