<b>Chapter </b>415


    Regret and discontent mingled in Bryant’s heart, but Steven seemed unfazed. “Look, man, you should’ve never been the one to bring up divorce first. What’s critical between two people is that push and pull, you know? Love’s all about that tug of war.”


    Bryant stayed silent for a moment before asking, “Is there still a chance to fix things?”


    An idea struck Steven. “y the sympathy card.”


    “Sympathy card?” Bryant was skeptical, “No use, she won’t fall for that.”


    Steven shrugged, “If the soft approach won’t cut it, guess we gotta y hardball.”


    Hardball, huh.


    Two years back, he had watched her, driven to the brink by his own actions, losing sleep and barely eating. He’d consulted his therapist about it, who mentioned it looked a lot like depression. The severe kind.


    Swirling his drink, for the first time, he felt utterly helpless. He couldn’t control her anymore. But to let her be with Gregory? That was something he couldn’t


    <ol>


    <li>do.</li>


    </ol>


    When I got home, Christine was lounging on the couch, deeply engrossed in a video game.


    Seeing me, she looked up, surprised, “You’re back?”


    “What, should I not be?”


    I casually hung up my coat and went over to the kitchen sink to wash my hands.


    Christine, still focused on her game, teased, “Looks like Gregory didn’t impress much, huh? I guess being handicapped really affects things?”This content belongs to N?/velDra/ma.Org .


    “He’s not exactly handicapped.”


    I’d thought about it on the way home. “It’s more like he’s still recovering from


    1/3


    an injury.”


    If it were a real disability, his muscles would’ve atrophied by now. But Gregory’s were just like anyone else’s.


    Christine paused her game and looked at me, her expression changing, “Wait, why did you change clothes?”


    1 knew she was jumping to conclusions, so I exined, “Got caught in the rain. Just borrowed a shirt from his cousin temporarily.”


    That reminded me, my wet clothes were still in his study. I had just tossed them there and in my haste, forgot to grab them when I left.


    Christine seemed to ponder for a moment before nodding, “Does he know about your divorce yet?”


    “Yeah, he knows.”


    I chuckled, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, “He thought I’d been happily living at the Ferguson family, ying Mrs. Ferguson for the past couple of years.”


    “Did you set him straight?”


    “Nope.”


    I took a sip of the cold water, soothing my throat, before kicking off my shoes and sitting cross–legged on the carpet, “How could I exin? Tell him about my depression? That I attempted suicide?”


    People had plenty of assumptions about me because of his depression. And him finding out would only make him feel more guilty.


    “Fair enough.”


    Christine mumbled, “Shouldn’t he feel a bit guilty, though? The more guilty he feels, the better he’d treat you.”


    I looked down, “That’spensation, not affection.”


    Besides, there was no need to drag someone else into hell with me.


    The next day, I sent my initial design drafts to Be’s agent via email. The response was surprisingly swift. Only, it was from Be herself.


    <i>2/3</i>


    09:14


    She called, her voice cheerful, “Elena, I’ve received your designs. How about we grab lunch together?”


    She never seemed like someone nearing fifty. More like someone much


    younger.


    I paused my work, smiling, “Ms. Taylor, is there a problem with the designs?”


    “No, not at all. I’m very pleased with them. Keep going with what you’re doing.”