Chapter 81

The car drove out of the quiet neighborhood, turning the snowy street corner. Winnie took the pills, swallowed them with a sip of water, and then pursed her damp lips. "Mr. Marlowe, you really are rich." She threw sarcastic remarks at Van, but he only smiled and casually replied, "If I can afford to lose it, why keep it?" Winnie felt something blocking her chest more than her nose, probably the large pill that had lodged in her throat. "Winnie," he said, his tone slightly angry, "you still haven't explained to me what was going on with that Italian guy," He didn't let go. The more she thought about it, the angrier she became. She deliberately tried to provoke Van, saying, "We had a meal together, and we exchanged phone numbers." "Stop the car." The cold command from the backseat made the driver obediently ease off the gas and steer the Benz to the side of the street. "What's going on?" the driver asked, turning halfway. "Get out," Van commanded. The driver quickly got out of the car, showing good judgment. Probably realizing things wouldn't be resolved quickly, he stood by the car and lit a cigarette. The warmth in the car was stifling, the heated seat providing bursts of heat that radiated up from beneath Winnie. Her heart was racing, not quite ready for what was coming. Before she knew it, her wrist was firmly gripped by Van's hand, and her body was pulled upwards. Her sharp-heeled boots caught on the carpet, tripping her, and she stumbled, falling toward Van. She found herself half-lying in his arms, her hand pressed against his chest, her pulse in sync with his steady heartbeat. His heartbeat was so calm, making her breathless and still seem insignificant. She avoided his intense gaze, lowering her head, her eyes wandering around the dimly lit interior of the car. Her stubborn posture weakened second by second. In the next moment, Van, without hesitation, pressed down on her waist, and the hand that had held her wrist loosened, instead pushing against the back of her head. Van kissed her without reason, his tongue fierce, carrying a hint of champagne sweetness and the astringency of red wine. It tangled with her tongue, dominating every inch of her mouth. Van wasn't deeply drunk, but after several sleepless nights, repeated excitement, and enduring tension, all his composure shattered in this moment, his veins popping on the back of his hand. Winnie punched him, but her fist was soft, and the center of his wrist felt strangely numb. Winnie could hardly breathe, tears welling up. Instead of easing up, Van intensified his grip on her waist and held her hips down. Her long legs, encased in deep blue jeans, knelt on either side of his legs, eventually softening and relaxing, settling onto his lap without any gap. "You always bully me!" Winnie pushed him away. She felt increasingly aggrieved, thinking about how Van could so recklessly manipulate her emotions. She couldn't help but cry, tears streaming down her face. Van, feeling sorry, coaxed her gently: "Alright, stop making a scene. Tell me, what do you want? Jewelry or haute couture?" "I want one of your secrets." "What secret?" Van didn't expect her to say that. "A secret only I know, to use for blackmail in the future," Winnie wiped away her tears and returned to her usual spoiled, coquettish manner. "...I do have a secret, one that no one else in this world knows, but it probably won't have any blackmail value. Do you want to hear it?" Winnie nodded. Van thought for a moment, then continued, "I am the eldest son in my family, and from the very beginning, fate has already determined the course of my life. Which school to attend, what kind of friends to make, what ideals and ambitions to have—these were all already decided, with no suspense whatsoever. For the past thirty-six years, my life has been like a predetermined track, with no deviations and no so-called forks in the road." Van paused here, then added, "Winnie, you might find it hard to understand. I may seem decisive and resolute, but until today, I've only done one and a half truly rebellious things." "One and a half?" Winnie was stunned. "Yes, one and a half," Van said with a slight smile at the corner of his mouth, his eyes carrying a hint of mockery. "One of them failed, so I'm not too willing to talk about it. As for the other one, it's insignificant." "I have a tattoo." Winnie froze. "A tattoo?" She tightly gripped a tissue, her nose red, her face filled with disbelief. "You have a tattoo?" This man exuded an elegant, distinguished aura, as if he were separated from the mundane world. He was never in a hurry, always calm, fond of reading philosophy, living a quiet life, and speaking with a cool, lofty tone. The way he relaxed in the car was by flipping through Hegel's works. His shawl was always made from carefully selected lambswool, and even the simplest things he touched had an air of refined elegance. A man like this seemed like a clear spring, pure and untouched by the world. How could Winnie possibly imagine that someone like him would allow something to pierce his skin, leaving a permanent mark?