Epilogue: Lance Mitchell’s Perspective
I was going to be a police officer when I grew up.
That’s what I thought before my dad risked his life to save someone from drowning.
But as I knelt amid the mournful music at the funeral home, fighting back tears, I
felt utterly lost.
This sense of confusion lasted until that family appeared, kneeling before my
father’s portrait, vowing to take care of us.
Samantha Owens, the high school girl my dad had saved.
Her fair face and those clear, luminous eyes made her look even more like a porcelain doll than Brooke Taylor.
I despised her, both mentally and physically.
Why couldn’t it have been her who died instead?
After dealing with my dad’s funeral, my mom couldn’t resist their persistent offers.
and we moved.
The house was spacious, well–appointed in every way.
But my hatred for Samantha only seemed to grow.
Her gaze always followed me cautiously.
I just wanted to test if the sofa was real leather, merely scratching it a couple of
times.
She immediately asked nervously, “Don’t you like it? Should I ask my dad to replace
it with fabric?”
I suspected she was putting on an act, showing off.
This made me instantly turn cold towards her.
She was the one who survived, of course she could put on a hypocritical face and
patronize us.
I also suspected it was her idea to transfer me to that elite high school.
What did they mean it was for my own good? I’m a guy, did I need protection? Did I
need to be coddled?
It was just so they could have me around to constantly showcase how grateful and
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indebted their family was.
No one asked for my opinion, and I couldn’t see Brooke Taylor anymore.
She handed me the yearbook with red–rimmed eyes: “Write in it for me early.”
I didn’t take it. I didn’t know what to write.
I had originally planned to confess to her at graduation, but now my gut feeling told me:
We wouldn’t be together anymore.
Samantha was insufferable; I was irritated by her every waking moment.
Between study sessions, I found myself thinking about her even more than Brooke Taylor.
I couldn’t help but wonder, what else did she want? What else would she do?
She soon gave me an answer.
When Brooke Taylor came to say goodbye, she cried even harder than when I had
transferred schools.
She said studying abroad was the luckiest thing to ever happen to her.
How could I not know this wasn’t luck, but someone pulling strings behind the
scenes?
I was furious and stormed off to confront Samantha.
Only when I reached her door did I remember it was her graduation ceremony, and for some inexplicable reason, I’d bought a bouquet.
I was supposed to be there to demand answers, yet I was holding flowers.
I proposed to her in front of everyone, dragging a panic–stricken Samantha to get our marriage license.
My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might burst out of my chest. Everyone told me not to rush, that we needed to prepare for the wedding and notify guests.
But I was afraid I’d regret it, afraid I’d change my mind, and even more afraid she would.
Afraid she’d suddenly realize how thoroughly I was exacting my revenge on her.
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As she signed with trembling hands, I was actually more nervous than she was. It wasn’t until I held that certificate that years of accumulated anxiety finally subsided.
This is how we’ll torment each other for life.
I constantly reminded her that all my misfortunes were because of her. Watching her grow more and more silent, more humble and timid in front of me. Yet I felt immense satisfaction inside.
She couldn’t leave me.
No matter what I did, she wouldn’t leave.
Because this was what she owed me.
Brooke Taylor told me herself that she was back in the country.
We’d long since lost touch; when I saw the friend request, it took me a moment to register who it was.
The mischievous thoughts that flashed through my mind were all about Samantha. I knew my mom had been making veiled complaints that she’d ended the Tang family line.
What my mom didn’t know was that I’d never touched Samantha.
As if loving her would betray the years of hatred I’d harbored.
I didn’t want to be a traitor.
So I brought Brooke Taylor to humiliate her, even bringing divorce papers.
That document was just randomly downloaded from the internet.
How could Samantha possibly sign it?
She’d cry out at the birthday party, she’d demand to know why I was doing this.
Imagining her pitiful look, I couldn’t help but laugh out loud.
But she was unexpectedly calm, even congratulating me after signing. Congratulations?
Then she vanished without a trace, and my fluctuating emotions settled again. If she didn’t care, why would she hide away to nurse her wounds?
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I was prepared for her to call me in the middle of the night, sobbing and pouring her heart out.
But it seemed I was the one who couldn’t adjust.
The day we signed the divorce, I opened the door to our home and was completely shattered by the long–forgotten loneliness.
In that moment, the panic in my heart magnified infinitely.
I had to ask her about curfews, coming home…
Actually, the voice in my heart was deafening.
Samantha, I think I cared about you.
But I should hate you, shouldn’t I?
This voice kept screaming in my heart.
Until later, when I chased after her, trying desperately to tell her, but she acted like she couldn’t hear.
She just looked at me coldly and said she didn’t love me anymore.
What she owed me, she wouldn’t repay.
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