CHAPTER 150: CHAPTER 150: FROM NOW ON, I WON’T LIVE FOR ANYONE ELSE

This car is a limited edition he bought at the auction a few days ago. It even trended on social media.

He was cursed out like crazy, and The Xavier Group went through a period of crisis.

But I heard Douglas Xavier still has the connections he built up before, and plus, a family business like The Xavier Group has had generations to accumulate resources and wealth—their foundation runs deep.

So, The Xavier Group somehow managed to weather the storm.

It ended with my mother losing her life, while Timothy Xavier, Sophia Kendall, and the rest continued to live nicely and comfortably, barely affected at all.

Instead, ever since I exposed the marriage certificate and ripped off The Xavier Family’s fake mask, he’s gotten even more shameless.

At least before, he’d keep up some appearances.

Now he doesn’t care about face at all, standing blatantly outside my workplace, not caring at all about the looks from others.

Some colleagues have already stopped in their tracks, pointing and gossiping about him, and quite a few people gaze toward me, whispering among themselves.

But Timothy Xavier acts as if he hasn’t heard any of it. The moment he sees me, he strides right over, long legs closing the distance.

I can’t even be bothered to glare at him. I head straight for the company entrance, desperate to escape this awkward scene.

But it’s close to work hours, the line to clock in is long, and it’s impossible to speed up.

He catches up in no time.

Embarrassed, I abruptly stop and lower my voice: "Timothy Xavier, if you need something, talk to my lawyer. Don’t harass me anymore!"

But he acts like he hasn’t understood, just gazes at me deeply, his eyes swirling with emotions: "Zoe, today’s your birthday. I just wanted to say happy birthday."

I look at him, and suddenly it’s so ridiculous I almost laugh.

A wry, thin curve pulls at my lips. "My birthday? That ended the day of my mother’s funeral. From that day on, there will never be happiness anywhere near my birthdays again."

Pain flashes across Timothy Xavier’s eyes instantly. He steps forward to grab my hand but I instantly jerk away.

He’s quick to defend himself: "Zoe, I honestly never thought Peter Sawyer and his son would go so far. I’ve already made them pay! I promise you, their time in prison won’t be easy for them. I’ve already got someone at the prison—"

"Enough!" I cut him off harshly, the disgust in my voice utterly unfiltered. "Whatever they go through has nothing to do with me! Timothy Xavier, can you just stop coming to find me? Every time you appear, all I feel is nauseated!"

Just then, the line in front finally moves, and it’s my turn to clock in.

I don’t look at him again. With trembling fingers, I swipe my work card. The door buzzes open, and I basically flee inside.

Timothy Xavier’s voice calls out behind me, tinged with a nearly hidden plea: "Fine. Even if you don’t forgive me, can’t you at least accept the cake I made? I... made it all night last night..."

I don’t turn back and I don’t answer.

...

Meanwhile, at The Sinclair Family.

The Sinclair Family kitchen is filled with syrupy sweet cream scents.

Julian Sinclair is teaching Sharon how to spread icing over the cake base.

Beside the counter, balloons stack half as tall as a person—pink, gold, and with little daisies—and all of them have been prepped for Zoe Ellison’s birthday.

Doris grips a half-inflated balloon at the door, standing there all alone, envy flickering in her eyes.

Last night, she secretly messaged Timothy Xavier as a tip-off.

Right now, she doesn’t dare get closer, afraid that Julian Sinclair, who already doesn’t like her, would scold her.

Eyes reddening, she returns silently to the sofa, blowing up balloon after balloon, without a word.

"Doris, what are you doing here?"

Sharon Hawthorne comes over and lightly taps her shoulder. "It’s Auntie Ellison’s birthday—aren’t you happy?"

Doris’ eyes dodge. "No, I’m fine!"

Sharon’s eyes sparkle, all smiles. "Then let’s go help Auntie Ellison make her cake! Come on!"

She tugs Doris toward the kitchen.

But as they reach the kitchen door, Julian Sinclair shoots Sharon a glance, and Doris stops dead in her tracks, not daring to go any further.

She clearly wants to join in, whip the cream, and decorate, but her feet are glued to the ground.

Scared of Julian Sinclair’s chilly face, and embarrassed by her own awkwardness.

Inside, Julian Sinclair’s eyes track the little figure at the doorway.

He obviously spots the little scheme in Doris. But he isn’t some saint.

When he saw Timothy Xavier’s X posts this morning, he knew Doris must have tipped him off.

The aversion he’d painstakingly suppressed surged back up.

He tells himself he shouldn’t take it out on a child, but the distance shows on his face, whether he wants it to or not.

If she comes over herself, he won’t stop her—but he’d never be the first to reach out.

Just then, Madam Sinclair’s protective voice floats over: "Oh dear, precious Doris, what are you doing here? Go inside!"

Doris looks at Julian Sinclair in agony, shakes her head: "I don’t like making cakes, I’ll just blow up balloons!"

"There’s a pump, isn’t there?" Madam Sinclair strokes Doris’ cheek. "Silly child, if you blow balloons all day, your cheeks will swell up!"

Saying that, she seems to realize something else. "Is it because Uncle Sinclair’s too stern? Are you scared of him?"

Doris nods timidly.

Madam Sinclair chuckles and takes Doris’ hand into the kitchen. To Julian Sinclair, she says, "Julian, give us a smile!"

Julian Sinclair shoots his grandma a deadpan look. "You’re too old for this kind of thing. Is it fun?"

"But you’ve scared the child off!"

Madam Sinclair instructs Doris and Sharon to stay in the kitchen, then looks at Julian Sinclair seriously. "Come outside with me for a moment."

Julian Sinclair follows her out of the kitchen.

He hears Madam Sinclair speak earnestly: "I’ve seen it these days. You don’t like Doris. I don’t know what reason could make you so repelled by a child. But you’ve already accepted Zoe, and Doris is a part of her. If Zoe knows you don’t like her daughter, she’ll be hurt too."

Julian Sinclair frowns: "But I don’t want to raise someone ungrateful."

Madam Sinclair smiles. "You mean Timothy Xavier found out we’re celebrating Zoe’s birthday today because Doris told him?"

Julian Sinclair says, "You noticed too."

"Didn’t think about it during breakfast, but back in my room, I realized."

Madam Sinclair sighs. "This child was basically raised by Timothy Xavier. Whatever happened, Timothy Xavier was a constant through all of Doris’ childhood. No matter what he’s done to others, as a father he’s always done right by her. And you—you haven’t given Doris much of anything. Her heart leans to her father—isn’t that just natural? How does that make her ungrateful?"

Attorney Sinclair, who’s never backed down from a courtroom battle, suddenly finds himself speechless over a few words from his grandmother.

He knows Madam Sinclair is right, yet it’s hard for him to accept Doris—not only because she’s Timothy Xavier’s daughter.

But for another reason—even Madam Sinclair doesn’t know what it is.

He doesn’t want to talk about it, let alone expose any old wounds.

...

By evening.

I leave work and head out the building, sweeping my eyes along the curb out of instinct—Timothy Xavier’s car is finally gone.

The security guard comes over, a bit gossipy: "Miss Ellison, Mr. Xavier was waiting here almost two hours this afternoon. Just left an hour ago."

I frown and my voice goes cold: "You don’t need to tell me about these things in the future. It has nothing to do with me."

The guard sees my expression and shuts up wisely.

Pulling into The Sinclair Estate, I open the car door and freeze.

The stairs and walls inside are strung with lights, warm yellow halos dappling the air.

Balloons drift from the ceiling, and a hand-painted "Happy Birthday" is stuck on the wall.

The dining table holds a lopsided but heartfelt cream cake, with some freshly baked cookies nearby.

The entire feast is clearly Julian Sinclair’s handiwork.

"Happy birthday."

Julian Sinclair’s voice comes from behind, so gentle, as if afraid to touch an old wound—the tone itself cradles you.

Sharon dashes over, grabs my hand, and bounces. "Auntie Ellison! Uncle Sinclair helped me and Doris decorate everything! We made the cake with our own hands! We worked all day!"

My heart fills with warmth. I’m just about to thank them, when I hear a quiet voice off to the side: "Mommy... happy birthday."

Doris hangs her head, twisting her fingers in her clothes, her eyes shadowed, not at all her usual lively self.

I don’t get to ask—Madam Sinclair comes beaming over. "It’s raining outside, didn’t get wet, did you? Do you want to shower and change, then eat?"

"No, I didn’t get wet. I waited in the car when it started raining."

I say this, and we all head to the dining room.

When I see the cake, heat rushes to my eyes—all these weeks’ frozen, numb heart cracks open, and a sliver of sunlight seeps in.

But just then, Doris’ eyes grow round, startled as she looks outside, "Isn’t that Daddy?"

We freeze, chopsticks suspended, all looking toward the dining room’s big window.

The rain falls heavily, and Timothy Xavier stands there, drenched, holding a birthday cake.

He’s obviously calculated this spot to face the dining room window, purposefully.

Madam Sinclair is furious.

Julian Sinclair moves to get security to drive him off.

But Madam Sinclair says, "If he wants to stand here, let him! Let him watch us celebrate Zoe’s birthday—let him see if he’s ever taken Zoe seriously!"

And so, everyone sings happy birthday to me. There aren’t many people, but the warmth is everywhere.

Not until I blow out the candles does Doris carefully ask: "Mommy, can I go see Daddy? I... I’ll try to make him leave."

I know Doris is always soft-hearted about Timothy Xavier.

He’s her father—I’ve never stopped her from loving him.

But this time, I hesitate.

Everyone worked all day for my birthday, and I don’t want to disappoint them, or have Timothy Xavier show up and ruin it.

Julian Sinclair unexpectedly says, "I’ll walk her out."

He takes an umbrella.

Doris quickly sits back down. "N-never mind, I won’t go."

You can tell she’s scared of Julian Sinclair.

I tell Julian Sinclair, "Just give her the umbrella, let her go on her own."

...

Timothy Xavier stands a long while in the rain, watching the warm glow spill over Zoe Ellison inside the house.

The heavy curtain of rain blurs her face, but he imagines—she must be very happy now.

Especially when she leans in to blow out the candles.

Just then, he sees a little figure sway and stumble toward him, carrying an umbrella.

"Doris?"

Timothy Xavier rushes over. "Why are you out here?"

Doris sees her father so bedraggled, soaked through like a drowned rat, and her heart aches. She chokes, "Daddy, go home. Mommy... she probably doesn’t want your cake. I’m sorry—from now on, I won’t tell you about these things anymore."

Seeing his daughter like this, Timothy Xavier’s eyes sting, and he quickly opens the car door for Doris.

He brings the cake into the car too.

Timothy Xavier takes a dry towel and gently wipes the droplets from her hair and face, voice rough: "Doris, you’re disappointed in Daddy too, aren’t you?"

Doris glances at him, sighing like a grown-up. "Even if I’m disappointed, you’re still my dad."

Timothy Xavier feels like his chest is stuffed full of cotton, even breathing is burdensome.

He picks up a fork and scoops up the mushy, wet cream; it’s sickly sweet, but he can’t hide the bitterness in his eyes.

"Your mom used to do this too—she made cakes for me for my birthday."

His words are hoarse, eyes red, his smile bitter: "Every year, she’d hope I’d eat a piece, but I always just took a bite to humor her."

Doris sits quietly listening, not really understanding.

Timothy Xavier simply eats the soaked cake with his hands, numb.

The cream is so sweet, so why does it hurt so much to swallow it down, make you want to cry?

"Daddy... Stop eating, please."

Doris’ voice cracks—she’s scared by his state. "You’re scaring me..."

Timothy Xavier tries to smile. "Sorry, didn’t mean to. Go back inside and keep your mom company."

He then says to Doris, "There’s something in Daddy’s pocket, can you grab it for me?"

Doris digs it out—a small cloth pouch—inspecting it curiously. "What’s this?"

"A cross-stitch."

Timothy Xavier’s eyes drift to the past. "When your mom was in high school, these were all the rage. She stitched a peace charm just for me."

Doris looks at the stuffed pouch. "Hey, it has your name stitched on it!"

She might not know as many words as Sharon, but she can read her dad’s name.

Doris doesn’t really get it—she just mutters, "Daddy, are you poor now? Why are you giving Mommy something she made for you as a gift? Why not buy her jewelry? You always bought that bad woman jewelry—why aren’t you buying anything for Mommy?"

Timothy Xavier looks at his daughter with fondness. "Your mom doesn’t care about those things. What she... cares about..."

He trails off, unable to finish. Everything Zoe ever cared about—he already destroyed.

Even now, he doesn’t know where to start making amends.

...

In the villa, warm yellow light shuts out the rain. I look toward the door, worried.

Did Doris leave with Timothy Xavier?

Raising a child is a lot like raising a pet—the person who keeps them company and brings them warmth is the one they rely on, almost by instinct.

Timothy Xavier hurt me deeply, but his love for Doris was always real.

If Doris really chooses him, how could I blame her?

Until the lock at the entrance clicks softly, I look up suddenly to see Doris standing there, water dripping from the umbrella in her hand.

Her hair and face have droplets too.

And my heart, finally, settles—I run straight to her.

Julian Sinclair goes to get towels from the cloakroom.

When he hands one to me, his fingers brush mine, carrying a hint of warmth.

I take the towel, crouch, and gently wipe the droplets from Doris’ hair and face.

She keeps her head down, twisting her clothes anxiously.

After a while, she looks up at me, her eyes gleaming, her voice barely audible: "Mommy, I made Daddy leave. I went to talk to him... Are you mad at me?"

My heart softens. I stroke her head, nose prickling: "Silly, how could Mommy be mad at you?"

She relaxes instantly, the smile on her face like a weight lifting off.

Her small hand reaches toward her pocket, as if to pull something out.

But suddenly she freezes, snatches her hand away, and instead tugs at my sleeve, swinging it gently.

"Mommy, I want some of your birthday cake."

Madam Sinclair strokes Doris’ hair fondly. "We saved the best for you, little Doris. The biggest flower, and it’s pink!"

She takes Doris’ hand and leads her to the table.

Doris takes a piece of cake, smiling sweetly at Madam Sinclair: "Thank you, Granny Sinclair."

But out of the corner of my eye, I see Julian Sinclair standing nearby, watching Doris.

The expression is so complex I can’t read it.

There’s scrutiny, and a muted sadness that’s impossible to express in words.

After dinner, night falls and I take Sharon and Doris upstairs to get ready for bed.

Once both kids are in, I head back to my own room.

Soon after, Doris creeps in, closing the door softly behind her.

"Mommy," she tiptoes up and leans to whisper in my ear, secretive, "Uncle Sinclair was there earlier, so I couldn’t give you this."

She pulls out a very new cloth pouch from her pocket, identical to the one I gave Timothy Xavier in high school.

I almost laugh. Back then, I insisted he always carry it with him.

But looking at it now, he probably never touched it.

"Daddy asked me to give this to you. He said you made it for him in high school... What was it called?"

Doris wrinkles her brow, trying to remember, then huffs, "He’s so stingy! Mom, for your birthday, he should give you a huge diamond!"

I instinctively take the little pouch.

The second my fingers touch the fabric, old memories wake up.

That craft was a craze in high school—almost every girl bought and stitched one.

I never liked crafts before; thought they were a waste of time.

But one time I heard Timothy Xavier got injured at a basketball game in college—a fracture.

I was scared, so I rushed out to buy the kit, stitched him a peace charm by hand.

Back then, I thought a needle and thread could tie two people’s futures tight together.

Thought if I stitched "peace" perfectly, he’d always be OK, no matter the distance.

On the back, I even stitched my own name, but I never let my parents know since it was my secret crush, before we ever dated.

I thought two names sewn together meant never being apart.

I trace the raised, bumpy lettering with my fingers, throat choking, struggling to breathe through the ache.

"Mom, what’s wrong?"

Doris notices and grows worried. I quickly recover.

I pat her head and smile. "Nothing, just remembering some things from the past. It’s late, why don’t you get to bed now, OK?"

Doris nods, still a little confused.

Before leaving, she tiptoes up to hug my waist and whispers: "Mommy, happy birthday. No matter what happens, I’ll never leave you."

A wave of tenderness surges in me, and I kiss her cheek, whispering: "Mommy won’t leave you either."

Only after Doris leaves do the tears pour out, uncontrollable.

Not for Timothy Xavier, but for my wasted youth and passion.

All along, it feels like I’ve just had a nightmare that only moved me.

Just then, the bedroom door slowly opens. Julian Sinclair stands at the doorway.

I panic, turning my face away and hurriedly wiping my tears, but it’s too late.

He walks over without a word, picks up the peace charm from my table.

Seeing "Timothy Xavier" stitched on top, his brow tightens almost imperceptibly, but he gets what it means.

The small velvet box he was holding disappears back into his trouser pocket, quietly.

"Feeling nostalgic?"

His voice is soft, but carries a kind of coldness, and maybe a dash of scorn: "When you’ve put in that much effort with someone, it’s not easy to let go. Your daughter’s quite clever, sneaking this to you."

The coldness splashes over me like ice water—I feel chilled to the bone.

The man I thought understood me, who saved me from darkness, now feels so distant.

Choking, my voice trembles: "Don’t think of kids as so devious. She’s just scared of upsetting you! She’s too young for all this mess—you can’t blame her!"

Julian Sinclair laughs, and the sound is emptier than I’ve ever heard from him. "She’s helping her dad chase you, of course she’s scared I’d get mad. If you’d really given up on Timothy Xavier, you wouldn’t be crying like this. Zoe Ellison, you can fool others, but you can’t fool yourself."

Each word hits me like a needle—painfully sharp, right in the heart.

I lift my head, staring into his cold eyes. "Are you saying I’ve been lying to you, using your feelings?"

I lock my gaze on him, desperate for something—anything—maybe a word, just a little comfort.

But he just stares quietly, that icy distance between us like a sheet of glass, suddenly so far away.

I could have told him I was only crying over my own wasted years, my own stupidity.

But facing him like this, I don’t want to explain anymore.

I realize suddenly—marriage or love, either is so hard.

If you can’t stand misunderstanding and lies, maybe you’re better off alone.

Just then, Julian Sinclair asks, "So Zoe Ellison, do you still want a divorce, or not? If you don’t, tell me right now. I’ve got plenty of things to do, and I don’t want to waste my time pointlessly."

A dull pain ripples through me, my mouth speaking before my mind catches up: "Attorney Sinclair, I’m sorry for wasting your precious time. I don’t need you to handle my divorce anymore. I’ll take care of it myself."

"Fine."

Julian Sinclair has always been proud—never would bend for me. He even pulls out his phone right in front of me, calling his assistant: "Miss Ellison said there’s no need to proceed with the divorce. Cancel the filing at court tomorrow. ASAP."

My heart sinks—we’re withdrawing again?

Does that mean another six months before I can file?

I want to say I’m determined to divorce, I can’t wait this long!

But seeing his icy face and remembering his words, the insults to me and Doris, I don’t want to say another word to him.

Julian Sinclair doesn’t leave right away—he waits, silent, hoping I’ll back down.

But I don’t.

With Timothy Xavier, I’ve swallowed my pride long enough, only to end up like this.

From now on, I just want to live how I want, never to bend for anyone again.

Seeing I won’t answer, Julian Sinclair leaves, not a word more.

...

In the study.

Julian Sinclair yanks off his tie, leans back in his chair, fingers pressing hard against his throbbing temple.

A bitter smile twists his lips—this day was supposed to be her birthday celebration. How did it turn into this?

He knows her mother’s death has left wounds, knows the years of humiliation she’s been through in marriage.

But the image of her sobbing over Timothy Xavier’s name shakes him. Everything he’s done for her seems like a joke next to that charm.

He suddenly remembers a saying: as deep as the hate, so is the love.

His phone buzzes, snapping him out of it.

Leo Grant confirms: "Attorney Sinclair, are we really withdrawing? If so, Miss Ellison needs to sign—should I go to her, or does she come to the office..."

Julian Sinclair hesitates a couple seconds.

Withdrawing and refiling—even with connections, skipping the six months, it’s still a hassle.

He’d just said it out of anger, not thinking.

Pushed into it, said the words.

He wanted her to give some explanation—but when he said "withdraw," it seemed to be what she wanted, and she agreed.

He tells Leo Grant: "Leave it alone. I’ll request an adjournment at court myself tomorrow."

He’ll give Zoe Ellison plenty of time—to figure things out.

And not keep watching her, right by his side, still tied to her ex-husband.