Chapter 2

Embarrassment flickered across his face.

“Can you stop bringing up the past? What’s the point?”

But weren’t they the ones who kept using my past to punish me?

I met Ethan on a street in the slums. Back then, he was just Ethan.

A group of thugs were beating him. I played a police siren on my phone and scared them away.

He shared a piece of his bread with me.

You needed friends to survive in that neighborhood, so we became friends.

He told me he loved painting. He said an accomplished artist passing through had once told him he had talent.

Art supplies cost money. Paint cost money. Lessons cost money.

So I found ways to earn it.

“I’ll take care of the money. You just stay home and paint.”

But making money was never that simple.

I collected scrap, swept streets, and delivered food through blazing heat and pouring rain. Meanwhile, I could only bring myself to eat other people’s leftovers.

It was too slow. Nowhere near enough to cover his expenses.

So I started working in clubs. I sang, danced, sold drinks, and flirted with customers willing to pay. The money started pouring in.

Back then, I was naive enough to think he would worry about me. I didn’t dare tell him where the money came from. I only said I’d found a generous boss.

Eventually, he found out anyway.

One of the girls at the club thought I was stealing her business. While I was dancing, she deliberately threw broken beer bottles onto the stage.

I injured my foot and couldn’t perform for weeks.

But I knew that if I let her have the stage to herself, she would steal my regulars. So backstage, I hurt her leg.

An injury for an injury.

Then we fought, and both ended up at the police station.

I would never forget Ethan’s expression when he walked in and saw my heavy makeup and revealing clothes.

Shock. Disgust. Revulsion.

He said he never imagined this was how I made my money.

And that I would even hurt someone to protect my own interests.

I told him she had hurt me first.

He wouldn’t listen. All he could think was that my hard-earned money was dirty. The brushes and paints I bought him were dirty, too.

He smashed them all over the floor.

I cried and apologized. I promised I would never do it again and begged him to forgive me.

After a very, very long time, he pulled me into his arms.

“Lily, I forgive you. From now on, you need to get a respectable job.”

But I had no impressive education, no special skills. Those respectable jobs paid far too slowly.

Ethan’s expenses couldn’t wait.