CHAPTER 6: CHAPTER 6: TAKING ADVANTAGE OF SOMEONE’S MISFORTUNE

After a long tirade, Zion Pence seemed to have vented his anger.

He unbuttoned his shirt, grabbed the wine glass, and took a big gulp. "Holly, you’re so domineering and suspicious, it’s suffocating for me."

The air was terrifyingly silent.

Zion fished out a pack of cigarettes and lit one.

Smoke swirled around, blurring his face.

The face she had loved for seven years disappeared at this moment.

The seven years of feelings were completely shattered by his words just now...

Holly sat silently by the bedside, listening to his "accusations" against her, watching this ridiculous farce, only feeling as if her soul was being extracted.

So this is what Zion Pence thought.

And at this moment, she had to admit, Zion Pence...

is rotten!

It’s just that she didn’t know if he was rotten from the start or if he became rotten over time.

As one cigarette burned out, Zion walked closer, looking down at the seated Holly from a height.

As if he hadn’t been the one saying those words just now, he wore a facade of fake gentleness again, stroking her face with fingers as if taming a cat.

"Holly, don’t disappoint me again. Calm down and think more about what I just said, I’ll leave first."

Finishing, he grabbed his suit jacket from the bed and walked out of the bedroom.

Hearing the sound of the door closing outside, Holly finally couldn’t hold on and collapsed to the floor.

Zion Pence, you really did forget, it was you who proposed three years ago!

It was you! Kneeling on the ground with a ring, asking me!

Asking me to marry you.

It was you who said, ’Holly, marry me, I want to be with you forever!’

But you forgot all that...

Is it that all men are like this, always forgetting the vows they make.

Never admitting their mistakes, always justifying themselves, pushing the blame onto women.

They never feel guilty, only thinking you’re too capable, too strong, too greedy, wanting too much...

While women foolishly cling to the promises made in a rush of adrenaline, sacrificing everything, only to torment their own body and soul over and over again.

Outside the window, the night wind rose suddenly, rain slashing against the glass.

Holly slowly removed the wedding ring from her ring finger, her fingertips trembling slightly.

Just like three years ago, when Zion Pence put it on her, she trembled with excitement.

The ring fell to the floor with a crisp sound.

"Zion Pence, from now on, we have nothing to do with each other!"

After a long time, Holly wiped away her tears, picked up her phone, and dialed a number: "Hello, is this 110? I want to report a DUI, the license plate number is...."

....

At nightfall.

Noralis Villa.

Sinclair Manor.

Inside the study, the only sound was the swish of a brush over xuan paper.

The golden Jin Jun Mei on the tea table boiled again, the aroma wafting around.

The dim lamp light cast on Blake Sinclair’s clear-cut profile, as he held a brush, leaving rows of neat calligraphy on the gilded xuan paper.

"Article three hundred and five: In speech much is lost... Article three hundred and eleven: Do not associate with the unkind... Three hundred eighteen: Once a decision is made, do not change it because of others’ words...."

Blake Sinclair’s pen suddenly paused, and the scene from the afternoon at the bridal shop reappeared in his mind.

The awkwardness of her accidentally falling into his arms... the faint red mole on her waist... and the reddened corners of her eyes...

The speed of his brush strokes increased, as the handwriting gradually betrayed a repressed impatience.

He closed his eyes, Adam’s apple moving up and down, the pressure of his strokes growing heavier, as if the next moment the pen would pierce the paper.

Yet it seemed only this way could he suppress all those thoughts.

"Uncle."

A tender child’s voice suddenly rang out.

Four-year-old Sinclair, with her hair down, wearing strawberry bear pajamas and carrying a pink Labubu plush toy, walked in, with some cookie crumbs still clinging to the hem of her pajamas.

She walked to the desk opposite, tiptoeing to glance at the things on the table, bobbing her head and saying, "Uncle, did you make a mistake again?"

Blake Sinclair didn’t stop writing, only furrowing his brow slightly. "Why do you say that?"

"Mom told me." Little Sinclair tilted her head, her round eyes spinning in a circle again and again. "Mom said that Uncle copies the family precepts every time because he made a mistake."

She tilted her head as if recalling, "Last time was because Uncle didn’t listen to Grandpa to find Aunt Shirley for Shirley, and the time before that was because Mom said..."

"Your mom talks too much." Blake Sinclair interrupted little Sinclair, but his hand kept on moving.

Little Sinclair pinched the ears of her stuffed toy and stamped her foot lightly, "She does not! Mom said Uncle has a little monster inside him."

While speaking, she made a hand gesture that looked fierce but was actually adorably clumsy like a little monster.

After a while, she furrowed her small face full of puzzlement, "But why hasn’t Shirley seen it even once?"

Blake Sinclair’s hand, holding the writing brush, halted mid-air. The ink bled into a black spot on the gold-flecked rice paper. He stared at the ink stain for several seconds and then continued writing.

Little Sinclair was at the age of curiosity. Not getting the answer she wanted, she simply walked around the desk to Blake Sinclair’s side, her chubby little hands gripping the edge of the desk as she propped her chin, eyes fixed on the words on the desk.

"Wow, Uncle, you wrote so much this time."

The paper on the desk was thicker than the strawberry bear stickers in her room, covered in densely written black characters that made her head spin.

Little Sinclair, who just entered kindergarten, had recently learned some Chinese characters, so she knew a few simple words and numbers.

She shook her little head, and as Blake Sinclair wrote, she read aloud, "The Sinclair Family Precept number 321: Do not take...take advantage of others in..."

"Huh?" Little Sinclair’s round eyes filled with big confusion, her chubby little hand making several points in the air, her eyes full of clear curiosity.

"Uncle, what does ’take advantage of others in...’ mean?"

Even though she watched her uncle copy the family precepts many times, little Sinclair remembered none of them, because, as Mom said, no one but Uncle would care about the Sinclair family precepts.

Blake Sinclair said, "This character is not read as ’take,’ it’s ’take advantage of,’ and the last character is ’danger,’ as in ’dangerous.’

Whether she understood or not, little Sinclair just said "Oh."

Finishing the last family precept copy, Blake Sinclair put down the pen, looked at the four words on the paper, his voice low: "The Sinclair Family Precept number 321: Do not take advantage of others in danger."

He repeated it over and over, each word enunciated heavily, as if warning himself in this way, ’Do not take advantage of others in danger.’

But even so, the unrest in his heart was still difficult to quell.

Outside the window, the night wind blew.

Lifting a corner of the rice paper, Blake Sinclair took the celadon paperweight to hold it down, his fingertips absentmindedly stroking the paper.

He lowered his gaze, staring at the words on the paper, unable to snap out of it for a long while.

"Uncle?" Little Sinclair yawned, the Labubu toy in her hand almost slipping, and she rubbed her sleepy eyes.

"Uncle, you repeated it so many times."

Only then did Blake Sinclair come to his senses, realizing little Sinclair was so sleepy she was swaying side to side.

He immediately stooped to pick her up. Little Sinclair lay on his shoulder like a koala, mumbling something to herself.

Blake Sinclair brushed the hair out of her mouth and asked, "Where’s your mom?"

Little Sinclair yawned, her head nodding, "Mom... Mom went out..."

She sleepily mimicked the adults’ tone she often heard, "Mom went out with Auntie Irving... to have fun."

Blake Sinclair frowned.

He took out his phone and dialed the contact [Laurel Sinclair].

As the explosive DJ music ringtone looped for the second time, he hung up.

Looking at little Sinclair already asleep in his arms, Blake Sinclair sighed softly and left the study, heading towards her bedroom.

"Do not... take advantage of others in danger, do not take... advantage of others in danger... do not..."

Little Sinclair was fast asleep, still mumbling under her breath.

Blake Sinclair gently laid her on the bed, smoothing her stray hair and tucking her in before quietly leaving.

In the study.

The night wind once again lifted the rice paper on the desk.

Under the celadon paperweight, the rice paper filled with family precepts lifted at a corner, revealing the paper underneath.

The handwriting was aggressive and messy, different from the neatness of the copied precepts.

[For those who tarnish a precious gem, it is a different matter.]

The ink deeply soaked the paper, especially the last stroke, which almost tore through the sheet.

The night wind gently swept by.

The German irises in the courtyard swayed gently under the moonlight.

Carrying unspeakable thoughts.

Silently falling.