Chapter 98.2

Chapter 98.2

Miran stopped and glanced up at a banner hanging on the building’s wall. The bearded, round-faced man on it looked oddly familiar.

“Metropolitan Opera. Andrea Chénier. Tenor, Luciano Pavarotti? Pavarotti… I’ve definitely heard that name somewhere.”

She shrugged and turned away casually, only for her heart to plummet.

Had she imagined it? She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again.

André, and the woman who looked like Grace Kelly. The two of them were walking arm in arm toward Lincoln Center.

She wore a deep blue gown, her hair swept up loosely to frame the dazzling diamond necklace that glittered so brightly it hurt to look at. Tilting her head up at him, she said something, and André bent slightly to listen.

Watching them, Miran swayed. Her legs felt weighted with stone, heavy as lead, yet they gave her no strength. What kind of business required them to be dressed like that, attending the opera alone together?

No matter how many excuses she tried to invent to soothe herself, they didn’t look like business associates. They looked like lovers on a date.

“André…”

His name slipped from her lips before she realized it, a frail tremor of sound that couldn’t possibly have reached him. But at the entrance, he stopped dead.

André tilted his head, then slowly turned. His eyes swept the crowd, and then landed on hers.

“Hah…”

A gasp escaped Miran.

Those green eyes, always calm and arrogant, were visibly shaken. The blood drained from his face. The woman glanced back and tugged at his arm, urging him forward. André broke eye contact and turned away.

It felt as though her insides had dropped straight down. She couldn’t bear to watch any longer and bowed her head. At some point, her hands had clasped together, twisting so tightly it felt like she might tear her own fingers apart. When she loosened her grip, her palms were pale and trembling.

“What do I do…”

Her mind was a blank. She didn’t even know where to go.

Do I even have the right to go back to André’s house?

Just then, a pair of legs clad in a dark suit stopped in front of her.

“Why are you here.”

His voice was lower, heavier than usual.

Miran slowly lifted her head to meet him. Her whole body was trembling, and she forced strength into her arms and legs just to hold herself steady.

“…That’s what I should be asking you.”

Her voice wavered as she answered. André pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long sigh.

Just then, the woman who looked like Grace Kelly walked up, tugged André’s arm, and laced hers back through his.

[Are you out of your mind, André? Do you realize how many eyes are on us right now? You can’t even keep one woman in check and you want to turn this into a spectacle?]

Lorraine whispered in a quiet, cutting voice, her cold eyes lifted toward him beneath an artificial smile. Miran’s gaze lingered on Lorraine’s hand clinging to his arm. The emerald-cut diamond ring on her finger was so heavy it had slipped toward her pinky.

Noticing where Miran’s eyes had gone, André yanked Lorraine’s hand off roughly.

“This is business. I’ll explain. Just go home. I’ll be back as early as I can.”

“Business…”

Miran muttered under her breath, and Lorraine shot her a glare before clutching André’s arm again, pulling him along.

[André de Lafayette, are you trying to ruin everything now?]

She spoke through clenched teeth behind her smile, her voice venomous.

Miran shut her eyes, bowing her head.

“You’ll be late. Go.”

The woman urged him once more, and the sharp click of high heels faded with the heavy tread of his shoes. Miran remained standing there for a long time. She felt faint, as though she might collapse, but watching the two of them walk away, she knew she couldn’t afford to.

How much time passed, she didn’t know.

Someone brushed past, bumping her shoulder. Only then did she stumble back to herself, blinking as though she’d lost her sense of direction.

Strange words, strange places, strange people.

Her whole body wanted to sink to the ground. She longed for Juran unni’s arms, for friends she could cry to about what had just happened.

She missed Korean food she could eat without self-consciousness, and she was sick of being treated like a fool just because she didn’t speak the language.

Wiping the cold sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, Miran turned away without a glance toward Lincoln Center. Step by heavy step, she crossed the street and headed for André’s apartment.