WHEN THE FOG CLEARS

During the divorce, Julian was completely carefree, believing nothing could go wrong.

London was his territory; as long as Evelyn stayed there, she could never escape his palm.

That day, however, he realized that Evelyn had not only blacklisted his phone number but also blocked his assistants, secretaries, butlers, and nannies across the board.

He tried countless ways to reach her, but the moment she heard his voice, she hung up without a second thought.

That day, he walked into Elena’s residence at the luxury villa.

He rarely visited; compared to his grandmother, he and his mother didn’t have much to say.

This time, he had a problem—he wanted his mother to call that phone number and ask Evelyn when she was coming back.

Elena wore a gorgeous designer robe, looking across the long dining table at her son.

Julian sat lazily on the sofa, crossing his legs, casually spinning a lighter in his hand. It was an unreleased collector’s edition made entirely of solid gold, worth over six figures at auctions, tossed around like a toy.

He didn’t look particularly anxious either, acting as if he merely wanted to casually harass someone out of boredom.

After dialing, the phone rang less than once before being answered by a cool voice: “Madame Elena, good afternoon, how is your health lately?”

Julian lowered his gaze—she didn’t even bother calling her ‘Mom’ anymore.

Elena chatted casually with her for a bit, ultimately failing to bring up the question of when she’d return to HK. Anyone with half a brain knew Evelyn had no intention of ever coming back.

Hanging up, Julian didn’t show much reaction.

Seeing him like this reminded Elena of his father.

Fanning herself in annoyance, she waved him away: “Get out of my sight. I need to go apologize to the gods; my karma is truly terrible to have birthed a piece of junk like you. Others eat meat while I eat vegetarian just to neutralize this bad luck.”

As Julian stood up, he instinctively pinched his mother’s shoulder in casual comfort.

A while back, he had been consumed by corporate affairs, temporarily shifting his focus away from the capital.

Walking to the door, he picked up a pair of scissors hanging on the wall and sliced straight through a framed photograph.

In the photo stood a couple—Liam had his arm draped casually over Evelyn’s shoulder, his hand positioned just right to crop him entirely out.

Then, holding the half containing Liam, he crushed it into a mangled ball in his palm.

Back in his youth, he had loathed the way Liam looked at Evelyn.

Now, that hatred remained unchanged.

Fortunately, Evelyn didn’t love Liam either, no matter how early they had met.

Julian didn’t completely vanish from the capital, but a few days later, news reached me that he had been hospitalized.

His assistant delivered the message, explaining that downstairs from his apartment, Julian had spotted a girl whose figure bore an eight-part resemblance to me. In the dim night light, he rushed forward to push her out of the way, just as a heavy flower pot plummeted from above, smashing directly onto his ankle.

The assistant asked me anxiously if I could visit Mr. Julian at the hospital.

I refused without hesitation. After a moment’s thought, I pressed the intercom: “Help me find a real estate agent.”

Julian’s Achilles tendon was crushed by the flowerpot, requiring immediate surgery. When he woke up the next day, only his assistant was by his side.

He stared down at his heavily wrapped leg. The doctor told him that even if he recovered, he would likely walk with a permanent limp and need a cane for the rest of his life.

Countless times, his gaze drifted toward the hospital door, but Evelyn never appeared.

Until days later, his assistant reported: “Mr. Julian, the Jinghe residence has been sold.”

Julian’s anticipation vanished entirely, his face draining of color, cold sweat beading on his skin as his lips trembled: “Sold?”

“Yes, half of it has been sold—the side facing west.”

The west-facing half was where Julian and his grandmother lived, while the other half belonged to Evelyn and her mother.

Elena sent a private jet to pick him up, unable to stand watching her son make a fool of himself in the capital like a pathetic loser.

Leaning on a cane as he stepped off the private jet, Julian caught sight of his mother in her signature robe, sighing deeply.

Stepping closer, he suddenly stopped and spoke up: “Mom, she listens to you the most. Please put in a good word for me.”

Elena’s expression was cold: “You were the one desperate to marry her, and you were the one who divorced her so casually. Now you’re crawling back begging for reconciliation? I don’t have such shameless skin.”

Hearing this, her son lowered his head, finally breaking his stubborn pride as he whispered an agreement.

Elena watched his limping back retreat, thinking to herself that he truly deserved this.