Chapter 119
Terry and Sarah both showed clear surprise on their faces when they saw Atticus appear.
Only George had no reaction, as if he had known all along that Atticus would be here.
Atticus nodded at him in greeting, and George nodded back.
Sarah smiled and said, "Atticus, long time no see."
Terry walked up and patted Atticus on the shoulder familiarly, "When did you get back? Why didn't you tell us? We could have thrown you a welcome party."
Atticus still had that gentle, refined look from memory. He smiled slightly, "I just got back a few days ago. This time I'm mainly here to bring some of my grandfather's collection pieces for this cultural heritage exhibition. The schedule's been tight, and I haven't had a chance to contact you guys yet."
His gaze naturally swept past Terry and landed on Sarah and George behind him, nodding slightly at them.
Terry pointed at the dress, his tone full of disbelief, "Wait, your grandfather's exhibit wouldn't happen to be this dress, would it?"
"Yes." Atticus nodded openly, his tone proud. "This was designed and completed years ago by my grandfather and a close friend of his, a cultural heritage master, Mr. Murphy. My grandfather provided the top-quality fabric from his collection, and Mr. Murphy was responsible for the design and handcrafting."
As he spoke, his gaze turned to me, who had been silent the whole time, his tone becoming even more gentle and polite, "Ms. Garcia just specifically mentioned to me that Ms. Brown really loves this dress and wants to buy it. I just called my grandfather to ask, and he said that objects have spirits, and what matters most is fate. If we meet someone who truly understands it, price comes second."
My heart trembled slightly. I opened my mouth, about to speak.
"George." Sarah's soft voice instantly interrupted my thoughts. "Did you hear that? What a coincidence—this dress was actually made by Atticus's grandfather. Mr. Mason Morgan has always had the best eye and taste, so doesn't a dress he helped create naturally belong to me?"
George glanced down at her, his stern profile seeming to soften slightly at her words.
He looked at Atticus, his tone as flat as usual, "Atticus, ask your grandfather what price he has in mind for this dress. I'll transfer the money directly."
This statement was like a huge stone thrown into a seemingly calm lake.
A clear look of shock flashed in Atticus's eyes. His gaze involuntarily turned to me, his tone puzzled, "George, are you sure you're buying the dress for Sarah?"
I understood his surprise perfectly.
Atticus knew George and I were married, so at this moment, witnessing George not giving an obviously special collectible to his own wife, but instead spending lavishly on another woman in front of everyone—his surprise was completely normal.
Hearing Atticus's question, George glanced at me sideways. That look held no warmth, no inquiry.
Then he withdrew his gaze, his voice as indifferent as always, "Sarah likes it."
This casual sentence was like a sharp blade piercing the deepest part of my heart, then twisting viciously.
Even though he was utterly indifferent to me, given Mr. Murphy's connection to me, combined with my obvious reaction when I saw the dress earlier, with his intelligence, he couldn't possibly not guess that this dress had countless connections to me.
He clearly knew this was likely my grandfather's last work, something I treasured beyond measure, yet he still so casually used it to please Sarah.
Just a second ago, I was thinking that no matter how high this dress was priced, no matter what it would cost, even if I had to argue with George in public, even if I had to use all the funds I could currently gather, even if I had to beg William for help—I would definitely keep it.
It wasn't just a dress. It was the crystallization of my grandfather's craftsmanship.
But with one word, George easily grabbed me by the throat.
In the world he built with money, power, and absolute dominance, what I treasured was as worthless as weeds.
He didn't even need to use much effort—just one sentence could declare me out.
Atticus frowned even more tightly, as if he still wanted to argue, "George, this dress is a masterpiece created by two masters after all, and for Ms. Brown especially, it might have more special meaning..."
"Atticus." George interrupted him, his voice suddenly dropping a degree. "I said Sarah likes it. Price isn't an issue. You just need to tell me your grandfather's asking price."
Terry, standing nearby, laughed mockingly, "Come on, Atticus, George has spoken. What are you going on about? Just call your grandfather and ask for the price!"
"You just got back, so you don't know—Sarah is the one George cares about now. As for that housewife with no decent diploma who just hangs around the kitchen, she should have known her place long ago, stop being an eyesore, and stop coveting things that don't belong to her."
The word "housewife" was thrown at me like dirty water.
My face turned pale, my fingertips numb with cold.
Milly sensed the change in my emotions and called out worriedly, "Mommy?"
I came back to myself and smiled weakly at her, "Mommy's fine."
I took a deep breath and looked at Atticus, "Atticus, that dress is my grandfather's last work. You understand what the word 'last work' means to me."
I hoped he could stand on fair ground and understand the weight of this obsession of mine.
Hearing my words, George finally looked at me again.
However, there was no realization in his eyes, no apology, not even a trace of emotion—only a bottomless coldness.
As if my mention of my grandfather, my mention of his last work, was just me seeking sympathy.
Atticus nodded, "I understand. When my grandfather sent it for exhibition, he repeatedly instructed me to find someone who truly appreciates it."
Hearing this, thinking there was hope, my throat felt sour.
Sarah looked at me and smiled, "Ms. Brown, actually there are many other nice exhibits in this hall, different styles, all very beautiful."
"You can go look around more carefully. You really don't need to be so fixated on this one piece and compete with me, right?"
Terry chimed in, "Sarah, why are you even talking to her about this? Can she compete with you? She should know her place."
"She has a poor education and only knows how to do housework and take care of kids. What right does she have to wear this dress? Even if she did wear it, could she carry it off?"
As soon as Terry's mocking words fell, people around us looked over.
Atticus looked at me, wanting to say something but stopping himself, finally only able to let out a sigh.
I stood there, my body stiff, my blood seeming to freeze.
I thought Atticus was planning to give the dress to George. I instinctively looked at George and called out urgently, "George, are you really going to push me into a corner?"