To ensure the heroine’s successful conquest, the System faked my death. I woke up six years later. Penniless, I stood on the street, the hero and heroine already living a blissful life. I’d just escaped a fire, so disheveled I’d lost a shoe. Feeling a bit lost, I messaged Henry Darcy. “…Could you pick me up?” The call came back quickly. But it wasn’t Henry speaking. A child’s voice, after a moment of silence, spoke with forced aloofness: “Oh, another one pretending to be my mom.” 1 He still came though. A kind passerby had told him my location. The breathing on the other end of the line hitched. The soft voice, however, hung up decisively. “Be there soon.” Returning the borrowed phone to the passerby, I silently thanked them. A fever in my youth had damaged my vocal cords, and ever since, I couldn’t speak. Soon enough, a car pulled up in front of me. A little boy jumped out, his legs kicking. When he saw my face, his eyes flickered. He kept a poker face, silently assessing me for a moment. His gaze fell on my shoeless foot. Disheveled, dirty, covered in soot. Because I had just escaped a fire. I’d woken up to find myself six years in the future. My fingers curled, and I belatedly felt a pang of embarrassment. But I pretended not to care, signing: “I didn’t mean to bother you.” “Could I borrow some money? I’ll leave right away.” Six years had passed; the hero and heroine were already living happily ever after. Even my own child now called someone else ‘Mom’. Mid-sentence, I remembered Alan Darcy couldn’t understand sign language. I borrowed the driver’s phone, about to type, but Alan, looking rather unhappy, pulled me into the car. It was rush hour, and I thought he was upset because of the impatient honking from the cars behind us. He turned his head, staring out the window, saying nothing. So I handed him the phone. Alan, his small face serious, asked me: “How much money do you want?” I typed: “One thousand dollars.” Alan stared at the three words for a moment, then, a little unsure, said: “Ten million?” My vision went black. My eyes widened in disbelief, and I quickly waved my hands. Alan pursed his lips, his voice childish: “Not enough?” “I don’t have that much money, I’ll ask Dad to give it to you when we get home.” I tapped furiously on the phone screen. But he pushed the phone away, his tender voice muffled: “Too many words I don’t know, I can’t read it.” How many words could a six-year-old really know? Just moments ago, he understood complex words like “borrow money,” but now he couldn’t distinguish between “thousand” and “million.” I sighed in frustration. Looking down, I noticed Alan’s shoes were on the wrong feet, and his socks were mismatched. Was he too rushed to leave? I bit my lip, feeling a little sad, and pointed, wanting to remind him. But he seemed to misunderstand, tilting his head and asking: “You want to hold hands?” He frowned, looking conflicted, but still extended his hand. “Fine, I guess I can let you hold my hand for a bit.” 2 Henry used to be just like that when he was little. Back then, I lived in his house. At first, everyone looked down on me, the quiet, mute kid. He had been kidnapped as a child, and both his parents died in that incident. Old Man Darcy, worried about his trauma, let him choose playmates from all over the city. And Henry, among a group of chattering peers, chose me – clumsy and slow. With that, my family, the Chen family, rose in status. Later, I found out Henry chose me that day because I was the quietest, not noisy. Years passed, and I lived inconspicuously in the Darcy household. Then, one stormy night, thunder woke me. Then I heard a knock on the door. Opening it, Henry stood there, clutching a blanket, his face serious, saying each word carefully: “You’re afraid of thunder?” I looked bewildered, about to shake my head. But he pressed down on my head, saying awkwardly: “Got it. Then I guess I’ll reluctantly keep you company tonight.” …So silly. Did he really think I couldn’t tell he was scared himself? Those who crave love often struggle to receive it. Just as I, as a child yearning for a mother’s love, never received a single moment of her favoritism. The only time she ever praised me was on the night Henry chose me. So, Henry, who wasn’t truly mine, was destined to be separated from me. Six years ago, before that fire, the heroine, Scarlett Kingston, showed me her future with Henry. It turned out I was just a villainess, an accident—a one-night stand with the hero, secretly giving birth to his child, and then using that to extort a huge fortune. In that future, I died in a fire. After my death, Scarlett redeemed the hero, and they lived happily ever after years later. Even my child recognized someone else as his new mom. After seeing it, I felt a little lost. Was I really that bad in someone else’s story? Later, I actually found myself trapped in a fire. I only managed to pass my child through a narrow gap before the engulfing flames completely blocked me inside. I choked on the smoke, and when I opened my eyes again, I was in the present, six years later. I am mute. I can’t say pleasant words, nor harsh ones. I can’t even win an argument. If I hadn’t been truly desperate, my mind only recalling Henry’s phone number, I think we would never have met again. But now I regret it a little. I hadn’t intended to return to the Darcy house. In my mind, Henry would unhesitatingly give me money and send me away. After all, in his eyes, that chaotic night was a scheme orchestrated by me and the Chen family. But things seemed to have gone awry. I suddenly felt like I was sitting on pins and needles, wanting to say I didn’t want the money, I wanted to get out of the car. But Alan pushed the phone away, saying he couldn’t read, and the driver remained focused on the road ahead. So I could only watch helplessly as the car drove into the Darcy family’s underground garage. 3 To my relief, Henry wasn’t home. The driver explained he’d gone abroad for a business deal that morning and wouldn’t be back until next week. My phone was accidentally smashed in the fire. After swapping the SIM card into a new phone, a torrent of messages flooded in the moment I powered it on. The screen even lagged for a second. I was startled. A carrier message showed my phone account had been topped up with a huge sum. Most of the missed calls and unread messages were from the same familiar number. I bit my lip and opened them. Scrolling from top to bottom. “Arden Chen, you slept with me and then ran off?” “I’m not angry, come out, stop hiding.” This timeline would have been the months after my family, the Chen family, dragged me back and kept me locked in the attic, forcing me to secretly give birth to the child. My phone was confiscated then, and I was cut off from everyone. “…They said you died, I didn’t believe it.” “The Chen family traded the child for those plots of land on the east side of the city. I gave them what they wanted.” “How much do I have to give for you to reappear?” “The child looks a lot like you.” “Today someone impersonated you to scam Alan out of two hundred dollars.” “Idiot, if you don’t show up soon, your son will be scammed.” … The last message was from two years ago. “If you see this, call me.” After that, silence. I thought, perhaps this was when Scarlett successfully “redeemed” Henry. So Henry finally gave up on messaging me. I lowered my gaze, a dull ache in my chest, almost suffocating, though I couldn’t pinpoint why. I actually saw it. Standing on the street, waiting for Alan to arrive, I saw the advertisement on the giant screen at the mall. I stared up blankly then, seeing Scarlett endorsing a brand under Darcy Enterprises. Tears inexplicably fell. No matter how much I wiped, they wouldn’t stop. It turned out that no one truly couldn’t live without another. Now they were happy; my appearance would only be a disruption. Just then, as I was about to leave, Alan happened to appear before me. And by some twist of fate, I ended up in the car, back at the Darcy house. I checked my card balance. I didn’t know if the Chen family simply didn’t care for my meager savings or truly didn’t care about me. After my “death” six years ago, they hadn’t even closed my account. With the reassuring balance in my pocket, I planned to transfer money for the phone and clothes to the Darcy family’s housekeeper to pass on. Then I would leave. …Since everyone was happy, there was no need to disturb them anymore. As I pushed open the door. Alan, standing outside the door, instinctively stepped back, startled by me. He raised his chin, asking in a childish voice, feigning nonchalance: “Where are you going?” I had already downloaded a translation app in the room, typed out my message, and played it aloud. “Thank you, I’m leaving now.” Time is a truly wondrous thing. An infant who was wailing in my arms just a few hours ago could now skip and jump around. His eyes widened slightly, then suddenly reddened. He clutched my hand, panicked and frantic, shouting: “No! You still owe me money, you can’t leave!” All his previous forced coolness was gone. I knelt down, meeting his gaze. Very carefully, very gently, I stroked his soft black hair. I had seen that future. In that future, everyone was happy. Alan had a perfect mother, growing up safe and joyful. He wouldn’t have a manipulative maternal grandfather, nor a mute, unlikable mother. I pressed play, and the calm, robotic voice echoed in the hallway. “I’ll transfer the money for the phone to you.” Alan stared at me, stubbornly clutching my hand, refusing to let go, crying uncontrollably, shaking his head and saying: “Not that.” “You messaged me, asking me to transfer two hundred dollars.” “I secretly ran off after school that day, and waited for you on the bridge for a long time.” “You lied to me, you didn’t come.” His somewhat jumbled words still reminded me of Henry’s text message, mentioning someone impersonating me to scam Alan out of two hundred dollars. My eyes felt a little sore. I wiped away the tears from Alan’s soft cheeks with my hand. It wouldn’t be good if Scarlett came back and saw this. She was Alan’s beloved new mom; I absolutely didn’t want any friction between them because of me. Perhaps later she and Henry would have their own children, and she would have her own favorites, but the first one would always be special. I didn’t want her to see Alan with annoyance or disgust because of me in the future. I wanted to leave before Scarlett returned. As I turned around, Alan sprang forward and wrapped his arms around one of my legs. I swallowed the bitterness in my heart, looking down helplessly at Alan, who was clinging to me, but then heard a rustling sound ahead. I looked up, instinctively. And met a pair of dark eyes. In the long corridor, someone stood, travel-worn, at the end of the stairs, his trench coat soaked from the heavy rain, his voice hoarse. Henry said: “…Arden Chen.” “How can you bully a child?” 4 I don’t know when the rain outside the window started to fall. But I hurriedly pried Alan’s hands off me, then anxiously peered behind Henry. I didn’t see anyone else. Only then did I breathe a sigh of relief. Alan clung to me again, still hugging my leg, shouting at Henry: “Dad, quickly give Mom ten million dollars.” “If you give it to her, she won’t leave.” Me: “…?” Meeting Henry’s subtle gaze, I pursed my lips, unable to resist raising my hands to argue: “I didn’t.” “I only wanted to borrow a thousand dollars. Alan doesn’t know sign language or how to read, he misunderstood.” I signed quickly, afraid he would misunderstand. Henry clearly understood, but his expression paused, then he let out a vague chuckle, saying cryptically: “Alan doesn’t understand sign language?” I felt the small hands clutching my pant leg suddenly tighten. But Henry quickly brushed over the topic, telling the playfully demanding Alan to go back to his room. Alan glared at him angrily: “Why?” “I’m the one who brought Mom back.” “And Mom even texted and called me, she came back because of me!” He even boasted while arguing. Henry lowered his eyes, watched him for a moment, then sneered: “If you hadn’t secretly swapped my phone’s SIM card again, would it have been your turn to pick her up?” He tried to pull Alan away, but couldn’t. “How about this, you ask her yourself if she wants you to go back to your room.” The next moment, both their gazes landed on me simultaneously. My scalp tingled. I instinctively averted my eyes, hesitating for a moment: “…Maybe I should just leave?” Henry turned his head, plainly lying to Alan: “See, she said it’s late now, and you should go back to your room obediently to sleep.” “You’re lying! Clearly—” Henry interrupted him: “A child who can’t understand sign language shouldn’t guess.” At these words, Alan’s voice ceased. He pouted, looking at me pitifully, but ultimately said nothing. Henry seemed to sense Alan’s reluctance. He pulled me into the study, telling me concisely: “This stubborn kid won’t give up.” “Can you wait for me here for a moment?” Then, he knelt in front of Alan, seemingly whispering something. Alan immediately quieted down, glancing at me hesitantly, then obediently let Henry lead him away. Silence immediately descended. I came back to myself, hearing the patter of rain from the half-open French window in the study. The wind was strong, whipping the sheer curtains outward, and even the papers on the desk rustled loudly. Worried the rain would blow in and dampen the documents in the study, I walked over and closed the window. But as I turned, I knocked a book off the shelf. From its flyleaf fell a ten-dollar bill with a torn corner. 5 Seeing that familiar ten-dollar bill, I froze. I felt as if I were back in that summer. By then, Henry was no longer as distant as he had been when we first met. At some point, he had secretly learned sign language behind my back. I even clearly remembered the first time he clumsily signed “Got it” to me. His expression was still aloof and unhurried. But he still argued: “It takes too much of my time waiting for you to write it down for me to see.” I curved my eyes, just about to answer him “Thank you.” But the door was suddenly flung open. “Why does Henry Darcy always wear that cold expression? Who’s it for?” “A parentless brat, just throwing his weight around because of his family background, otherwise who would bother to flatter him!” “Once Old Man Darcy dies, I’d like to see if he can still be so arrogant!” Henry’s expression remained calm, until he heard “Old Man Darcy,” then his face hardened, his lips tightening. The man seemed completely oblivious to Henry and me, hidden behind layers of boxes in the corner. I remembered that voice; it was the youngest son of the Monroe family, Mason. It was Old Man Darcy’s birthday banquet today, and earlier, Mason Monroe had proposed a toast to Henry, which Henry didn’t drink. Instead, he swapped it for a glass of water, clinked glasses, and took a small sip. Mason’s face looked very unpleasant before he left, so that was the reason. But from my observation, Henry hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol, even when toasting Old Man Darcy, it was water. So Henry wasn’t just targeting him alone. He was indiscriminately targeting everyone. Everyone knew Henry, due to his childhood kidnapping, was usually cold-faced and spoke little, so they were used to it. I didn’t know how it became “wearing a cold expression” in his eyes. But after he finished scolding Henry, he started scolding me. “That mute girl from the Chen family, too, can never be pinned down, avoids me like the plague.” “Just a pathetic mute, does she really think she’s climbed up the social ladder by hooking up with the Darcys?” I felt Henry lower his head, his gaze lingering on my face for a moment. I subtly turned my head, feeling strangely nervous, my face tense, lips pressed together. The people around Mason tried to calm him down, giving him ideas. For instance, deliberately spilling wine on me later, bribing the waiters to put mustard in Henry’s water to make him embarrass himself publicly, and so on. After Mason finally vented his anger and left, Henry slowly emerged from the shadows in the corner. Then he turned into the kitchen. He rummaged around, looking rather dissatisfied. It was strange, but I just knew he was looking for mustard. I walked past him and found a bunch of chili peppers in the corner of the prep area. Then I signed, asking him: “No mustard.” “These chili peppers are very spicy. Chili water, would that work?” Henry lowered his eyelids to look at me, took the chili peppers, and lazily uttered a “Hmm.” He summoned two waiters, gave them a few low-voiced instructions, then took me to the railing on the second floor. That was probably the most lively scene of the night. Mason, while toasting with the elders, suddenly spat everything out with a “Pffft,” knocking over a champagne tower beside him and getting drenched in wine. The Monroe elders were embarrassed, apologizing and publicly scolding him, dressing him down mercilessly. In his utter humiliation, Mason instinctively looked up and finally saw us, watching the entire spectacle from the second-floor railing. Henry lightly tilted his head, raised an eyebrow, and held up his glass of water, toasting from afar. He mouthed, word for word: “This is what it means to throw your weight around.” The petty squabbles among the younger generation naturally didn’t escape Old Man Darcy’s notice. Henry could be reckless, but I couldn’t. Perhaps at Old Man Darcy’s instruction, my mother, who had left me to live with the Darcys for years, uncharacteristically asked me to go home with her that night. As the birthday banquet was about to end, I hesitated, then apologized to Henry: “I’m sorry, I might not be able to come to the Darcy house to keep you company anymore.” My mother’s expression had been grim just now, and I thought Old Man Darcy might have sent me home. Henry clearly understood the underlying implications. He said nonchalantly: “If you don’t want to go back, then don’t. No one here is kicking you out.” Seeing me still looking dejected, he pulled me into the surveillance room and showed me the kitchen and corridor footage. Only then did I realize that the surveillance footage of our earlier mischievous acts had already been replaced. He copied the segment of Mason’s cursing and plotting onto a USB drive, then gestured for me to extend my hand. “If he bothers you again, you just throw this footage in his face.” He paused, then said: “Stay with me until ten o’clock.” “Believe it or not, even if the Chen family’s car leaves, no one will dare to kick you out tonight.” Henry stayed with me on the rooftop, letting mosquitoes feast on us until ten o’clock. I saw the Chen family’s car indeed leave, and my mother even gave me a gentle, gratified smile before she left. I was overwhelmed. I was very grateful to Henry. I felt our relationship had somehow changed. Even though helping me was just a side thought, he solved my problems and stayed with me on the rooftop, enduring mosquito bites. Only friends would do such things. So I signed, unable to resist asking: “Are we friends now?” “No.” Was it that hard to be Henry’s friend? I felt a little disappointed but not too sad. After all, Henry was always aloof and hard to please. If it didn’t work this time, I would just try harder next time. But the next moment, I heard Henry slowly say: “It’s a more closely knit, unbreakable relationship of co-conspirators.” My eyes widened slightly. I stared at him blankly, inexplicably feeling that this relationship he spoke of seemed even more important than mere casual friendship. He spoke abruptly, his voice scattering into the wind: “Do you have any money on you?” I rummaged for a long time, finally finding only a crumpled, corner-torn ten-dollar bill on me. Henry calmly accepted it. The shadow cast on the ground by the moonlight tilted towards me. “Now, I owe you ten dollars; you are my creditor.” “So, from now on, if you encounter trouble, or if there’s something you don’t want to do, or someone you don’t want to see, you can come to me to collect your debt, understand?” Seeing me lost in thought, Henry surprisingly didn’t get angry but patiently repeated: “Did you remember?” I nodded eagerly, promising him: “Don’t worry, I’ll never forget it as long as I live.” Perhaps it was after a few more similar exhortations like that night. From being cautious at first, I gradually began to “collect debt” from Henry over small matters. When encountering difficulties, I no longer silently bore them alone. Instead, he had trained me to instinctively reach out to him. So much so that when I was engulfed in the fire, and then opened my eyes to find myself six years in the future— I stood on a bustling street, looking at the unfamiliar world, my mind a blank, filled only with panic. Yet, even then, I never thought of contacting my mother or returning to the Chen family. Instead, I instinctively borrowed a stranger’s phone. Then I sent Henry a message: “This is Arden Chen.” I immediately typed the second half, sending it without hesitation. “…Can you come pick me up?”
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