Part 3You Confessed to the Courier

While Carrie was swept up in the high-society romance Chase orchestrated, my acceptance letter from an overseas university arrived in my inbox.

My prospective research advisor sent a follow-up email mentioning that one of his senior graduate students was currently back in town visiting family for the summer. He shared the student's contact information and suggested I reach out to collect the preparatory reading syllabus and lab notes before the semester began.

When I added him online, I was surprised by how young he appeared.

His profile picture was a candid street shot: sunlight filtering through sycamore trees, holding a paper cup of coffee, a tall, lean silhouette dressed in simple clothes, looking effortlessly poised.

On the afternoon we agreed to meet, I walked down to the gated entrance of my residential complex just as a low, throaty engine rumble echoed down the tree-lined street.

A sleek silver sports car pulled up against the curb.

The passenger door swung open, and Carrie stepped out onto the pavement.

Her cheeks were dusted with a soft blush, her eyes bright with romantic warmth.

Catching sight of me, her expression lit up. "June! Where are you off to?"

"Just grabbing coffee with an academic contact."

I looked past her, and my gaze inevitably collided with the driver behind the wheel.

Chase wore a tailored, casual button-down. His posture was impeccable, jawline sharp, radiating that familiar, icy aristocratic aura that had always set him apart.

His dark eyes were bottomless pits. When his gaze dragged across my face, there was not a single flicker of warmth.

Only a dead, suffocating chill.

In that single, fractured second, I knew: Chase had remembered, too. He had regressed just like me.

I lowered my eyes, neatly severing the contact.

Carrie noticed nothing. She turned back toward the driver's window, smiling. "Chase, this is June, my absolute best friend in the world."

Chase finally pulled his eyes away from me, landing on Carrie. His tone shifted into an impeccably measured, polite cadence. "Right. I know."

The detachment beneath the words was razor-sharp.

Carrie seemed slightly embarrassed by how indifferent he sounded and gave me an apologetic glance before heading toward her apartment building.

The moment Carrie disappeared past the lobby doors, the polite curve of Chase’s mouth vanished completely.

He didn't pull away. Instead, he stepped out of the low car, closing the door with a muted thud, and walked slowly toward me.

Three paces away, he stopped, looking down at me from his height.

His stare had physical weight, cold and suffocating, pressing down against my skull.

"Learned your lesson this time, June?"

His voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried an edge of dormant violence, soaked in frost.

I dug my nails into the meat of my palm. The sharp bite of pain anchored me, allowing me to maintain an unbroken mask of quiet indifference. I said nothing.

"You know how to hide now? You know how to keep your mouth shut?"

He let out a low, humorless chuckle that carried no warmth whatsoever.

I lifted my chin, meeting his eyes head-on.

The rancor and disgust burning behind his pupils were so thick they threatened to spill over—identical to the look he had given me every single time he tore my life apart in the past.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I replied, my voice steady, even tinged with a mild, polite confusion. "I have somewhere to be. Excuse me."

Chase watched me closely, dissecting my expression to measure how much of my innocence was real and how much was calculated.

After a long beat, he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping so low it was meant for my ears alone:

"It’s better if you don't understand. Remember who you are this time: Carrie’s friend. Nothing more."

"Stay clear of her. She’s pure, and she values your friendship, but I don't tolerate snakes in my garden."

"If I ever catch you playing games around her again, or whispering a single word you shouldn't..." He paused, his tone sickeningly soft, each syllable designed to draw blood. "I wouldn't mind giving you a second taste of everything you earned in our past life."

He straightened up, his aristocratic poise instantly restored.

It was as though the venomous threat had never taken place.

Without another glance, he turned, climbed back into the low cabin of the sports car, and gunned the engine. The machine roared down the avenue and vanished around the bend.

I stood on the sidewalk, the dull throb in my palm finally pulling me back to reality. My hands and feet were entirely numb.

Slowly, I uncurled my fist. Four deep, white crescents were etched into the skin.