Elaine Nolan's voice carried extraordinary penetration—sweet on the surface, but laced with the syrupy arrogance unique to K City's elite socialites.
"Is it you?"
The three words were asked casually, almost lazily—yet with absolute certainty.
Amelie gripped the phone so tightly her knuckles turned white. Not a single word came out.
On the sofa, Christopher didn't even bother to look up. He calmly flipped a page of the newspaper. Morning sunlight spilled across his long fingers, and the shadow of the dark agarwood prayer beads looped around his wrist fell across the financial section—an incongruous, ominous presence.
"Hang up."
Two words. Flat. Detached. Final.
Amelie's mind hadn't caught up yet, but her finger had already pressed the button by instinct.
The line went dead.
The living room fell back into a deathly silence.
But Amelie's heart never found its way back to calm.
How did Elaine Nolan have her number?
Had Christopher given it to her? But why?
A plaything.
So that was the shared definition between him and his fiancée.
Amelie let out a small, self-mocking laugh. She raised her hand, reaching for the necklace at her throat.
She didn't deserve to wear it.
She didn't want it.
Her fingertips had just brushed the cold clasp when a warm hand closed around her wrist.
Christopher was already standing in front of her. She hadn't even heard him move. His brow was slightly furrowed.
"What are you doing?"
"Dirty," Amelie said hoarsely. "I feel dirty. And this thing is... uncomfortable."
A flicker of displeasure crossed his eyes. He misunderstood—assuming she meant the phone call had sullied her mood.
His grip tightened.
"She won't dare call again. Wear the necklace. I don't take back what I give."
What he gives.
The same thing he gave Elaine Nolan.
Amelie stopped resisting. She let her hand fall as he lowered it.
She was exhausted—too tired to argue, too numb to explain.
Like a beautifully dressed marionette, she did whatever he wanted, moved when he pulled the strings.
She nodded mechanically.
Christopher seemed satisfied with her obedience.
***
That afternoon, Elaine Nolan arrived.
She went straight to the second floor—to the study where Christopher handled his work.
"Christopher, I'm here," Elaine's voice came through the door, soft and teasing.
Amelie was inside the study, grinding ink just as Christopher had instructed.
Without lifting his head, he said, "Come in."
Amelie's heart leapt straight into her throat.
The doorknob turned.
Just before Elaine's line of sight fully entered the room, Christopher moved.
He grabbed Amelie—still holding the inkstone—and shoved her with unyielding force into the built-in wardrobe beside the wall.
Everything happened in a split second.
"Uncle—you can't—"
Her words were cut off by the closing door.
Click.
The wardrobe shut.
Amelie crouched in the darkness, curling her body into itself. The space was small, crammed full of Christopher's suits. Expensive fabric pressed in from all sides. Every inch was saturated with that familiar, icy cedarwood scent—once merely suffocating, now violently oppressive.
It made her nauseous.
But she didn't dare move.
Her world shrank to a single, nearly invisible crack between the wardrobe doors.
That sliver of light was her only vision.
Light squeezed through the gap, slicing open the darkness—dividing two worlds.
She was inside.
They were outside.
Elaine's heels clicked as she walked in. She glanced around the room, puzzled.
"I thought I heard something just now. Christopher, was someone else here?"
"A clumsy servant," Christopher replied evenly, without the slightest fluctuation. "Spilled the ink. I told her to get out."
Get out.
Amelie's nails dug deep into her palms.
"Oh." Elaine didn't doubt him. She immediately brightened, moving over to sit beside him, wrapping her arms around him from behind. "I don't care, Christopher. I missed you. We're almost engaged, and you're still so cold to me."
Christopher didn't move.
He didn't push her away either.
That silent acceptance was sharper than any blade—it stabbed straight through Amelie's heart.
Through the crack, she saw Elaine press her cheek against his back, her voice tinged with tears and probing suspicion.
"You haven't really fallen for that little girl you keep at home, have you? Christopher, don't lie to me. The way she looks at you—it's not right. She's your relative––even if not by blood."
Dust motes drifted in the beam of light.
Outside, everything went quiet for a few seconds.
But those seconds felt endless.
Amelie barely breathed. She was waiting for a verdict.
Then she heard the sentence that cast her irrevocably into hell.
It was Christopher's voice.
Calm. Flat. Cruel in its indifference.
"She's just a pet I keep around. She entertains me."
Then, after a pause, "When I get tired of her, I'll throw her away."
The world collapsed.
A pet.
Thrown away when he gets bored.
She had always known what she was—but she had still foolishly clung to the scraps of warmth he sometimes showed.
Now, he tore that illusion apart with his own hands.
And he did it in front of another woman.
This was her final definition.
Humiliation and heartbreak drowned her, stealing her breath.
She clamped a hand over her mouth, terrified of making even the smallest sound.
But tears poured out uncontrollably.
One by one—scalding, silent—falling onto his pristine, outrageously expensive suits.
She wanted to scream. To rush out and confront him.
But she couldn't. She couldn't do anything.
She was just something that could be discarded at any time.
A pet.
The air in the wardrobe grew thinner and thinner.
The darkness and the cedarwood scent crushed her lungs.
Sharp pain bloomed in her chest. Her vision blurred.
The sliver of light outside began to twist and spin.
She thought she heard Elaine laughing. Thought she heard Christopher telling her not to fuss.
But the sounds drifted farther and farther away.
Amelie's hand slipped from her mouth.
Her body slid slowly down the cold interior wall of the wardrobe.
Before consciousness was swallowed entirely by darkness, she had only one thought:
It hurts.
It really hurts.
Why does it hurt so much?