Chapter 657 Stranger
Emma curled up at the head of her bed, dimming her phone's brightness to the lowest setting. She stared at the message, her fingers hovering over the virtual keyboard. Her love life was already a mess, and she had no energy left to comfort a stranger. Just as she was about to politely decline, another message popped up: [Judging by your profile picture, you don't seem happy either?]
This sentence was like a rusty key, suddenly unlocking the door to Emma's long-closed heart.
In this gilded cage, monitored by Michael 24/7, she hadn't had anyone to confide in for a long time. The faint light from her phone illuminated her pale face, revealing the glimmer of tears at the corners of her eyes.
"Yeah, I'm really stressed," she finally replied, a simple sentence filled with unspoken bitterness.
The stranger didn't press for details, which made Emma breathe a sigh of relief. The chat box showed "typing..." for a long time, but the message that finally came through was just a simple suggestion: [Find something to do. If you keep busy, you won't have time to be sad.]
This straightforward advice was like a ray of sunshine, suddenly piercing through Emma's dark and oppressive life. She stared at the ceiling, suddenly remembering the design sketches buried deep in her drawer. Once, when she held a pencil and sketched jewelry designs, that focus and immersion were among the few moments she felt free in this twisted relationship.
Her phone buzzed again: [If you can't sleep, try drawing or journaling.]
Emma didn't reply, but the message planted a seed in her heart. She got out of bed, tiptoed to her vanity, and pulled out her long-forgotten design notebook from the bottom drawer. The pages were slightly yellowed, but the smooth lines were still clearly visible.
The next morning at breakfast, Michael sat at the end of the long table reading the newspaper, as usual. Emma sipped her warm milk and suddenly spoke up, "I want to get back into jewelry design."
The porcelain cup clinked against the saucer. Michael set down his coffee cup, "Back to ML?" His voice was calm, but each word carried an undeniable pressure.
Emma's fingertips unconsciously traced the rim of her cup, her gaze fixed on the table's pattern. "No, ML isn't mine anymore. I want to develop somewhere else." She paused, her voice softer, "I need a change of scenery."
She didn't want to know how her former colleagues would view her now, having achieved nothing.
The dining room was so quiet you could hear the ticking of the clock. Michael's long fingers tapped the table slowly and rhythmically, as if he were thinking, or perhaps warning.
"Fine." Michael suddenly spoke, a meaningful smile tugging at his lips, "The Russell Group's design department happens to need a director."
Emma looked up sharply, a flicker of surprise in her eyes.
She hadn't expected him to agree so readily, but she quickly understood the intention behind this arrangement—it was to keep her under close watch. But she didn't care. At least it would allow her to temporarily escape this cold mansion.
Michael moved quickly.
That very day, Emma stood in front of the Russell Group's headquarters, dressed in a long-forgotten professional suit.
The navy blazer accentuated her slender waist, and her pearl earrings glowed softly in the sunlight. The design department employees were curious about the new director, whispering among themselves, but no one dared to ask too many questions.
"Ms. Stuart, this is your office," the HR manager said respectfully, "Let me know if you need anything."
On her first day, Emma received an important order. When she opened the client file, her platinum design pen slipped from her hand and clattered onto the marble floor, sounding particularly loud in the quiet office.
"Are you okay, Ms. Stuart?" Her assistant bent down to pick up the pen, concerned, "You look pale."
Emma took the pen, forcing a smile, "I'm fine, just lost my grip." But her lowered eyelashes trembled slightly, and her fingertips shook uncontrollably.
In the design room, Emma stared at the blank paper. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a bright spot on the white sheet.
She had to design a wedding ring for the man she loved most, but the bride wasn't her. This was perhaps the cruelest joke fate had played on her.
At 11:45 PM, Emma leaned against her bed's headboard, the blue light from her phone screen reflecting on her tired face. The stranger messaged again: [How was your day?]
Emma looked at the message, suddenly feeling the urge to confide. In a world where she couldn't trust anyone, this stranger had become the only person she could be honest with.
"I took on a really tough design project," she typed slowly, carefully considering each word.
"Tell me about it?" The reply came quickly, as if the stranger had been waiting for her.
Emma bit her lower lip, "I have to design a wedding ring for someone very important." She edited and re-edited, finally sending this ambiguous message.
Within seconds, the reply came: [Then you need to design it with care. Put everything you want to say into the design. Jewelry speaks, especially wedding rings.]
This message struck Emma like lightning. She set down her phone and picked up her design pen again, sketching on the paper.
Every line, every detail, was infused with her unspoken feelings. The curve of the ring had to resemble his smile, the cut of the main stone had to reflect the sparkle in his eyes when he looked at her, and even the smallest decorative patterns had to mimic the shell veins they once counted together.
In the Russell Group's top-floor conference room, sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a bright spot on the polished conference table.
Emma carefully laid out the design sketches, her fingertips trembling slightly. She had drawn all night, her hand still cramping.
"Mr. Russell is here," her assistant whispered.
The conference room door opened, and George walked in with steady steps. He wore a well-tailored dark gray suit today, making his figure even more imposing. Emma forced herself to look away but still noticed the faint dark circles under his eyes—he hadn't been sleeping well either.
"Mr. Russell," she stood up, her voice calm and steady, though her fists clenched under the table, "This is the preliminary design."
George's gaze lingered on her face for a moment, as if trying to see through her facade. Emma felt her heart race, sweat forming on her back. He finally looked away, focusing on the sketches, "The main stone is too large."
Emma took a deep breath, steadying herself. "I can adjust that," she replied, her voice unwavering. "I wanted it to be a statement piece, but I can make it more subtle."
George nodded, his eyes still on the sketches. "It's a good start. Just make sure it doesn't overshadow the bride."
Emma's heart ached at his words, but she kept her composure. "Of course, Mr. Russell. I'll make the changes."
As George left the room, Emma sat back down, her hands trembling. She picked up her pen and began to make the adjustments, pouring all her emotions into the design. This ring would be her final gift to him, a silent testament to her love.
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