Chapter 42

Wyatt sat in the car smoking, looking down at Yulia from above. "Morning." Such a casual greeting left Yulia momentarily speechless. She quickly asked, "Are you looking for Winnie?" "Open the door first," Wyatt commanded. Yulia hurried back to the car, and just as Winnie woke up, she heard her say, "How did Wyatt get here? He must have found out from the company." The electric gate slowly opened, and the SUV in front drove in. Yulia turned the steering wheel and sluggishly followed behind. Winnie's gaze stayed fixed on the back of Wyatt's car for a long time. Eventually, she sighed, her shoulders slumping. "Forget it. Just call him and tell him to wear a mask." As Yulia parked the car, she called Wyatt and told him. On the other end, he simply responded with a "okay." A moment later, when he got out of the car, he was not only wearing a mask but also a baseball cap, dressed in a way that looked very down-to-earth. If he stood next to Winnie, people would probably mistake him for her bodyguard. "You are so cooperative today," Yulia muttered. "You're usually pretty particular about appearances, but today you're so low-key." Wyatt reached the car, and upon seeing Winnie sitting inside with a neck pillow, mask on, and hair down, he couldn't help but chuckle. "Is this full-on gear, or have you just given up?" But this was indeed the first time he had seen such a down-to-earth side of Winnie. Every time she appeared, she was always impeccably dressed, and even without makeup, she still looked clean and graceful. "I don't know if you've arranged for someone to take pictures again," Winnie said slowly. "The car is new, the house is new. If it gets exposed, I can only suspect that you gave the information to the paparazzi." "For you to have a peaceful place, after every shoot, you have to drive to your downtown apartment, put on a little show, switch cars, and then come here. You're so meticulous, how could I dare...?" Wyatt explained. "You are someone who dares to do anything," Winnie retorted, gathering herself and lifting her face to smile at him, showing the gentle side of herself that Wyatt was familiar with. She still couldn't beat Wyatt. No matter how hard she tried, with all her charm and effort, she could only barely protect herself. If he truly wanted her, what should she do? She still had the courage to face it with all her might, even if it meant a bloody scene. But the second question was much more difficult. What if he didn't want her and only wanted to ruin her? The sunlight streamed through the windshield, casting shifting shadows, making the car unbearably hot. Winnie suddenly felt a shiver run through her. Wyatt's media team could easily twist any story, and as both a star and a woman, Winnie knew she would be left completely shattered. A thought flashed through her mind, like a headline: Wyatt's Marriage Crisis Likely Caused by Winnie's Affair. A woman accused of being a mistress cannot prove her innocence. She couldn't spill blood on the spot because that kind of destruction was quiet, yet as overwhelming as a tsunami. It turned everything upside down, leaving no escape. Wyatt saw right through her. Her clarity, her resilience, her pride—all of it made her fear beautifully fragile, and her mask seemed almost theatrical. He looked at her like he was watching a doll inside a music box—constantly smiling and spinning, even when her heart was crying. He admitted, there was nothing more satisfying than seeing a woman like Winnie permanently frozen inside a glass display case. "You're still afraid of me," he said, his gaze softening as he looked at her with a faint curiosity. "If he's protecting you, you shouldn't be afraid of anything." Winnie's lashes fluttered slightly, pulling her back from the brief moment of panic. "Who?" This time, Wyatt couldn't tell if her confusion was genuine or not. He didn't answer. Instead, he opened the car door. "I want to talk to you." The engine started again, and only then did he speak. "You don't need to be nervous. I don't want to mess with Van." Winnie froze for a moment, and her voice turned cold and distant. "I don't know what you're talking about. I've only met Mr. Marlowe once." Wyatt smiled faintly, then began to tell her a story about a friend of his. "My friend was a mistress, kept on the side for over ten years. A couple of years ago, they broke up. She had some peace for a few months, then another one of my friends picked her up. That friend is sixty-eight years old, and he got her pregnant. But the baby didn't make it—it was a miscarriage." Wyatt lit a cigarette, lowered the car window, and let the fresh breeze from the seaside mountains rush in. "Her villa is worth over 60 million, and even if she were to live as a mistress for her entire life, she wouldn't be able to afford it. She has four servants taking care of her, and even the toilet has to be cleaned with a cotton swab every day. The food and goods she uses for her daily meals are things you can't find on the market. The smallest expense she has is for her cosmetic treatments. Once, during a casual chat, she told me that her monthly living expenses are about one hundred thousand dollars, not counting shopping." "She's very picky. Spending over a million dollars in a month is completely normal for her. It might sound like a lot, but in a year that's just over 10 million dollars. For 99 percent of the world's population, they'll never see that kind of money in their lifetime. But for the top one percent, spending 10 million dollars a year is considered frugal. Winnie, you've seen the world, so you should know how it works." Winnie suddenly felt a chill run through her. She asked emotionlessly, "What are you trying to say?" Wyatt leaned against the window sill, flicking ash off his cigarette. "Once a person gets used to a certain way of life, it's hard to change. She's been living like this for over a decade. You want her to take her own money and live in a little villa worth only a million or so, hire two servants, buy a car worth a hundred grand, date some gym guy or a little idol. Forget about adjusting; when she runs into old friends at a store, she has to wait outside while they clear the scene. On the street, she can't even lift her head." Winnie didn't even look at him. "That was her choice. Everyone has their own ambitions. You don't need to teach me." He glanced at her, his eyes cold, as if he could see right through her. "A person doesn't have to be worthless to survive." "Mr. Robinson," Winnie said, her voice cold. She took a few deep breaths, controlling the tremor in her voice, and spoke decisively, "I've said it before, I have no relationship with Mr. Marlowe." "He sent the pocket watch you threw away back to me, along with a message: The pocket watch should be returned to its owner. As for the woman, he will protect her." Wyatt smirked, "You don't understand this, do you? When you want to keep a butterfly, you don't need to care about its thoughts. A beautiful, delicate butterfly—if you pinch its wings, it will be half-dead." "Mr. Marlowe wouldn't," Winnie said stubbornly, her face pale under the sunlight. "He didn't tell me because he thought it was a small matter. He didn't want me to feel awkward or feel like I should thank him." Wyatt seemed to find it amusing and laughed even harder. "I feel like I brought you to meet the wrong person. Do you know? This woman, carrying the child of a sixty-year-old man, was seen by him as pretending to be pure, plotting to become his wife. Now, this old man has disappeared, taking both himself and his money, leaving everything behind." Winnie quietly listened. She could hear his sarcasm, his insinuations, his mocking of her fantasies. "Wyatt," she called him without emotion. "I'll say it again: I've only met Mr. Marlowe once." Wyatt's smile faded, and for the first time, he was completely serious. "If you're willing to be with me, we can go get married tomorrow. You want to make it public, we'll make it public. If you want a secret marriage, we can do that too. No need for a prenup. From then on, no one in the entertainment industry will be able to touch you." Winnie didn't even think about it. Coldly, robotically, she asked, "What if I don't want to?" "Then I wish you a smooth path as a mistress." "He won't do it." Wyatt's smile was deep and cold, but there was a victorious, almost cruel, tone in his words. He spoke slowly, deliberately. "He will."