Emily busied herself in the kitchen while Satan quietly followed her in. The suite’s kitchen wasn’t large—comfortable for one person, but a bit cramped with two. "You're in the way," she said, giving him a light push. "Why don’t you wait outside?" But Satan made no move to leave. Instead, he took a few steps back and leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her cook. She had changed so much. Back in the day, when they were together, she rarely wore makeup. But now, every day, she wore flawless makeup, walked confidently in heels she used to hate, and exuded an elegance he hadn’t seen before. Even now, cooking in the kitchen, there was an air of grace about her that made Satan’s heart ache. He couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret. When they had lived together, she had always been the one to take care of him—washing his clothes, cooking warm meals, and putting everything in place. She used his money to pay for her father's treatment, and in return, she took care of his daily life. She must have been so sad then, juggling her father’s illness while dealing with the schemes of people like Sophia and Nathan. And all the while, she had to put on a smile, pretending everything was fine. Without a word, Satan stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her from behind, just like he used to. His arms tightened around her waist, and his body heat seeped into her back. Emily’s heart sank with an overwhelming mix of emotions as she realized that, even after three years, their embrace still fit perfectly. But this wasn’t something she could allow herself to get used to anymore. “Let go of me,” she said softly. He didn’t respond. His silence was his resistance. Emily took a deep breath. "Vincent," she said, using his formal name, “I have a boyfriend.” She felt his body stiffen behind her. “I’m with Jackson now. He’s been with me through the hardest times these past three years. He’s treated me very well.” “...” “We just started dating recently. We’re still in the honeymoon phase. So please… let me go.” His arms hesitated for a moment before he finally released her.His voice, when it came, was hoarse and rough, like a saw cutting through wood. "Do you love him?" Emily stirred the porridge, avoiding his gaze. "He’s my boyfriend. Of course, I love him." "Do you really love him?" Satan pressed. Emily turned her face away, pretending to focus on the bubbling porridge. "I’m thirty years old now. At my age, love isn’t the most important thing anymore. What matters is that he comforts me, makes me laugh, and gives me a sense of peace. I just want to live a quiet, stable life for the rest of my years. That’s what’s important to me." Satan’s eyes darkened with despair. Noticing his expression, Emily’s heart twisted. "I heard from Dylan that you sent Penelope to a mental institution too. Was that really necessary? She’s not insane, Vincent. She just loved you. You didn’t have to be so harsh." "No," was all he said. Emily sighed, realizing she’d overstepped. What did it matter to her how he dealt with Penelope? It wasn’t her business. "Do you hate her?" Satan asked, his voice still rough. "Hate her?" Emily let out a bitter laugh. "For what? For getting to spend time with you? For holding your hand? Jackson told me that Penelope even dressed up to look like me that day, and he almost mistook her for me. She must have really cared about you to go that far. If you and I were never meant to be, maybe she’s the one who should stay by your side. She loves you, Vincent. She’ll take care of you. And if you can’t let go of the past, wouldn’t it be nice to have someone who looks like me with you? Besides, I look nothing like I used to." "You’ve had surgery?" he asked, his voice tight. "Yes," she replied. "Miranda is supposed to have her own face." Satan’s chest heaved, as if he wanted to say something, but his damaged throat wouldn’t let him. The frustration made his emotions all the more intense. "Emily..." he whispered, the name catching painfully in his throat. "Please, call me Miranda," she corrected gently. "I’ll take you away," he rasped, his voice almost pleading. Emily paused for a moment but then continued stirring the porridge as if nothing had happened. "I don’t need you to take me away, Vincent. I can leave on my own. Besides, you still have your grandmother to take care of. Can you really leave her behind?" Her words hit him hard, like a punch to the gut. He still had his grandmother to think about. "The wedding..." Satan began, his voice trailing off. "I’ve thought about it," Emily said, turning off the stove as the porridge was ready. She carefully ladled it into a bowl. "Since it’s your grandmother’s last wish, we can have a small, private ceremony with just the family. Would that be acceptable to you?" Satan clenched his jaw and shook his head. "Then what do you suggest?" she asked. "If you can come up with a way to fulfill her wish without disrupting our lives, I’m open to hearing it." But he had no answer. What he really wanted was a real wedding, not a pretense. But how could he ask for that when she was with Jackson now? He was the intruder. Emily didn’t push him. "Take your time to think about it. Let me know when you’ve made a decision." "Grandmother misses you," he said, his voice soft. "I’ll visit her this weekend," Emily replied, handing him the bowl of porridge. "Here, it’s ready. Be careful, it’s hot." Just then, the phone in the living room rang again. Emily quickly stepped out to answer it. "Hello?" “Oh, I was out buying groceries and didn’t hear the phone,” she said, glancing back at Satan knowingly. “Yes, someone came over to visit. He’s just staying for dinner.” "...Alright, I’ll see you tonight. No, a video call isn’t convenient right now, my colleague is still here. Yes, tonight then. Bye." Satan didn’t need to ask to know who it was. The defeated feeling in his chest surged again. It was Jackson. Of course, it was Jackson. When Emily returned to the kitchen, she noticed Satan still holding the hot bowl of porridge in his hands. She quickly took it from him, placing it on the counter and pulling his hands under the faucet to run cool water over them. "Didn’t you realize it was too hot to hold?" she scolded. "This was just boiling! Look at your hands—they’re red from the heat. Why don’t you ever take care of yourself? First, your throat, and now this…"