The next day. Asteridge Academy.
Ivy's mind wandered all day. The things Julian had said on the restaurant terrace last night—the strange atmosphere—they circled in her head like crows. She tried not to think about them. But his words were needles, pricking the softest places in her chest.
Especially that phrase: None of your business.
Ivy sat at her desk. Her gaze drifted unconsciously to the empty seat behind her—Yoon Jeongha's seat. She hadn't come to school today.
During break, whispers drifted from the front row.
"I heard Yoon Jeongha took a leave of absence…"
"Apparently she's transferring?"
"Really? Why so sudden?"
"Family issues, they said. Who knows…"
Ivy's hand tightened around her pen.
Gone.
The thought surfaced. A strange blankness followed—*good riddance, less trouble. *
But right behind it came an emptiness she didn't want to admit. That silent, enduring figure, always with her nose in a book. Her deskmate—publicly humiliated by her, her textbook destroyed, and she had just quietly picked up the pieces. Just like that—gone?
She forced the feeling down. An insignificant person. What did her leaving matter? Julian's words might have shaken her for a moment—but with Jeongha gone, those ripples should settle.
The day passed in surface calm.
When the final bell rang, Ivy packed her bag. Her gaze swept over the empty desk beside hers.
Something was sticking out of the drawer.
She hesitated—why hesitate? She didn't know—but she reached out and pulled it out.
A notebook.
Old. Clean. No name on the cover. Ivy recognized it—Jeongha's notebook. Inside were her meticulously neat notes for every subject.
A folded piece of paper was tucked between the pages.
Ivy opened it.
One line. Neat handwriting. Unusually strong.
「Thank you for your 'lesson.' I'll remember it. — Yoon Jeongha」
No greeting. No date.
Those seven words stabbed into Ivy's eyes like icicles.
"Thank you"? "Lesson"? "I'll remember it"?
Every word was ice-cold irony. A silent declaration of war. This was the final, most powerful counterattack of a person who had always been silent.
Ivy stared at the words for a few seconds. Her face showed nothing.
Then she tore the paper into pieces. She tossed the shreds into the trash can at the back of the classroom—along with the notebook.
The sound of tearing paper was soft. But in the quiet classroom, it echoed.
When it was done, she felt a familiar, hollow calm. Yes. This was right. Everything weak—everything that could shake her—should be cleaned away.
But why did somewhere in her chest feel like something had tugged at it?
She didn't know.
She didn't want to know.
After school. The corridor.
Ivy saw Casper Hawthorne leaning against a pillar. He looked like he was waiting for someone. When he saw her, his face darkened. He walked straight to her.
"Yoon Jeongha transferred. You know that, right?" He asked without preamble. His voice was tight with suppressed anger.
Ivy didn't slow down. Her tone was flat. "Just heard."
"It's because of you!" Casper's voice cracked into a low shout. His eyes were red. "All because of what you did to her yesterday! She was already working herself to the bone, saving up, trying to get out of this place. After yesterday… you crushed the last bit of dignity she had! Ivy Frost—you're the coldest person I've ever met!"
His accusations hit her like stones.
Normally, Ivy would have shot back without hesitation. But today—she didn't know why—she just listened. She didn't even argue.
*The torn note flashed through her mind. I'll remember it. *
Was Casper right? Maybe. But even if he was—so what? In this world, sympathy was useless.
Casper ran out of steam. Seeing her unmoved, he looked even more disappointed. More furious. He shot her one last glare and ran off.
Ivy stood where she was. The evening wind blew cool against her skin.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She pulled it out.
A text from her father, Dominic Frost.
「Dinner with the Blackwoods tonight. Engagement details. Six o'clock. Cloud Top restaurant. Don't be late.」
Attached to the text—a photo. Her mother's room at the sanatorium. Her mother appeared to be asleep. Her face was calm, looking better than before. But Ivy knew—this photo was a silent threat.
Her father reminding her: Your mother's peace depends on your behavior.
On one side—Casper's furious accusations and Jeongha's icy farewell. On the other—her father's unrefusable command and her mother's invisible chains.
Ivy felt a deep exhaustion. Caught in the middle. Unable to breathe. Everyone was watching her—those who expected her obedience, those waiting for her to fall, those who wanted to use her…
And she herself—had no room even to catch her breath.
In this moment—what did she want most?
Destroy everything? Run away? Give in?
No.
For some reason—she wanted to see one person.
Not her father. Not her mother. Not anyone she should or shouldn't see.
Julian Blackwood.
That boy—trapped in the same cage. Wearing the same mask of distance. But sometimes letting his real exhaustion slip through.
She wanted to see his face—that face as exquisite as a work of art, mixing the sharpness of youth with a strange fragility. Devastatingly beautiful. Especially the side profile she'd seen last night on the terrace, in the dim light, when he dropped all pretense.
She had to admit—Julian Blackwood was the most beautiful person she had ever seen. More beautiful than any celebrity, any painting. It was the kind of beauty that hit you directly. Viscerally.
But she didn't want to see him just for his face.
Maybe—because in their shared terrible circumstances, the occasional real exhaustion on his face made her feel a little less alone.
Ivy didn't hesitate. She gave in to the sudden impulse.
She pulled out her phone. Found the number she had almost never called—Julian's private number, saved from the Asteridge Circle contact list.
Her fingers typed quickly:
「Cloud Top. Six. My dad and your family are here. Come or don't. Up to you.」
She didn't say save me or help me. Just stated facts. A vague invitation.
This wasn't like her. She never showed weakness. Never asked for help.
But right now—she didn't care.
The message showed as delivered.
Ivy didn't wait for a reply. She put her phone away and gave the driver the restaurant's address.
On the way to Cloud Top, she leaned against the window and watched the streets blur past.
Somewhere inside her—something hoped.
Something was also afraid.
Chapter Eight: Cloud Top Rendezvous
His Cufflink and Her Mask
Six o'clock sharp. Cloud Top restaurant. Top-floor private room.
Ivy arrived on time.
Her father, Dominic Frost, and Chairman Blackwood were already there, sitting on the main sofa, deep in friendly conversation. When Dominic saw Ivy enter, satisfaction flickered across his face. His "lesson" had apparently worked.
"Ivy." Dominic's voice was warm—but the control behind it was unmistakable. "Come. Sit."
Ivy sat where he indicated—beside him, directly facing Chairman Blackwood. She wore a simple black dress. Her long hair was loosely pinned up, exposing her slender neck. Her makeup was flawless. But faint exhaustion shadowed her eyes.
The table was covered in exquisite dishes—appetizers, mains, desserts. Everything expensive. The air smelled of premium ingredients, cigars, and costly perfumes. The atmosphere was harmonious on the surface. But underneath—undercurrents ran strong. This was a business negotiation. The engagement was just one clause in a larger contract.
The conversation quickly turned to the main point.
"Regarding the engagement ceremony next month…" Chairman Blackwood spoke slowly. His gaze lingered on Ivy for a moment. "We prefer to keep it simple. Given Julian's… particular situation, too much attention might not be wise."
Dominic's smile didn't waver. "I agree. But we still need proper appearances. This is the first public collaboration between our families."
Ivy sat there. She couldn't taste the food. She felt like an exquisite puppet—placed on a negotiation table, evaluated for her value. Her father's words, Chairman Blackwood's words—they buzzed in her ears without reaching her mind.
Her thoughts kept circling back to Jeongha's note. Casper's angry eyes. Her mother's sleeping face in that sanatorium photo.
Then Dominic said the key line:
"How about the middle of next month? The weather will be good. Let's do it then."
Next month.
Ivy's fingers tightened on her knife and fork.
Too fast.
Just then—a soft knock on the door.
The waiter stepped aside respectfully. Someone walked in.
Julian Blackwood.
He wore a simple black shirt and trousers. His dark hair fell loosely over his forehead, framing that devastatingly handsome face. He looked like he had just come from somewhere else—a hint of cool evening air still clung to him. His appearance stopped all conversation.
Dominic and Chairman Blackwood both looked surprised.
Chairman Blackwood frowned. "Julian? What are you doing here? I thought you had school activities tonight."
Ivy's heart skipped a beat.
He came.
He actually came.
Julian's gaze first rested on Ivy's expressionless face for a moment. His eyes were deep. Unreadable. Then he turned to the two older men. His voice was calm.
"The activity was canceled. I heard Father and Uncle Dominic were discussing matters here. I came to listen."
He spoke as he naturally pulled out the empty chair beside Ivy and sat down.
His proximity brought that familiar, cool scent—cedar and faint tobacco.
The move seemed natural. But everyone in the room knew—this was no coincidence. Julian never voluntarily attended these purely transactional meetings. Least of all one about his own engagement.
A flicker of calculation passed through Dominic's eyes. He looked at Ivy. Then at Julian. Then his smile returned.
"Julian is here. Good. These matters should involve you young people anyway."
Julian's arrival was like a stone dropped into still water.
He didn't say much. Just sat quietly, responding briefly when the elders asked him something. But his presence alone changed the energy in the room. An invisible, silent pressure. Or perhaps—support.
Ivy could feel it. After Julian sat down, her father's and Chairman Blackwood's tones shifted subtly. They no longer discussed her as a passive object to be traded. They started asking more about "what the young people themselves think."
Ironic—a bastard's presence gave her a tiny bit of agency.
Halfway through dinner, Dominic and Chairman Blackwood moved on to discussing specific share exchanges and partnership terms. Their words were full of calculation and trade-offs.
Ivy felt suffocated.
Then—under the table—her hand was touched by something cool.
Julian's hand.
He moved fast, light. Pressed a small, hard object into her palm. Then withdrew his hand as if nothing had happened.
Ivy's heart jolted.
Under cover of the tablecloth, she looked down at her palm.
A silver cufflink. Simple design. Elegant. A small, barely noticeable indentation on its surface. Ivy recognized it—it was one of the styles Julian often wore. She had seen it on him at the Asteridge Circle.
What did this mean?
A token? Comfort? Some kind of signal she didn't understand?
Ivy hesitated for a moment. She didn't want to draw attention from the elders. But she needed a response—even just a look.
Under the table, she moved her foot. Discreet. She tapped Julian's shin lightly with the tip of her shoe. Not hard. Enough for him to feel it.
*Then she turned her face slightly and shot him a glance from the corner of her eye. Her look carried a clear question: What does this mean? *
Julian paused almost imperceptibly when she tapped him.
He didn't look at her right away. Instead, he picked up his water glass and took a slow drink.
Then—as he set the glass down—he turned his head briefly, seemingly casually, and met her questioning gaze.
His eyes were deep. Like a still night sky. No direct answer. But something flickered there—a hint of "hold on" or "I'll explain later."
So fast Ivy almost thought she had imagined it.
He looked away quickly, back to the elders. As if that moment had never happened.
But he didn't take back the cufflink. And he showed no reaction to her tap.
Ivy was more confused than before. But strangely—her tight nerves relaxed just a little.
At least he came.
At least he didn't ignore her.
At least—in this suffocating room—she wasn't completely alone.
The rest of dinner was still oppressive. But with the cool cufflink in her hand—still carrying the faint warmth of his body heat—and the sound of his calm voice responding to the elders beside her… she felt a strange, almost ridiculous sense of being in this together.
The feeling was unfamiliar. Dangerous.
But for now—she didn't want to let go.
Dinner finally ended in apparently harmonious fashion.
Dominic and Chairman Blackwood retired to the adjoining cigar room for more "in-depth discussion"—the kind not meant for young ears.
They gestured for Ivy and Julian to leave first.
The two walked out of the private room and onto the restaurant's terrace.
The city glittered below. Night breeze cool. It blew away the suffocating air of the private room.
Ivy stopped. Turned to face Julian. Held out her palm with the silver cufflink.
"Explain." Brief. Direct. Her eyes locked on him.
Julian leaned against the railing. The night wind stirred his dark hair. His face—even more striking in the darkness and artificial light—showed little expression.
"No special meaning." His tone was flat. "Just thought you might need something to hold on to."
He was vague. But Ivy understood. He meant—when you feel suffocated, helpless, pressured—you need something tangible. A distraction. A psychological anchor.
Ivy's chest tightened.
He saw it.
He saw her suffocation. Her helplessness. The mask she was about to drop.
"Why?" She pressed. She didn't understand why he was suddenly doing this.
They were supposed to be opponents. Enemies testing each other, hurting each other.
Julian was silent for a moment. He looked out at the distant city lights. His voice was soft.
"Because you texted me."
He paused.
"And you looked… unhappier than usual."
His reason was almost absurdly simple.
Not family interests. Not the engagement. Not even sympathy.
Just—because she had reached out. And because he noticed she was unhappy.
This simple, direct attention left Ivy at a loss for words.
She felt a flash of shame at being seen. A stubborn unwillingness to show weakness. And something else—something she didn't want to admit. A faint flutter.
She hardened her face. Took the still-warm cufflink from her palm—shoved it back into his hand a little roughly. Her tone was stiff.
"Who's unhappy?"
She looked away. Refused to look at his face—too beautiful in the night. She raised her voice deliberately, with false bravado.
"I'm fine. Better than fine. I don't need your pity."
She labeled his gesture as "pity." Pushed it away with anger.
Her usual defense—attack to protect.
Julian looked at the cufflink she had shoved back into his hand. Then at her tense profile and her slightly reddened ear tips. He didn't get angry. He didn't try to give it back.
He just let out a soft, almost inaudible sigh. The sound disappeared into the wind.
"Is that so." He responded flatly. He put the cufflink back in his pocket as if nothing had happened.
Silence fell between them.
But this silence was different from their previous cold standoffs. More like… a helpless impasse.
After a long moment, Julian spoke again. His topic shifted abruptly.
"I handled Yoon Jeongha's transfer paperwork."
Ivy's head snapped toward him.
He continued, his voice calm. "Her mother's condition worsened. She needs better care in the capital. They already planned to leave soon. Yesterday… just moved things up a little."
He looked at her. No accusation in his eyes. Just the calm of stating facts.
"Casper blaming you—he's not entirely wrong. But not entirely right either. Either way—it doesn't matter now."
"What matters, Ivy Frost—" His gaze deepened. "People leave. But things don't just end."
He paused. His voice was clear in the night wind.
"The things you say. The things you do. They leave marks. In other people's hearts. And in your own."
"You can tell yourself you're fine. That it doesn't matter." His gaze locked onto hers. "But one day—you'll have to face those marks. And face yourself."
Then he straightened up. Seemed ready to leave.
Before he could turn—Ivy called out.
"Julian."
He stopped. Looked back.
Ivy met his gaze. Her voice carried a strange mix of emotions—probing, sharp, and something else she didn't recognize.
"Why did you help her?"
She paused. As if searching for a reasonable excuse for her own question.
"Paying so much attention to her… so invested… don't tell me you like her."
As she asked, she felt a strange contradiction inside her—part of her hoped for one answer, part of her dreaded it.
She didn't know which answer she wanted.
Julian clearly hadn't expected this.
For once, his usually composed face showed clear surprise. Then his beautiful eyes narrowed slightly. Something complex flickered across them—shock, disbelief, and… a hint of offended displeasure?
He looked at her in silence for a few seconds. His gaze was deep enough to see through her.
Then he let out a soft sound—almost a snort through his nose. His lips curved into a cold smile.
"Ivy Frost." His voice was low. Carrying a strange, oppressive weight. "Is there nothing in your head except boring, useless guesses?"
He stepped forward. Closed the distance between them.
The night light cast shadows across his sharp features, making his beauty seem dangerous.
"I helped her because she deserved help. Nothing else." His voice was cold. "Not everyone is like you—needing an ugly or selfish reason for every single thing they do."
His words stung like a slap. Ivy's face grew warm.
"As for who I like—" He paused. His gaze lingered on her face. The sharpness in his eyes made her want to step back. "That's my business."
He said finally:
"None of your business."
Then he turned without giving her time to react. Walked away. His figure disappeared into the restaurant's interior lights.
Ivy stood alone in the night breeze. The phantom coolness of the cufflink still seemed to linger in her palm. His words echoed in her ears: None of your business.
A mixture of humiliation, anger, and a loss she didn't want to admit washed over her.
She didn't know what she was mourning.
She didn't know what she had been hoping for.
She only knew—Julian Blackwood had, once again, drawn the line between them in the simplest, cruelest way possible.
And this time—that line was clearer than ever. And more painful.