Chapter 12

Tristan was lost in his thoughts when a cold, mocking voice snapped him back. "And who told you that?"

He hesitated before answering, "Brother, Olivia told me. You don't know this, but she has suffered a lot because of Melisa."

Tristan stole a glance at Leonard's expression before quickly continuing, "Remember when Melisa won that art competition in college? That painting wasn't even hers! Olivia worked on it for a whole month, and Melisa just took it from her."

Tristan had expected his brother's approval, but instead, he was met with a cold response. "Oh? And she told you this? Then why didn't she tell anyone else—her parents, her teachers? Strange, isn't it?"

Tristan stiffened. He knew exactly what his brother was implying, but he had never thought to question Olivia. He had always believed her without a doubt. "She… she must have loved her sister too much to go against her," he muttered, though even to his own ears, the excuse sounded weak.

"Huh. She loved her sister too much to go against her, yet she had no problem telling you this?" Leonard's voice was laced with cold mockery.

He knew his younger brother was naive, but he hadn't expected his foolishness to run this deep. If Olivia could fool even a playboy like Tristan—someone experienced in changing girlfriends frequently—then she was far from simple.

"Brother, she wouldn't have told me, but this time Melisa went too far! Olivia was broke down crying at that time her guard were also low so she told me , and after calming down ,she even begged me not to say anything to anyone else," Tristan said, his frustration seeping into his voice. His tone grew louder, unable to tolerate his brother's indifference.

"Brother, you barely know Melisa, but I know Olivia. She's sweet and kind! Don't fall for Melisa's trap—she's a vicious—"

"Enough."

Leonard's sharp voice cut through the air like a blade.

"If this is all you came to say, then leave. Don't waste my time."

Tristan clenched his fists, unwilling to back down. But seeing the finality in his brother's expression, he turned toward the door, throwing one last remark before stepping out.

"Brother, if you don't divorce her now, she'll cling to you like a leech."

The door clicked shut behind him.

Leonard leaned back in his chair, exhaling a weary breath.

If only she wanted to leech off me… he thought bitterly. But she can't wait to be free.

A faint, self-mocking smile tugged at his lips.

After calming his emotions, Leonard headed to his room.

He found Melisa preparing to sleep, her movements unhurried and composed.

"Do you know what Tris said to me?" he asked, watching her closely.

Melisa turned toward him, her expression calm. "I have a general idea."

There was no anxiety in her voice, no eagerness to explain—just quiet indifference, like a still lake untouched by the wind.

Leonard didn't give up. "Do you want to know? I can tell you."

"No need." She lay down and closed her eyes as if the conversation held no importance to her.

Leonard stood there for a moment, not expecting her to be this calm. Her indifference frustrated him.

"Don't you want to defend yourself? I can listen," he asked.

Melisa didn't open her eyes. "What's the point? You'll believe what you want to believe." She had long stopped trying to explain herself when people weren't willing to hear her. It was just too tiring. As long as she had no expectations, she wouldn't be disappointed or hurt.

His jaw tightened. "And what if I don't believe him?"

Silence.

Leonard's expression darkened. The silence was his answer. It didn't matter to her.

Melisa slept soundly, unaware of Leonard's internal struggle as he lay on the sofa, as usual. This time, no nightmares haunted her, allowing her to enjoy a peaceful sleep.

Seeing Melisa's chest rise and fall, indicating she was sleeping well, Leonard felt conflicted.

He didn't know why he cared so much. He had already decided to give up on his love for her years ago. But why did it hurt him? Why did it anger him that the woman Tristan accused didn't even care to defend herself?

If she had said even a few words in her defense—if she had shown even the slightest hint of hurt, hesitation, or worry—he would have reassured her. He would have told her that he believed her, that she didn't need to prove anything.

But she didn't.

She never cared about what he thought.

A bitter chuckle escaped his lips, quiet and hollow. He had spent years convincing himself that he had moved on, that he had become composed and strong, unaffected by her presence. Yet, in front of her indifference, he always found himself unraveling.

How pathetic.

Even after all this time, even after he had tried to bury his feelings, a single look from her was enough to make him vulnerable again.