WHEN THE FOG CLEARS

Early the next morning, I drove alone to the court registry, arriving fifteen minutes ahead of schedule.

Julian didn’t bring a driver today; he drove his black luxury sedan himself.

He used to love driving the Maybach I bought him, but later he drove that car to pick up Celeste, so I smashed that car to pieces.

Julian was dressed head-to-toe in a black business suit, his handsome face striking enough that even passersby turned to take a second look.

Looking at his face, memories flashed back to the day he knelt on one knee to propose, holding out a ring, crying so hard he couldn’t even keep his hands steady.

Later, it was me who touched his forehead, smiling as I said I was willing, while holding out my hand for him to slide the ring on.

Seeing my dazed expression, Julian instinctively grabbed my hand: “Evelyn, if you regret this, we can…”

I abruptly pulled my hand away, standing straight and steady: “Let’s go.”

He stared at his empty hand behind me, clenching it into a fist in mid-air before following me inside.

Divorce is always a troublesome affair, and divorcing a wealthy man is even more complicated. Divorce procedures abroad often involve numerous steps and drag on for a long time.

Julian and I had no messy entanglement of surplus assets; the multi-million alimony was his voluntary proposal, and I had no objections.

To prevent any unexpected complications, I used a few legal maneuvers so we didn’t have to wait the mandatory six months, receiving the divorce decree on the very same day.

Two hours later, Julian and I walked out holding our divorce papers.

He stared intently at the words on the paper for a long time, until a staff member reminded him to make way, causing him to snap out of his trance and step aside: “I didn’t know you were in such a rush, not even willing to wait a few months.”

I found it somewhat amusing: “Wasn’t it you who couldn’t wait? Cutting through the knot swiftly—wasn’t that what you begged me for over half a year?”

He pressed his lips together: “I was drunk——”

I felt no need to reminisce with him and turned to leave.

Julian instinctively followed: “What are your plans for the future?”

I brushed him off: “Work, dating, traveling… I have plenty of plans.”

“Are you staying in London?” he pressed further.

I stopped in my tracks, looking at him quietly: “Julian, sometimes I think—if only I had just been greedy for your money, then I would have held onto the title of Mrs. Vance for a lifetime and never let anyone else have it.”

“Evelyn, it’s my fault. From now on, whatever you need, as long as I can handle it, I will take care of you for the rest of your life.”

I smiled and didn’t answer.

Stepping outside the entrance, Celeste—draped head-to-toe in Chanel—was leaning against Julian’s car, wearing oversized sunglasses. The diamond necklace around her neck looked like a piece recently put up for high-end auction; very few people wore such flashy luxury in broad daylight.

Seeing us come out, she eagerly rushed forward to latch onto Julian’s arm.

Julian frowned, his tone harsh and ugly: “Who told you to come here?”

Celeste looked at his expression and boldly replied: “I came to find my boyfriend, is there something wrong with that?”

When she said this, her gaze locked onto me without a trace of cowardice. She wouldn’t have dared do that in the past.

High society circles were full of mistresses, but Celeste was different from the ordinary kind. Unlike those who dared flaunt themselves before the primary wife at the slightest hint of favor, Celeste had always been cautious, acting submissive and humble. If I had given her the chance back then, she probably would have knelt down to shine my shoes.

Back then, the voice message she sent me consisted of only two sentences of dialogue between her and Julian:

“Mr. Julian, I don’t need you to take responsibility for me. I just need a tiny bit of your love, that’s enough.”

“If this makes things difficult for you, it’s fine. Loving you is my own business, and I have that right and freedom, right?”

At that time, she was just a small-time paparazzi reporter in the city, specializing in sneaking into grand banquets to snap photos of high-society secrets.

During an anniversary gala of the family enterprise, she was caught red-handed, and security dragged her out along with her camera.

Julian utterly despised paparazzi. After his father’s betrayal, paparazzi had hounded his mother’s car just to capture her crying face, ultimately causing her to miscarry.

At the time, Julian glared at Celeste with eyes full of disgust, immediately ordering her and her agency blacklisted and crushed.

It was me who took pity on her—a fresh college graduate with a naive face, struggling to make a living.

I comforted Julian, urging him to be the bigger person and spare her on a festive day.

I didn’t know back then that the girl who looked like a fresh graduate had long set her sights on Julian, willing to spend heavily just to track his whereabouts and schedules.

Then again, even if I had known back then, I probably would have just laughed it off.

Because back then, I was so impossibly confident and naive.

I was confident that no one could rival the love between Julian and me; no matter how earth-shattering or life-threatening things got, Julian could never love another woman.

Besides, among the gorgeous starlets breaking their necks to be mistresses, Celeste looked as bland as a glass of plain water; she simply lacked the capital.

Yet now, Celeste was no longer the disheveled stray dog of the past. Backed by Julian, she had long since transformed into a prominent television anchorwoman.

Those unaware praised her rise to success as an inspirational story, with media outlets praising her for clawing her way up from poverty to become a rare, independent, and clear-headed modern woman.