MERRY 40

Setting aside genetics, the one thing I definitely inherited from my mom is the ability to appraise value. I’m usually weak with numbers, but strangely, I’ve become someone who can recite prices without a hitch. This highly developed skill—enough to sear the cost of a passing outfit from a runway show into my brain—often leaves me feeling complicated when it triggers my inner snobbery.

“I won’t deny I grew up with every luxury in a wealthy home. But I was a child then. I only truly understood who I am and established my identity once I started living alone. It’s been years since I’ve lived in my own place on the money I’ve earned.”

“You seem to have completely forgotten whose money bought that apartment in Chelsea. Think carefully about whether your trust fund or my assets really have zero influence on the leisure and flexible mindset you enjoy.”

Correct words can sometimes drive a person into a pit. I decided to rescue my mood from the brink of that deep, treacherous hole.

“Charge everything from that shirt to the coat over there. This much is fine for a gift for your son, right?”

I called over a staff member and pointed to all the clothes lining one wall, prompting the manager to come running with a beaming face. Even a rough estimate suggested the total would be substantial.

“That’s my handiwork too—your brazenness.”

Mom gave a sharp nod of agreement. Jonas, who had been watching her from a few paces back, reacted instantly to that small movement.

While he gave the manager detailed instructions on sizes and gift wrapping, Mom and I stepped out of the store first. It was a preemptive move, born of the intuition that—knowing her stubbornness—the conversation might spiral into a full-blown argument.

Back in the car, I once again asserted my independence, while Mom flaunted her influence as the creator of the “work.”

“You gave birth to me, Mom, but that’s not the end of the story. Humans grow.”

“And who exactly guided that growth from start to finish? Me.”

“You helped with the growth. I did the actual growing. A parent’s role is to help a child until they become an adult. ‘If you’ve simply fulfilled your duty, do not become arrogant.’ Those are the words of Ms. Deborah Quinn herself.”

“I’ll say it again: I birthed you, and you lived in an environment I built, receiving the things I gave you.”

“So you’re saying you’re the protagonist of my life too? You can’t be the only protagonist. Everyone is the lead in their own life. Respect is necessary.”

Mom watched me as I repeated “respect” like a slogan and shrugged her shoulders.

“Are we done with the self-reflection?”

It was a cutting remark that exposed the irony of me prattling on about being a “protagonist” when I’d received so much from my wealthy mother. Among the traits she bestowed upon me was a magnificent sense of self-love.

I’m close with Jonas, her secretary, yet I’m always aware of his job; I’m not at all unfamiliar with the lavish treatment from store staff; and I indulge in luxuries using Mom’s wealth. Furthermore, I’m even theorizing about why my stalker hasn’t shown his face based entirely on my own ego. Was I too sexy yesterday?

I put a little effort into my neglected self-reflection and spoke.

“Let’s say it’s a work in progress. I come first, but I also respect everyone else.”

Above all, I should take pride in the humanity I show by trying to embrace even a stalker.

“I see. ‘He who has never known the shadows, beware of pride.’ It’s today’s proverb, so take it to heart.”

“Is that a quote from Ms. Deborah Quinn again?”

“Of course. I have to maintain my masterpiece periodically.”

“Are you going to talk about ‘masterpieces’ all day?”

The truce finally came when the driver and Jonas got into the car. Per Mom’s wish to skip lunch for weight management ahead of a dinner appointment, we moved to a nearby coffee shop. As we sat across from each other at a round table inside, Jonas and the bodyguards took over the adjacent table.

“It looks like the number of bodyguards has increased.”

“It’s a temporary measure. Haven’t you seen the news? Chairman Herald of Herald Corp received a death threat.”

“That man has always had a lot of enemies. You aren’t like that, Mom. If anything, this just makes you stand out more.”

A pack of hulking bodyguards moving together would naturally draw attention. I wondered if that was one of the reasons Ethan was staying out of sight. I craned my neck to look outside, wondering if his car was parked on the street, but I couldn’t find a trace of him.

He’s being careful because he doesn’t have the confidence to face me after how sexy I was yesterday, and then a swarm of bodyguards showed up. Yeah, that’s perfectly logical.

“What are you looking at? Is there a man standing out there with a gun?”

At Mom’s joke, I let out a “ha-ha” that clearly sounded fake.

“If there were such a man, I’d move in a flash to save you.”

“I hire bodyguards so that you won’t have to step in.”

“You lack a sense of humor, Mom. It’s at a disastrous level, right alongside your taste in art.”

This time, Mom let out a fake “ha-ha” and fired back.

“Dismissing my artistic sensibility is practically self-harm. You’re putting down the very person who created you. Don’t piss against the wind, dear.”

We both felt insulted, and another war of words was about to break out. That is, until Jonas changed the atmosphere by offering me some cake. His gentle eyes contained a plea to just let this pass peacefully.

I reluctantly changed the subject.

“It looks delicious.”

The cake, sweet enough to numb the taste buds, was all mine. Mom just enjoyed it with her eyes while sipping her coffee.

“Are you really not going to have any?”

“Do you know how much sugar is in that one slice? It’s not good for your health.”

“So the secret to the amazing taste was harmfulness.”

Undeterred by her criticism, I used my fork to scoop up the chocolate cream. Watching me mischievously wiggle my eyebrows, Mom gave a slight shake of her head.

“When will you ever mature?”

“I’m so mature it’s actually a problem.”

“I’m talking about emotional maturity. Not excessive maturity in specific… areas.”

Translating Mom’s elegant phrasing into plain English: she wasn’t going to acknowledge my promiscuity. That felt like a distant story for the “me” who had recently become the poster boy for celibacy.

“It feels like ages ago when you were so naive it was a problem.”

“It’s a bit late to act like you were worried.”

“Especially the way you used to freeze up whenever you went to socialite parties.”

“I just hated those settings; I never froze up.”

I simply kept my distance from the people showing interest in me. I was uncomfortable with the blatant longing in their eyes—the naked desire aimed at my wealth or reputation. On the other hand, I was naive. Right up until I met Ethan Reed.

The fact that sex with Ethan was my first time—that I was a virgin until I met him—was partly because I’d missed a few opportunities by telling myself not to just follow my instincts. Furthermore, my experience of being dragged into high society by Mom’s nagging had made me sick of the whole “finding a partner” game.

In other words, it wasn’t because I cherished my “first time,” or wanted to do it with a fated partner, or because I was being particularly cautious.

I was very happy at the time that my first partner was Ethan Reed, but looking back, it was just a matter of sequence.

Because he touched my clumsy self so gently; because he coaxed me when I’d lunged at him, hating to act weak; because he handled my stubborn, foolish, and lewd self with care—it became a satisfying experience. Because of a man like him being my first, I grew to like sex… but now, it’s just a piece of the stale past.

That past tries to haunt me, but I’ve decided to believe it’s no big deal. Even the things I chewed over after finishing my business yesterday were just passing scenes. I have to think that way. That’s how I can protect myself. That’s how I’ll get hurt less.

I look like a playboy and I’m often misunderstood, but I had a naive side, and I was the version of myself that dove headfirst into fluttering emotions without fear. I have to protect myself so that “me” doesn’t get hurt.

I finished the cake, wrapping up the thoughts that had led to that firm resolve. My tongue really did feel numb; I didn’t feel much of anything. Seeing me suddenly wolfing down the cake, Mom put on a stern face, like she was scolding a naughty child.

“Do you normally consume food like that? Where are your manners? You’re like a total barbarian.”

“I don’t think barbarians use forks.”