The curling black smoke looked like smoky-eye makeup, lips unpainted yet crimson—she was seduction itself to the extreme.
Grace Sutton's heart skipped a beat on instinct.
God help me!
She'd seen this face for three years, but this was the first time she found it so captivating.
She'd never thought she wasn't pretty before, just… something always felt off.
She was obviously not the delicate, demure beauty; yet she'd always dressed up like a gentle, soft Jiangnan girl—a stark contrast that made her look out of place, neither here nor there.
She was born to weaponize her beauty like a crime.
"Cece, listen to me: throw away all your old clothes, they just don't suit you."
Quiana Sutton walked over to the trash can, stubbed out her cigarette, and tossed the butt inside without a glance.
"Don't worry, none of my old clothes, handbags, or jewelry will see the light of day on me again."
She was determined to say goodbye to her past for good.
Recording an idol drama OST? Child's play for her. She finished in about two hours.
Even Grace Sutton was impressed—Cece's voice really was kissed by angels; that love song dripped with longing and tenderness, making even a lonely single like her want to fall in love.
After the recording was done, she walked over to Quiana Sutton and said, "Cece, you must have heard of the new-gen idol Axius Somerville? His manager contacted me—wants to see if you'd collaborate on a single."
She replied with a deadpan look, "Axius Somerville's got fans in every demographic—girl fans, mom fans, the works. Collaborating with him is basically pushing me into a pit of fire."
Grace Sutton was itching to take the risk, "Musically, you're as good as anyone. A collaboration with Axius could be a once-in-a-lifetime chance. It's an opportunity, and a challenge, and who knows—it might even help clean up your public image a bit."
Quiana Sutton thought carefully for a moment, then agreed.
"Alright, but I have one condition."
Grace: "What condition?"
"There's this reality show, 'Outdoor Survival Challenge'—I want in."
Grace: "???"
Was Quiana Sutton losing her mind?
Something had seemed off about her all day. Grace Sutton seriously suspected Cece had taken the wrong meds.
She rejected her outright.
"No way. That show's full of guys, and outdoor survival is dangerous. The producers would never allow a woman to join."
Quiana Sutton promised, "I'll take care of myself, nothing bad will happen."
Grace Sutton still refused.
Quiana didn't insist, just said coolly, "Well, if you can't get me in, then the collaboration with Axius is off."
Her tone was nonchalant, but Grace could hear a trace of threat behind it.
Frustration, yet again.
A woman suffers from marrying the wrong man; she suffers from picking the wrong artist. With no other choice, she gave in: "Fine, I'll try to work something out, but I can't guarantee the producers will agree."
Grace almost never made promises lightly. Since she'd said it, she'd make it happen—so Quiana wasn't worried at all.
Julian Haworth had sent her several messages earlier: Durrell Landon was awake.
She reprinted the divorce papers and headed to Riventon Hospital.
When she opened the door, Julian Haworth was looking at her with a face full of schadenfreude, mixed with a hint of sympathy.
Back when she married Durrell Landon, Julian Haworth had been anything but optimistic, always insisting they'd end up divorced someday.
Well, here they were—he'd been right after all.
Durrell Landon had only just woken up, still very weak.
He sat expressionless on the hospital bed, his whole aura aloof and distant.
Not to exaggerate, but Durrell Landon was handsome enough to take your breath away.
From his bold, striking brows, that sharp nose like a mountain peak, flaw-free tan skin, to the meticulously sculpted lines of his face—every feature was dazzling, borderline perfect.
Unfortunately, this perfect man now carried a small flaw—a fresh bandage wrapped around his forehead.
No matter how much she told herself not to care, she couldn't help walking over to check his wound.
He shifted away almost imperceptibly, eyes full of caution.
"Who are you?"
Quiana Sutton froze for a moment.
Julian Haworth kindly stepped in to explain. He really was a saint, wasn't he:
"Durrell lost his memory. He remembers everyone—except you."
Remembers everyone but her.
Quiana gave a bitter laugh. At least she hadn't let it all get to her head—three years of living together almost made her believe he had feelings for her. Thankfully, she'd pulled herself out in time, only grew firmer in her resolve to get divorced.
She pulled the divorce agreement from her bag and handed it to him:
"Doesn't matter if you don't remember; just sign this and we're done."
Durrell Landon frowned at the words "divorce agreement" on the page, his aura growing darker and colder—a whiff of bloodlust lingering.
He tossed the papers aside, his eyes full of arrogance and icy disdain:
"I don't know you. I'm not signing anything."
Durrell had never been overly warm toward her, but never this cold. Maybe he really didn't remember her now.
"It doesn't matter what you remember; the law says we're still married. If you want to cut all ties, just sign."
Durrell Landon let out a scornful laugh, a hint of mockery flashing in his eyes: "How could anyone sign something like that so casually? Until there's proof we're married, I won't trust anyone."
Quiana looked at him, speechless, with just a trace of regret.
The marriage certificate had always been in Durrell's keeping. With his amnesia, no way he'd remember where he put it now.
As for her, she'd never known where he kept it anyway.
What's she supposed to do—request their records from the registry bureau?
If she actually did that, tomorrow her face would be all over the entertainment sections—front page, guaranteed.
Durrell had just barely woken up and was already looking tired, the impatience clear in his gaze toward Quiana.
"Julian, get her out of here."
Julian Haworth made a theatrical gesture toward the door.
"Durrell doesn't want to see you. You should go."
Quiana Sutton was "escorted" out by Julian Haworth with utmost courtesy. Staring at the tightly shut hospital room door, she finally felt her temper rising for the first time—she wanted to smash the door down.
It took every ounce of restraint to remind herself this was a hospital—don't make a scene—to tamp down the anger boiling in her chest.
Outside the hospital room.
Charles Foote leaned against the wall, arms folded, eyes half-closed, still as a statue—totally unreadable.
Quiana gave him a cursory glance, not planning to interact.
She'd known Charles Foote for nearly three years and still had no idea what he actually did for a living.
He knew Ancient Martial Arts, computers, painting, wine tasting… basically the man was a jack of all trades.
Compared to Julian, who wore his feelings on his sleeve, Charles's unreadable poker face made him the most dangerous of them all.
Just as Quiana was about to brush past him, Charles suddenly spoke up.
"I'll help you."
She stopped mid-step, clearly skeptical:
"Why would you help me?"
Charles opened his eyes, pinning her with a steady stare:
"Consider it helping Durrell. Truth is, he likes you. If it was just to spite Chloe Cloud, he'd never have married you so impulsively. Of all people, he knows exactly what marriage means."
With Charles offering to help, of course she'd grab the opportunity.
"Thanks in advance. When he gets his memory back, let me know so I can print another copy of the divorce papers."
Charles didn't say anything more.
After leaving the hospital, she had no plans to return to her apartment.
The place was still filled with Durrell's presence, and if she stayed too long, she might just cave in and regret it all.
So she went straight to her friend Isabelle Somerville's place.
"""