Swapping Fates in the Marriage Game – Chapter 4
On the day I arrived, I enrolled in Julian’s art workshop, hoping to learn from him and grow closer to him.
Julian had been raised to be the heir until, at the age of eighteen, he rebelled to pursue art.
Gentle souls like him fall for two types: “bad girls” like Chloe, who, last life, dragged him to bars and late-night races, offering rebellious freedom that dulled his talent; or fragile, resilient types like me, reflecting his younger self.
Carrying my sketchbook, I entered the workshop. Julian, likely recognizing me from photos, looked surprised but nodded politely.
He asked us to draw freely and offered guidance. Most of the students flaunted their skills, but I, a novice, drew a bird escaping a cage, one wing shattered like glass.
Julian, behind me, asked softly,
“Why this, Ms. Clarke?”
“Trapped by circumstance,” I whispered.
That night, he came home. We sat across from each other.
He asked if I disliked our marriage.
I nodded. He paused, then said,
“If you’re unhappy, I can set you free.”
“Freedom’s not that easy, Mr. Grant. If it were, I wouldn’t be here.”
I smiled wryly.
“At least now, I can paint. You’re an amazing teacher.”
He seemed to reflect.
“I’m lucky,” I said, eyes hopeful.
“We can be friends.”
He touched my head gently.
“Things will get better. You can always do what you love.”
Over the next few days, he stopped leaving me alone. He came home every night for dinner and guided me as I sketched on the balcony.
He treated me like a child, mirroring his younger self.
This didn’t last. One night, he mentioned an overseas exhibit.
I recalled this trip—during which Julian would face a shooting that would cripple his leg.
“When exactly?” I asked.
“Three days.” There was enough time. I dialed a familiar number.
“Mr. Zane? Are you still taking bodyguard jobs?”
Zane Wheeler, who had been Damien’s highly paid ex-mercenary guard in my past life, was an elite professional.
On departure day, I saw Julian off at the airport. He patted my head.
“Do what you love, buy what you want, but stay safe.”
I nodded.
“Promise me: don’t go out at night abroad. It’s not like here. If you have to, take Zane with you.”
To Zane,
“My husband’s safety is on you. No mistakes.”
Zane agreed. Julian looked at me fondly—like a kid.
I stepped forward, tugged his collar, and kissed his forehead.
“For luck. Come back safe.”
I ran off, catching his flushed ears in my peripheral.
A month later, Julian called.
He’d faced a shooting on his return.
“Are you okay? Hurt?”