The fifth spring since our divorce. Julian and I met again in a tattoo studio. He was there to touch up his lover's name over his heart. I was there to cover the old scars on my wrist. Years had passed. We stared at each other, speechless. After a long silence, Julian opened his mouth to speak, but a small hand tugged at the hem of his shirt. "Daddy," a little boy said, looking at me with curiosity. "Who is she?" 1 The island breeze stirred the wind chimes on the porch, shattering the prolonged quiet. "I'm a customer," I said. "Just like your dad. Here for a tattoo." The little boy tilted his head. "Do you know my daddy?" "Leo," Julian's voice was sharp. The boy pouted and fell silent. "No," I answered him anyway. "We're strangers." Julian's expression darkened. The owner tapped the counter, his gaze shifting between us. "Who's first?" Julian, who had been leaning against the bar, stood up straight. He looked at me, his eyes fixed. "She is." He was wearing a white linen shirt and silver-gray trousers, the top buttons undone, revealing a well-defined chest. On his left breast, an English name was tattooed, partially obscured. I couldn't see it clearly, but I knew whose name it was. Even though, when we divorced, that name had yet to be etched over his heart. "First come, first served," I said, my tone polite but distant. "You were here first, sir. Please, go ahead." Before Julian could reply, his phone vibrated. I caught a glimpse of the screen. The caller ID read: "Wife." He killed the screen and his first instinct was to look at me. I turned and walked to a quiet booth in the lounge area. Behind me, I heard the little boy's excited voice. "Is that Mommy calling?" 2 Julian's voice was naturally cool, but when he was coaxing someone, he'd lower it to a warm, deep murmur that blended with the cello music playing in the studio. I stared down, stirring my coffee, when a child's voice piped up beside me. "Ma'am?" I turned. The little boy was leaning over the armrest, watching me. He was beautifully cherubic, with a refined, handsome air that was utterly charming. So charming that even knowing whose son he was, I couldn't bring myself to feel any animosity toward him. "I'll tell you a secret," he whispered, as if sharing something profound. "You look just like my mommy. She's a super famous movie star, you know." "Then you must look a lot like her." The boy's eyes lit up. He seemed about to move closer, but a large hand gently pressed down on his head. Julian ruffled his hair. "Go wait in the car with Uncle Hanson." I raised an eyebrow and saw the middle-aged man who had been Julian's assistant for years standing behind him. Our eyes met. He looked shocked, with a hint of awkwardness. "...Miss Xu." I gave a calm nod, my voice tinged with the wistful air of an old reunion. "Mr. Hanson." Julian scooped the boy into his arms. As he stood, a flash of silver caught my eye. It was the watch on his wrist, a Patek Philippe—a style he never would have chosen back then. On his long, elegant ring finger was a simple, unadorned band of understated luxury. In the two years of our marriage, Julian had never worn a wedding ring. True love was true love, I thought, taking a sip of coffee. Even after all these years, the passion hadn't faded. 3 Mr. Hanson led the boy away, but Julian remained standing by my booth. "Clara," he said, his voice low. "How have you been?" I put down my half-empty cup. "Quite well, thank you for asking." Silence stretched between us. Finally, the shadow over me was gone. Julian had followed the owner upstairs. The cello music faded, replaced by the soft, tranquil notes of a piano, mirroring the calm in my own heart. The studio's owner was an internationally renowned tattoo artist. His custom designs were worth a fortune, and he only took two clients a day. It was just my luck that today was the day. My eyes drifted over the designs on the wall, then stopped, fixed on the piece displayed in the center. It was a photograph of a red lipstick tattoo on a man's inner thigh. The man was sitting on the floor, one knee bent, a black silk robe falling open to reveal boxer briefs and, just below them, the pale pink lipstick print. The shape of the lips was exquisite, the lines clean, creating a simmering tension against the bronzed skin. It was a woman's mark, claimed on a man's territory. "Miss Xu," the owner's voice pulled me back. "This way, please." I turned and saw Julian coming down the spiral staircase, the collar of his shirt now buttoned to the top. "So quick?" I asked. "He's being neurotic. Decided not to get the touch-up after all," the owner said. He was clearly familiar with Julian. "You can head on up." Julian stopped at the bottom of the stairs, one hand in his trouser pocket, his face impassive. He looked down at me, his gaze heavy and dark. We stood there, locked in a silent standoff, and all I could think of was the last time we'd made love. After we kissed and fell into bed, I had seen it. The red lipstick tattoo on his inner thigh. 4 The wall clock chimed. I picked up my bag and walked toward the stairs. As I passed Julian, he grabbed my wrist. His grip was tight, the metal of his watch digging into my skin, making me wince. "Clara," his voice was a low rasp. "Do you have to pretend we're strangers?" I didn't struggle. My eyes, when they met his, were perfectly still. "The fact that I can still pretend we're strangers is a kindness." He froze. His grip loosened, and he rubbed his thumb over his fingers as if to wipe away the contact. "I know you still hate me." Julian always had that ability—to control any situation, to never appear awkward. He had been exactly the same when the photos of him and Stella Vance kissing went viral. Except back then, I had been the one screaming, a hysterical madwoman next to my perfectly composed husband. "You're overstating things," I said, taking a few steps up the stairs, my voice deliberately detached. "Given our current relationship, 'hate' is too strong a word. It doesn't apply." He seemed about to say more, but I paid him no mind and continued up to the second floor. The studio had a distinct, post-modern style—spacious and quiet. The owner confirmed my design on his computer while an assistant prepped my skin. I unclasped the watch from my right wrist. It was a unique leather band that wrapped around three times. As it came off, the scar was revealed—a mangled, fleshy pink, angry against my skin. "The wrist is a painful spot," the owner said, unfazed. "Brace yourself." I smiled faintly. "It can't be worse than when I cut them in the first place." 5 Two scars, one deeper than the other. The numbing cream wore off. Just before he started, the owner confirmed the design with me one last time. A blue butterfly, wings spread in flight, clean and sharp. "This is a tricky area. It'll probably need a touch-up later on," he said, pulling on his mask. "But I can guarantee it will cover the scars perfectly." "Do all tattoos need touch-ups?" "No. It's because of Julian's skin type," the owner admitted freely. "Tattooing him is terrible for my reputation." I didn't say anything. After two years of marriage, I knew all about his peculiar skin. Back then, Julian hated it when I left any marks on him during our intimate moments. But now, he was willing to go through the hassle of frequent touch-ups just to keep Stella's name on his chest. And to have her kiss tattooed on his inner thigh. The first touch of the needle sent a sharp sting through my wrist. I winced, and the owner spoke suddenly. "Tell me the story of your scars." I paused, then laughed. "What, is that a hobby for tattoo artists?" In the public eye, Julian Croft was the man who had it all. His business empire was expanding, his career soaring. His love life was a fairy tale, a perfect marriage to a beautiful movie star, a happy family. "When I met Julian, he was already married to Stella," the owner said. "And she looks remarkably like you." I smiled and pulled a pack of cigarettes from my purse. "Do you mind?" He shook his head. I exhaled a plume of smoke, thought for a moment, and said softly, "I'm Julian's ex-wife." 6 Julian and I met in college. He was a senior in my program. When he started his own company, he recruited me. Today, NexusCore Technologies is an industry giant. But in the beginning, it was just the two of us. Julian's standards were impossibly high. He was a campus legend, and countless students submitted their resumes. "But I was the only one he kept." Through the haze of smoke, I narrowed my eyes. "The Julian back then was incredibly arrogant, looked down on everyone. I was the last person he interviewed." Neither of us had any hope. I thought he was pretentious; he'd spent all day interviewing people and decided they were all idiots, myself included. "But we talked all night. As the sun came up, he held out his hand and said, 'Let's work together.'" "Our philosophies aligned, our goals were the same. Julian was fiercely ambitious." I tapped the ash from my cigarette. "And as it happened, so was I." For the first two years of NexusCore, Julian and I rented an apartment off-campus. We hustled for clients together, chased investors together. He was my mentor, teaching me everything he knew about business, networking, and our field, holding nothing back. On my twenty-second birthday, we pulled an all-nighter coding. As dawn broke, he leaned against the window and lit a cigarette. "He asked me," I took a drag, "if I smoked." I leaned in, curious, and was immediately choked by the smoke, my eyes tearing up. He started laughing, then pulled me against his chest and kissed me. When the kiss ended, he asked me another question. Do you want to marry me? The buzzing on my wrist paused for a second. The owner said, "That's an interesting question. Shouldn't it have been, 'Do you want to be my girlfriend?'" I smiled too, feeling like I was telling someone else's story, watching a play from a safe distance. "I said yes. And on that same day, we secured our first round of funding." "Riding the AI wave, NexusCore took off. In just a year, we were a rising star in the industry." "The day we established NexusCore's core executive team, I was appointed CEO. And Julian took me home." "That's when I learned that his family name was Croft. As in, the Croft family, the shipping magnates of Port Sterling." 7 The Croft family had built their fortune in shipping. Three generations of accumulated wealth made them one of Port Sterling's most powerful dynasties. Naturally, our marriage faced opposition. But a man with the courage to strike out on his own wasn't going to let his family dictate his choice of wife. "Julian fought them for two years. He was so stubborn that his grandfather beat him badly enough to land him in the hospital, but even then, he wouldn't yield." The ash from my cigarette fell silently. I stared at it for a moment before speaking softly. "After NexusCore's first major financing round, we got married." "The wedding was simple, on a small island. Julian later bought it and put it in my name. He called it Cove's End." The artist's hand stopped moving completely. I nodded. "The very island we're on right now." "Before we married, Julian signed an agreement. Aside from my founder's shares in NexusCore, he took all his liquid assets and established a trust for me." "He said he wanted NexusCore to be my greatest strength." "Everyone said he was madly in love with me, that he'd tied our interests so tightly together there was no room for divorce." "I used to believe that too." The cigarette had burned down. I crushed it in the ashtray. "Until our first year of marriage, when he personally selected Stella Vance to be the face of NexusCore." I once asked him why he chose such an unknown actress. "Don't you think," Julian had said, pointing to her giant billboard, "that she looks a lot like you in college?" "About eighty percent of your spirit," he chuckled before I could answer. "But completely empty-headed. An airhead." "Stella's rise was meteoric," the artist's voice pulled me from my memories. "If I remember correctly, she was a household name by nineteen." "Yes," I recalled. "Less than a year after becoming our spokesperson, she was famous everywhere." "The night she won the 'Best Newcomer' award was Julian's twenty-fifth birthday. We had plans for dinner." "But I waited for two hours and he never came home. I couldn't reach him, and Mr. Hanson wasn't answering either." "Then, at eight o'clock, a story blew up online: Stella Vance in a passionate embrace with a mystery man." "I clicked on it," I looked up at the artist and gave a small, bitter smile. "The mystery man was my husband."
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