He kicked over the coffee table in front of him in irritation, and stopped her just as she was about to open the door.
"Wait!"
She stopped in her tracks, looking at him in confusion.
He took a deep breath.
"Since we're getting divorced, I'll give you this apartment. Saves people from saying I'm too stingy, as a Haworth Family man."
She flicked her hair, smiling with clear amusement. "In this world, probably not even five people know we're married. Those people are your friends, and they'd never say anything bad about you."
The air went dead silent again, as if life itself had left it.
"Bang—"
The only answer was the heavy clang of the door slamming shut.
And with it went the divorce agreement.
She touched her nose. Now that Evelyn Windsor was coming back, she was being tactful by suggesting the divorce first, so she wouldn't be in his way. Where else could he find such a thoughtful little scapegoat? She really had no idea what he was so mad about.
This night was destined to be a sleepless one.
...
Her phone buzzed once—she didn't answer. It wasn't until the fifth ring that she finally picked up.
She was a bit surprised—it was Julian Haworth's call.
Julian was one of the very few people who knew about her marriage to Durrell Landon.
She answered the call, a hint of impatience in her voice: "What is it?"
A panicked, scrambling voice came through: "Durrell—Durrell had a car accident. He's bleeding heavily, severe head trauma, and all kinds of injuries—he needs immediate surgery. He's at Riventon Hospital now, you need to come sign the consent forms!"
Riventon Hospital was Haworth Family property, and Julian was their young master.
For a moment, she couldn't even tell if Julian was joking with her. He'd been in the apartment just an hour ago. How could he suddenly be at Riventon Hospital an hour later?
She hurried to the hospital, and saw Durrell Landon lying on the hospital bed, barely clinging to life.
As she signed the forms, she gripped the pen and asked, her mood a mess, "Will he die?"
The attending doctor: "We'll do everything we can."
Durrell was wheeled into the surgery room. The light above the operating room glowed red. The corridor stank of disinfectant, making her cough uncontrollably.
A handkerchief suddenly appeared in front of her face. She looked up; it was Durrell's other close friend, Charles Foote.
Unlike Durrell's devastating, addictive beauty, he was like a snow lotus on a mountaintop—gentle, radiant.
She said, "Thank you."
He glanced at the red light on the operating room, then back at Quiana Sutton, pulling out the blood-splattered divorce agreement. "Mind telling me what's going on here?"
Julian snatched the divorce agreement from Charles's hand. After reading it, he looked at Quiana in surprise: "Did you guys have a fight?"
She replied calmly, "No."
It was just a piece of paper. The end of their contract marriage was a foregone conclusion.
She just hadn't expected him to get into a car crash before it all ended.
Julian didn't believe her for a second, but he didn't have time to pick it apart.
Durrell was a star—a tiny blip caused a massive stir. Now with this huge accident, they'd have to keep it all under wraps.
He just didn't know how much to tell the Landon Family yet.
Charles read his hesitation and said quietly, "Wait till Durrell wakes up. Let him decide who to tell."
The Landon Family was complicated enough; best not to drag them in for now.
Only after five hours did the operating room doors finally open.
Quiana stepped up and asked, "Doctor, how is he?"
The attending doctor took off his mask. "He's out of immediate danger."
The doctor's words buzzed in her ears—her nerves abruptly loosened.
It was only then she realized she'd been tense the entire time.
"Thank you, doctor."
The doctor glanced at Quiana and continued,
"However, there's something else you all should know. There's a shadow on his brain scan. He could lose part of his memory."
Quiana: "..."
"Of course, nothing is certain. Only time will tell once he wakes up."
She couldn't help wondering—if Durrell really lost his memory, could she still divorce him?
She pressed her brow with a headache. This accident had come way out of left field.
...
Riventon Hospital was Haworth Family territory. With Durrell resting there, she wasn't worried at all.
She waved a hand at them, "I've still got some things to do. I'll head out first."
Julian nearly choked with anger.
"Your husband is still in a coma in the hospital, and you're seriously leaving instead of staying with him?"
A faint smile played at her lips. She turned to look at Julian, amused. "The divorce agreement is still in your hand. Since we're getting a divorce, it's only right to keep our distance."
If they were already divorced, she wouldn't even have had the right to sign today.
Julian wanted to say something more, but Charles Foote, eyes closed and unreadable, pulled him back.
"Let her go. You stay and watch over Durrell."
"What about you?"
Charles shoved his hands in his pockets, eyes shadowy. "I'll handle the media blackout."
He glanced out the window. The sun had already broken the horizon—it'd be morning soon.
Quiana hadn't slept all night. The next day, dark circles under her eyes, she arrived at the recording site.
Her manager had already briefed her on the schedule. Today she needed to record the OST for the drama "Heartbeat Signal."
But too many things had happened yesterday—she was still scrambling to keep up. Exhausted, she rummaged through her bag, found a pack of cigarettes, and was about to put them back as usual. Then she realized—Durrell wasn't here to stop her anymore. So she took them out again.
Durrell hated the smell of smoke. He would never let her smoke.
Now that they were getting divorced, that rule was due to be trashed.
When Grace Sutton walked over with a stack of files, she caught Quiana standing by the window, smoking.
Grace narrowed her eyes, looking like she expected better. "If a tabloid catches you doing this, you'll rack up another scandal."
But she had to admit—Quiana looked damn gorgeous when she smoked.
She was striking to begin with, but with a cigarette and that air of untouchable arrogance, she could almost make people believe she was out of reach.
Quiana looked entirely unconcerned. "I already have enough dirt in the press. One more won't matter."
Grace nearly pouted in frustration.
"You might not care, but I do! I don't want my career as a manager ruined by you."
Every time they brought up Quiana in the industry, she got roasted for it.
Back then, her agency had to choose—Quiana or Chloe Summers. She'd chosen Quiana, and now Chloe Summers was both more respected and more high-profile, even though she'd invested heavily in Quiana. Their results were so different that Grace, once a top manager, was about to be known as the company's most short-sighted manager.
Quiana started out as a singer, and her debut album sold almost ten million copies.
Grace thought she'd keep singing, but then Quiana wanted to act. Grace hadn't stopped her.
If you can act and sing, maybe you'll become the next superstar in entertainment.
But Grace was wrong—once Quiana started acting, she became a "drama whiner," attracting tons of haters. If not for her decent singing, and a few loyal fans, she'd have probably been driven out of showbiz by now.
Grace tried to stroke her ego and reason: "Cece, can't you just stick to singing? Fewer acting gigs means fewer haters, I swear."
Quiana pinched her cigarette, took a long drag, the nicotine jolting her awake at last.
She shook her head with a smile.
"No way."