Chapter 3
Three days later, my mom's condition finally stabilized. The doctor said she needed to stay in the hospital for observation for another week, then rest at home.
I sat by her bedside, watching her sleep, my emotions in turmoil. Over these three days, I'd been at her side, constantly thinking about Matthew's offer and my future.
"Kaitlyn, you should go pack your things," my mom said suddenly, her eyes open. Her voice was weak but clear. "Don't live in that place anymore."
She meant Russell's apartment. For three years, I'd lived there almost exclusively, only coming home to visit her occasionally.
"Mom, you're awake." I held her hand. "I don't want to leave you."
"Sweetheart, I saw those videos." Pain flashed in her eyes. "I should have stopped you sooner... It's my fault for not protecting you."
"It's not your fault, Mom." I shook my head. "I was just too naive."
She gripped my hand tightly. "Go pack your things. Starting today, we begin again."
An hour later, I stood outside the door to Russell's luxurious apartment, key in hand, unable to insert it.
"Ten minutes," I told myself. "Take what's mine and never come back."
Pushing the door open, the familiar scent hit me—Tom Ford's Oud Wood, Russell's favorite. My chest tightened instantly, as if an invisible hand was squeezing my heart.
Don't cry. Absolutely do not cry here.
Everything in the living room was exactly as it was three days ago. The blanket we used during movie nights was still on the sofa. My half-finished latte cup sat on the coffee table, my lipstick stain still on the rim.
"So many sweet nothings were whispered in this bed..." I stood at the bedroom doorway, my voice echoing hollowly in the empty room. "All lies."
On the dressing table, the expensive skincare products were neatly arranged. Chanel, Dior, Tom Ford... each bottle cost a fortune. I reached for a perfume—the one Russell said made me "smell like a true goddess."
Smash!
I hurled the bottle to the floor. Amber liquid splattered everywhere, the intense floral scent instantly flooding the room.
"I don't need things that make me 'seem like' anything!" I said loudly to my reflection in the mirror. "From today on, I, Kaitlyn Penrose, will live on my own merits!"
The clothes Russell bought me filled the closet, each piece with a story. This dress was from our first date. That necklace was the one he fastened when he said it "suited his queen"...
I took them down one by one, folding them neatly on the bed. My hand paused when it touched the hundred-thousand-dollar diamond necklace.
When I first wore it, I thought it was a symbol of love. Now I knew it was just a prop for his humiliation.
Rip—
I yanked the clasp open, breaking the necklace in two. I held it over the trash can, my hand hovering mid-air.
"No," I changed my mind. "I'm giving this back to you. So you remember what you did to me."
After packing, everything fit into one small suitcase. Simple clothes, a few books, and the small portrait my mom painted of me for my eighteenth birthday—I was smiling brightly.
Back then, I didn't know what a broken heart felt like.
Before leaving, I left a note on the coffee table:
"I've moved out. Everything you bought me is in the bedroom. Thank you for showing me the truth. —Kaitlyn"
Dragging my suitcase out of the elevator, I didn't look back. Russell's apartment was behind me. My future was ahead.
I rented a small apartment near the hospital. Thirty square meters, shabby furniture, but it was mine. The first night I slept in my own bed, I cried—not from self-pity, but from relief.
Over the next few days, I prepared for my new job. Matthew gave me a stack of business books and market analysis reports. I spent my days at the hospital with my mom and my nights studying late into the night in my small apartment.
After Mom was discharged, I officially started working at York Investments. On my first day in the office, my colleagues' eyes were full of curiosity and doubt. But I told myself: Let your work speak for itself.
Three weeks flew by. This morning, I had just finished a European market analysis report and was waiting for Matthew's feedback.
"This market analysis is excellent," Matthew said, putting down the file. A flicker of surprise crossed his eyes. "Your insight into the European market exceeds my expectations."
I sat across the conference table, trying to keep my voice steady. "I wanted to prove your investment was the right one."
The first week, my colleagues' looks were full of doubt. "Is she really capable?" "Why would Matthew hire an art major?" "It must be for some other reason..."
I heard the whispers, but I didn't argue. I worked twelve-hour days, analyzing projects by day and studying business by night. I proved myself through action.
"Kaitlyn, your proposal solved the problem we were having in the German market," my colleague Sarah said, walking over. Her tone held genuine appreciation. "Our team discussed it for a whole month without finding an entry point. You found it in a week."
My inner voice screamed: Finally! Someone recognizes me for my ability!
"You have a unique perspective. You understand consumer psychology through an artistic lens," Matthew said, walking over. His praise sounded sincere. "Now, would you like to take on a bigger project?"
I looked up at him, a newfound fighting spirit burning in my eyes. "I would."
After work, I visited my mom at the hospital. It had become a daily habit. No matter how late I worked, I had to make sure she was okay. Seeing her improve day by day was my biggest motivation to keep pushing.
"Mom, the doctor says you're recovering well," I said, gently stroking her hand. Her complexion was much better than before the surgery. "You can be discharged in two more weeks."
"My dear Kaitlyn," Mom's voice was still weak, but her eyes were full of affection. "You've lost weight. Is the work too hard?"
"Not hard at all. I really like my job now." I smiled, but a question I'd been holding back for a long time surfaced. "Mom, can I ask you something?"
Mom's body stiffened slightly. "What is it?"
I took a deep breath, trying to sound casual. "Do you... know Russell's father? Mr. Hawthorne?"
Clatter!
The water glass in Mom's hand suddenly fell, shattering on the floor. Her face instantly turned deathly pale.
"Don't ask about that!" Her voice became suddenly agitated, filled with a fear I'd never heard before. "Never ask about that!"
"Mom, what's wrong?" I was startled by her reaction. "You..."
"Kaitlyn, listen to me," Mom gripped my hand tightly, her nails almost digging into my skin. "No matter what anyone tells you about the past, don't believe it. None of it is true, do you hear me?"
Seeing the fear and despair in my mom's eyes only strengthened my doubts. "Mom, what really happened? Russell said you and his father—"
"I don't want to hear that name!" Mom suddenly shouted, loud enough for the whole ward to hear. "Please, Kaitlyn, don't ask anymore!"
A nurse rushed in at the noise. "The patient is too agitated. Family members, please cooperate..."
I had to leave the room, but my mom's reaction made me even more certain: there was a secret here I didn't know.
It was late at night by the time I got home. This thirty-square-meter apartment was a stark contrast to Russell's luxurious place. No marble floors, no floor-to-ceiling windows, not even a new washing machine.
But it was mine.
I sat at the simple desk, opened my laptop, and started searching for information on the Hawthorne family.
"Diana Penrose, artist... Hawthorne Art Foundation... sponsorship..."
The search results showed my mom had indeed received sponsorship from the Hawthorne Art Foundation—twenty three years ago. But there were no detailed records.
I tried more keywords: "Diana Penrose Hawthorne scandal," "artist scandal," "improper relationship"...
Nothing.
It was strange. According to Russell, my mom's "improper relationship" with his father should have been a scandal, leaving at least some traces in the art or social circles.
But all related records seemed to have been scrubbed clean—unnaturally clean.
"Why can't I find any records?" I muttered to myself. "If there really was a scandal, there's no way there wouldn't be a single trace..."
My phone suddenly rang. The caller ID showed an unknown number.
"Hello?"
A distorted, mechanical voice came through the line, as if processed through a voice changer. "Stop digging. Some things are better left buried in the past."
"Who is this? How do you know what I'm looking into?"
"Consider this a friendly warning." The call ended.
I stared at the phone screen, my heart racing. Was someone monitoring my internet searches?
Now I was even more certain: the malicious hints in Russell's words hid a huge secret. And someone didn't want that secret found.
I closed my laptop and walked to the window, looking out at the nighttime cityscape of San Francisco. The Golden Gate Bridge glittered in the distance, a reminder of how many
secrets this city still held.
"I'm not that naive girl attached to Russell anymore," I said to the night sky. "I'm becoming an independent, strong woman. But first, I need to find the truth. Not just for myself, but for Mom too."
No matter how harsh the truth might be, I had to know.