Chapter Four: Survival Is More Important Than Reputation

August in the south—the morning sun already blazes fiercely.

Even walking alone is unbearable in such heat, let alone carrying a chubby baby in her arms.

“I’m exhausted.”

Wiping the sweat from her brow, Lillian paused on a sloping stretch of road to catch her breath.

“Mama, mama—”

The plump little boy clung to her neck, puckering his lips and planting a kiss on her cheek.

The unexpected kiss from her little one stunned Lillian for a moment.

“Mama, mama.” Again, in his sweet, childish voice, the baby called out, his big, clear eyes glimmering with innocence as if to comfort her, as if to lend her strength.

A wave of warmth flooded Lillian’s heart. She returned his affection with two kisses on his soft, round face.

Loved by his mother, K.K. burst into delighted giggles, flailing his arms and legs.

“K.K., my good boy.”

No money, no home, a job soon to be lost—yet at least Lillian still had a son who loved her unconditionally.

She hugged the baby close, her steps infused with renewed energy.

By the time the sun was sinking, Lillian had spent the last coin from her purse, still unable to find a suitable place to stay.

Back home with K.K. in her arms, she heated a bag of milk and mixed it with rice cereal. After feeding the baby, she paced the cramped room in worry.

Even the most resourceful cook cannot make a meal without rice.

She thought of setting up a street stall to sell grain or fruit, but feared that the baby would suffer heatstroke in the sun.

The phone rang again. She covered her ears, unwilling to listen.

No doubt it was her mother, calling from the doctor’s office, wanting her to come to the hospital for a chat. All the other patients in her mother’s ward had family by their side; only her mother was left alone, brooding over her pride.

Even now, her mother cared more for appearances than her daughter’s survival.

With her family unreliable, Lillian could only rely on herself.

She could not understand how a mother could be so heartless.

At that moment, it was as if a floodgate had opened in her mind. Memories surged forth, as if drifting smoke. Scenes from Lillian’s twenty-five years of life flickered before her like a film. She was stunned, indignant, then gradually calm.

Looking down at K.K.’s peaceful, sleeping face, her hesitation vanished.

Rather than have her child facing homelessness tomorrow, what did it matter if she was called a widow?

Her conscience was clear; as long as she and Charles were blameless, she need not fear gossip. Even if people talked, she had nothing to lose.

She found the phone number Charles had left her last night. Without further hesitation, she picked up the phone and dialed.

A coquettish, charming voice answered.

Thinking she had misdialed, Lillian hung up and redialed. The same woman’s voice greeted her. This time, before Lillian could say she had the wrong number, the woman said, “You’re looking for Charles, aren’t you? He’s in the shower. I’ll have him call you back in a bit, all right?”

She giggled, “Lots of women have been calling Charles lately—I’m getting jealous. But don’t worry, I won’t erase your call from his phone.”

The woman’s tone was flippant, making it clear she didn’t take Lillian seriously. Lillian was taken aback, but quickly composed herself.

“It doesn’t matter if you erase my call. I can always ring him again.”

“Oh? That’s true! If I just unplug the phone, no one can bother us. But I’m afraid Charles would be furious—he could eat me alive, haha…”

The woman’s laughter was brazen, utterly dismissive of Lillian.

Back in Harbor City, wherever Lillian appeared, people vied to please her.

No one had ever dared treat her like this.

But one must be pragmatic—able to bend as well as stand tall.

No matter what the woman’s relationship with Charles was, it wasn’t worth dwelling on. She didn’t want to be mistaken for a jealous rival. She only wanted a place to stay for a while.

As Charles had said, his house was large; she needed just a small room for herself and the baby. When she had regained her footing, she would buy a home even better than his.

She wasn’t sure if the woman had unplugged the phone or not; Charles never called back, and she didn’t try again.

After yet another barrage of scolding calls from her parents, she finally unplugged her own phone.

The doorbell rang.

It was Lillian’s colleague, Mrs. Liao.

“Lillian, the factory’s posting the layoff list tomorrow. I heard we’re both on it. You’re young—you can still find work as a waitress or salesgirl. But what about me?

I’ve worked at the garment factory for fifteen years. All I know is sewing. My son’s still little, my husband’s salary is low, and at my age it’s so hard to find work. I really don’t know what to do…”

Her colleague had come to pour out her troubles.

Lillian could only laugh bitterly—her own situation was even worse! She had no energy to comfort someone seeking sympathy.

Just as she was thinking how to politely send her colleague away, the doorbell rang again. It was Charles.

“Oh, you have company. I won’t intrude, then.”

Mrs. Liao’s gaze was as sharp as a shuttle weaving cloth, sweeping Charles from head to toe before she left, her expression full of meaning.

“Come on, I’ll help you move.”

“There isn’t much to take.”

Charles’s arrival was like the Monkey King summoning reinforcements—he resolved Lillian’s crisis in an instant.

“I’ll help you deal with the furniture and appliances… No need to bring your bedding; I’ve got new ones at my place.”

Charles glanced around the room, his tone authoritative.

In truth, Lillian hadn’t intended to bring any of the old appliances or furniture. To her, those were all things to be discarded, without the slightest value.

The BMW stopped in front of the villa. Charles got out to open the gate, then drove the car into the courtyard and parked by the building entrance.

He took two large bundles, tied up in bedsheets, from the trunk, entered first to put them down inside, flipped on the lights, and turned to take the chubby baby from Lillian’s arms.

“The room is ready. I’ll take you upstairs. Leave your things here—I’ll bring them up in a moment.”

At last able to bring Lillian home, Charles was visibly elated. Carrying K.K. upstairs, his steps were light. He glanced back often to make sure Lillian didn’t stumble, worried her weakness might cause her to miss a step.

When Charles placed K.K. on the bed, he was as careful as if setting down a priceless porcelain vase, fearful of waking the child.

K.K. smacked his lips, his long lashes fluttered twice, then he tucked his chubby legs beneath him, flung his little arms overhead in surrender, and fell into a deep sleep.

Charles looked at K.K., ran a hand over the stubble from his temples to his chin, and flashed a silent, toothy grin.

In that moment, Lillian suddenly realized Charles’s features were almost identical to K.K.’s, as if cast from the same mold.

Could it be…?

Her heart gave a jolt.

But in Lillian’s memories, there had never been any intimacy between her and Charles. He was just the older boy next door, and after she turned fourteen, they’d hardly spoken.

“I’ll go bring up your things. If there’s anything you don’t like about the room, let me know—I’ll fix it tomorrow.”

With that, Charles headed downstairs.

Lillian tried not to dwell on the mysterious woman who had answered Charles’s phone, but her mind kept circling back, analyzing and observing.

Charles didn’t look as though he’d just showered; when he brought up her bags, his shirt was damp with sweat, carrying a faint trace of exertion.

Clearly, the woman had lied.