CHAPTER 162: CHAPTER 162: LOVING SO MUCH YOU’D RISK YOUR LIFE

Jean Ellison collapsed to the ground, a wave of pain from her waist making it almost impossible to stand.

She stared at the empty velvet box, the sapphire necklace her father left her flashing repeatedly in her mind.

No, she couldn’t just lose it like that.

Struggling, she grabbed the phone that had fallen nearby, her fingers trembling as she dialed the local emergency number in New York.

When the call connected, she fought back sobs and, with the clearest English she could muster, urgently described the recent home invasion, emphasizing that a sapphire necklace of great personal significance had been stolen.

However, the white officer on the other end of the line spoke with a formulaic indifference and impatience.

He interrupted Jean’s somewhat chaotic account, rapidly asking for the exact address and suspect details. But when Jean, due to nerves and language barriers, delivered a less than fluent description, the other party clearly displayed disdain and a dismissive attitude.

The white man even bluntly said in the end, "Ma’am, if you can’t give an accurate description, it’s hard for us to handle. These incidents occur frequently in the nearby neighborhoods, so I suggest you make sure to lock your doors and windows in the future."

The call ended.

Listening to the dial tone in the receiver, Jean felt a cold sense of helplessness.

Here, even seeking the most basic help was so difficult.

She propped her painful body up and staggered to the door. The door had been violently wrecked by a drunkard, the lock was completely broken, and the door panel hung crooked, unable to close.

Cold air poured in from the hallway, making her shiver.

At this moment, the door of the apartment across the hall opened slightly.

A gray-haired, bespectacled elderly Western man cautiously peeked out—it was the retired Wall Street employee from number seventy-six, previously mentioned by Aunt Mason.

The old man saw the mess at Jean’s door, then noticed her pale face and tearful eyes and roughly understood what had happened.

He sighed and said in broken Chinese with an accent, "Child, reporting to the police is useless here, the police don’t really care about these things. Those drunkards love to wander through our somewhat quiet neighborhood looking for things to steal. I’m afraid you won’t get your stuff back."

Jean’s heart sank, her last glimmer of hope extinguished.

She leaned despondently against the broken door frame, softly saying, "Thank you for telling me this."

The old man looked at her sorrowful appearance, hesitated for a moment, then added, "But earlier, I heard some noise and saw through the peephole a young man, also Chinese, come out from the apartment next door or one nearby that’s empty, following that drunk thief towards the stairs."

He pointed in the direction, "I don’t know what he’s trying to do either..."

Jean suddenly raised her head, her heart pounding wildly.

A young man following the drunkard?

She immediately thought of Justin Holden, remembering he lived next door in number seventy-seven.

Among the neighbors around here, besides him, there was no other young Chinese man.

"Grandpa, did the person you see come out from the apartment number seventy-seven?"

Jean’s voice trembled slightly with urgency.

The old man squinted as he recalled, uncertainly saying, "I couldn’t quite see the house number, but the direction was right. Why, do you know him?"

Jean didn’t have time to explain much, nor did she care about the pain in her body or the damaged door. She only hastily said "thank you" to the old man and dashed out the door, stumbling and running down the stairs in the direction he indicated.

There was only one thought in her mind.

Justin Holden had gone after that drunk, and he was alone—this wasn’t Kingswell City; it was New York.

The neighborhoods here were full of mixed crowds, and that drunkard looked tall and fierce—possibly armed or with accomplices. Justin was just a lawyer; how could he...?

She even forgot about the necklace, about the injustice of the unhelpful police call; only worry for Justin Holden’s safety remained.

She ran down the stairs with all her might, burst out of the apartment building, and onto the snow-dusted street.

Cold air entered her lungs with a sting.

Anxiously, she looked around. There were few pedestrians on the street, with a few blurry figures in the distance, impossible to discern whether any of them was Justin or the drunkard.

"Justin Holden!"

She couldn’t help but shout out.

Jean sprinted down the cold street, her heart beating frantically in her chest, almost ready to burst.

The cold wind slashed across her cheeks like knives.

She turned a corner and suddenly heard the sound of a fierce fight from a narrow, dark alley nearby. Cursing and the noise of things smashing.

She abruptly stopped, fearfully peering into the alley.

There, several hooded teenagers were attacking another figure curled up on the ground, fists and kicks raining down like a storm.

It wasn’t Justin, nor the drunkard.

Thankfully, it wasn’t them—Jean sighed with relief.

The teenagers in the alley seemed to notice the uninvited guest, halting their actions and turning to stare at her.

Their eyes bore malicious scrutiny, typical of ruffians with a touch of malice.

One whistled, shouting something in slang she couldn’t understand, while the others laughed, their eyes roaming over her.

The hair on Jean’s neck stood on end, and she turned to run.

"Hey, don’t run, beautiful."

"Come over and play!"

Behind her came disarrayed footsteps along with more lewd catcalls in a language she couldn’t understand, but the malicious tone sent a chill through her.

They were catching up.

She stumbled on the still snow-slick sidewalk in unsuitable house slippers, the footsteps and whistles behind her getting closer, fear nearly suffocating her.

Just as she thought she would be overtaken, she suddenly ran into a hard chest.

"Ah!"

She cried out, the huge impact almost knocking her back.

A strong arm caught her waist just in time, steadying her unbalanced body.

Jean looked up in shock, tears blurring her vision, meeting a familiar face.

Justin Holden’s face was somewhat pale, his lips pressed tightly, his jawline taut.

And the most glaring was a noticeable scrape near the hairline on his left temple, slowly oozing blood, stark against his cold, pale skin.

His breathing was also somewhat rapid, the collar of his black coat slightly open.

"Justin Holden!"

Seeing the blood on his face, Jean Ellison’s already tense nerves instantly snapped.

She grabbed the front of his coat, her voice tinged with sobs and tremors.

"Where did you go, why is there blood on your face?"

Justin Holden did not answer her question immediately. His arm still steadily supported her, his gaze passed over her head, looking at the few cursing teenagers chasing after them.

His eyes shot straight towards those people.

He didn’t speak, nor did he make any extra movements, just looked on coldly.

The teenagers, initially aggressive, instantly fell silent upon meeting Justin Holden’s gaze.

They exchanged glances, showing a bit of caution and retreat, muttering a few indistinct curses, but dared not advance further, and quickly turned and disappeared at the alley’s exit.

The danger was over, but Jean Ellison still trembled in his arms, crying uncontrollably.

Only then did Justin Holden lower his head to check on Jean.

His gaze fell on her clothes, disheveled from running and scuffling, noticing a tear on the sleeve of her sweater, slightly revealing the reddened skin beneath.

"I’m fine."

He finally spoke, his voice slightly hoarse from the previous chase, yet it held a strange calming power.

He gently released his arm from her waist and carefully lifted her arm, frowning slightly.

"Does your arm hurt, how did this happen?"

Following his gaze, Jean looked at her arm, then realized the injury there.

Probably from when the drunkard pushed her, scraping against the ground or hitting a table corner.

Previously too tense to feel any pain.

She shook her head, tears still clinging to her lashes: "No... it doesn’t hurt."

Compared to the injury on his face, her scrape was nothing.

Justin Holden watched her trying hard to hold back tears, remained silent for a moment, then raised his hand, clumsily wiping away her tear streaks with his fingertip, not exactly gently, even a bit stiff.

"Stop crying," he said softly.

Then, he carefully took out something from the inside pocket of his coat.

The deep, oceanic blue sparkled purely and dazzlingly under the winter sun.

It was the sapphire necklace.

"This," Justin Holden held the necklace in his palm, handing it to Jean with a calm tone, "is it yours?"

Jean’s crying stopped abruptly, she widened her eyes, looking at the reclaimed necklace, nodding eagerly and choked with emotions.

"Yes, it’s mine."

She reached out, cautiously wanting to take the necklace.

Justin Holden watched her cherishing expression, as if finding the whole world again, seeing her risk everything, chasing it desperately despite her safety, thinking back to her previous "explanation."

This necklace, probably a gift from Dylan Sawyer.

Given her "Jean Ellison’s" identity and background, how could she possess such a valuable sapphire necklace?

Only someone like Dylan Sawyer could afford to give such a gift.

Did she like his gifts so much, liked them enough to forgo her life?

He watched as Jean took the necklace, clenching it in her hand, holding it close to her chest, as if it was her most important possession.

His gaze deepened a few shades, his thin lips pressed into a straight line; ultimately, he asked nothing, said nothing.

Justin Holden accompanied the still-shaken Jean back to the apartment.

Aunt Mason and Dylan Sawyer had already returned, standing in a stupor at the damaged door.

Dylan Sawyer, seeing Jean’s disheveled hair, red, swollen eyes, and torn sleeve, immediately approached to ask with concern: "Jean? What happened to you, what’s wrong?"

Standing behind Jean, Justin Holden coldly regarded Dylan Sawyer, his voice dripping with undisguised sarcasm.

"President Sawyer’s back? As a husband, you’re not very competent; a burglar broke in, your wife got hurt, and you weren’t there."

Jean abruptly turned to Justin Holden, her voice filled with anger: "Justin Holden, shut up!"

What right did he have to accuse Dylan Sawyer?

Justin Holden’s mouth curled into a smirk devoid of warmth, his gaze swept over the necklace tightly gripped in Jean’s hand, his tone grew colder.

"Turning your back on someone so quickly? I just helped you get your things back, truly ungrateful."

Aunt Mason quickly stepped forward to diffuse the tension, a warm smile plastered on her face.

"Young Master Holden, it’s truly fortunate you were here this time, thank you so much. How about staying for a meal? I’ll prepare it right away."

Justin Holden expressionlessly declined: "No need, I have work."

Aunt Mason quickly added: "Then let me bring it over once it’s ready? I’ll take it to your next door. You’ve helped us so much, we must express our gratitude somehow."

Justin Holden glanced at Jean, whose face was grim, and Dylan Sawyer, whose expression was serious; he did not refuse anymore, just gave a faint "mm," as a gesture of consent.

Aunt Mason sighed with relief, then spoke to Jean and Justin.

"When I came back, the old gentleman next door told me the house was burglarized; it scared me to death. Thankfully you two were together, nothing major happened, what a relief."

Justin Holden said nothing more, turning away from the awkward atmosphere of the apartment.

Dylan Sawyer watched Justin Holden’s departing figure, his eyebrows furrowed, then looked at Jean, his gaze complex.

Jean closed her eyes wearily, leaning against the wall, the necklace in her hand stinging painfully against the palm.

Justin Holden was injured, seemingly quite badly; when he brought her back, his left arm had not been lifted, still bleeding.