Emily walked out of the conference room, heading straight for the elevator. Ken hurried after her, grabbing her arm. "Miranda, where are you going?" "Back to my office. I can't handle this project." Ken looked worried. "But you can't be so direct with the boss like that. He's been through hell these past three years after his wife passed. Adding a few extra large suites won’t hurt, right? It could fulfill a wish for him." Emily suddenly felt a deep sense of weariness. "Ken, Vincent is the boss. Whatever he decides, it's up to him. If he wants more large apartments, he can add them. I’ve done everything a designer should. The rest is not my responsibility." Ken scratched his chin, watching her closely. "Miranda, you're acting off today. You're usually so calm and polite, but today you're on edge, like you’ve got a short fuse." Emily replied flatly, "Women have those days every month. I’m just not feeling great." She had been using the file in her hands to discreetly cover the back of her skirt, hoping to hide any visible stains from her period. Ken suddenly realized what was going on. "Ah, why didn’t you say so earlier? You can ask one of the admin girls for... you know, the necessary supplies." "Ken, I’m not feeling well. I’d like to take the rest of the afternoon off." Ken was understanding and quick to agree. "Of course, if you're not feeling well, go home and rest. I'll handle the project in the meantime." "Thank you," Emily said, nodding. She caught the next elevator, went back to her office to gather her things, and then left the Great Wall Group's headquarters. There was a convenience store nearby, so she went in and picked up a pack of sanitary pads. At the register, the cashier rang her up. "Fifteen dollars." "Thank you." After paying, Emily headed down a familiar alley. There had been a restaurant at the end of the alley, where she and his colleagues used to go for meals. She thought she could use the bathroom there. The bathrooms at the Great Wall Group always seemed to bring her bad luck—whether it was overhearing colleagues gossiping about her, or running into difficult situations with people like Cathy. Even meeting Amanda had been unsettling. She decided it was better to avoid the building altogether and remembered the restaurant from three years ago.However, when she reached the end of the alley, she couldn’t find the restaurant. A passerby happened to be walking by, and Emily asked, "Excuse me, was there a restaurant here before? Has it closed?" "Oh, that place? It shut down ages ago. I heard the owner had a fire—almost didn’t make it out alive, so they closed it." The mention of the fire triggered Emily’s memory. That restaurant’s owner had been... him. "Thank you," she muttered, feeling disoriented as she wandered back toward the main street. But at the alley’s entrance, there he was—the last person she wanted to see at that moment. Vincent, of course, had followed her. He hadn’t gone into the alley but had waited outside, anticipating her return. "Emily," he called softly. "It's cold out here. Let me drive you home." She shook her head. "No need. I'll get a cab." "You might stain the seats," Vincent, reminded her. "And you hate inconveniencing others, don’t you?" Emily's resolve was firm. "You’re also just ‘others’ to me now." Vincent, chuckled bitterly. "You’re right about that." "Then I’ll be going. Take care." "Wait." He caught her wrist, holding it firmly. "You shouldn’t be out in the cold during your period. Get in the car—I have something to tell you." Emily tried to pull away, but his grip was strong. She struggled for a moment, then sighed in defeat. "I’ll ruin your car seats too." "That's fine. I'll clean them," Vincent, said, tugging her gently toward the waiting car. Not far away, Dylan stood by the car, already waiting. When Vincent, approached, Dylan handed him the keys, bowing respectfully. "Sir, Meggie called earlier. She asked you to bring Mrs.—I mean, Miranda—home for dinner." Vincent, nodded. "Got it. You can go now." "Yes, sir." Dylan then handed Vincent, a thermos. "The doctor said you need to stay hydrated." Vincent didn’t take it.Dylan, without missing a beat, turned to Emily. "Miranda, could you please hold this for him?" She didn’t take it either. Dylan, however, left no room for argument, pushing the thermos into Emily’s hands. "Thank you, Miranda." With that, he left, heading back toward the Great Wall Group’s doors. Emily stared down at the thermos in her hand, feeling exasperated. Vincent, watched her. "Emily, you could’ve refused, you know." Emily kept her gaze lowered, refusing to meet his eyes. "Could I, though?" "Of course. But you’ve never been very good at refusing, have you? Not three years ago, and not now either." Vincent,’s voice was calm as he led her to the car, opening the passenger door for her. "And I imagine if Jackson had asked you to be with him, whether out of guilt or pity, you would have said yes, right?" Vincent,’s words were gentle but piercing. Emily's head snapped up. "What are you trying to say?" Vincent, smiled faintly. "Just that I guessed right." "You didn’t." "You don’t love him." "I..." Emily hesitated, momentarily lost for words. Vincent,placed a hand on her shoulder, guiding her into the passenger seat. "Emily, you don’t love him." She protested. "He’s my boyfriend now." "But you don’t love him." "After this project, we’ll go back to the UK together and build a life there." "But you don’t love him." "We’ll get married, live a quiet life together for the rest of our days." "No, you won’t." Vincent,’s voice was firm. "You don’t love him. You won’t make it that far."Emily met his gaze. "Not all marriages are about love. Sometimes, being compatible is enough." "A marriage without love will only lead to regret." "I won’t regret it." "You already do," Vincent, replied softly. "I think you’ve been wanting to break things off, haven’t you? To go back to being just friends with Jackson." Emily bit her lip, opening her mouth to speak, but no words came out. "You don’t need to argue with me. I told you before, I know you better than anyone—better than you know yourself." Emily shook her head. "I’m not the same Emily I was. I’m Miranda now." "It doesn’t matter whether you’re Emily or Miranda. You’re still my wife." "Say whatever you like," Emily muttered, thrusting the thermos back into Jackson's hands. "Take care of your own things."