Stella's POV
Sam shrugged, her face darkening. "Who knows? Maybe Ava dumped him, maybe he's bored, or maybe he just loves tormenting his ex."
I patted her shoulder, comforting her. "Whatever the reason, if you don't want to see him, then don't."
Sam's phone buzzed with a text message. She glanced at it and rolled her eyes. "Victor. Again. This is the fifth one today."
"He's quite persistent," I remarked.
"He never gives up," Sam corrected, a pained expression on her face. "Like a wall that won't move, always following you."
I checked the time. "Hungry for dinner? There's a noodle shop near the South Gate, open late."
Sam perked up. "Oh, yes! I'm starving, if I don't go out now, I'll go crazy."
Twenty minutes later, we sat at a bustling noodle shop table, steaming bowls of noodles in front of us. The spicy aroma and relaxed atmosphere allowed us to momentarily escape the pressures of the day.
"By the way," Sam said between bites, "how do we prevent Adam from barging in again? He found the library today, what about the apartment?"
I twirled my noodles in thought. "I informed the building management, under no circumstances should he be allowed into the building."
"Smart!" Sam's eyes lit up. "Truly a strategic mastermind."
I gave a faint smile. "Not really, just practical."
"Speaking of Adam," Sam lowered her voice, looking mysterious, "did you check social media today? There's something strange about the rumors with Grace."
I shook my head. "I didn't check, and I don't care."
"I did," Sam continued, "starting this afternoon, those rumors started disappearing in large numbers. Official accounts kept posting, only to be shut down. Ordinary people discussing it, posts deleted within minutes."
I stabbed a piece of beef forcefully. "He's deleting posts. So what? It changes nothing."
"But doesn't that indicate something?" Sam pressed, "He cares about how others perceive you two."
I set down my chopsticks, losing my appetite. "He let the rumors run wild before. Deleting them now or not won't make a difference. Who would believe without evidence? Industry insiders?"
"Probably not," Sam reluctantly admitted.
"Furthermore," I sighed, "Adam despises privacy breaches. Deleting posts doesn't necessarily mean denial, it could just be avoiding public exposure."
As we settled the bill, the exhaustion of the day weighed down on me once again. The brief relaxation of dinner faded, leaving behind the hollow ache in my chest that had lingered since leaving Adam at the library.
On the way back to the apartment, my phone vibrated. My heart skipped a beat, thinking it was Adam, only to find it was a reminder for tomorrow's faculty meeting.
I couldn't tell if I felt relieved or disappointed.
\---
Adam's POV
I stood in line at the campus convenience store, dressed sharply, completely out of place among the casual students. The line moved painfully slow, with each person in front engaging in endless chatter with the cashier.
"Unbelievable," Taylor muttered beside me, checking his watch for the umpteenth time, "a CEO worth thousands per minute, waiting twenty minutes to buy a six-dollar soda."
I ignored him, eyes fixed on the fridge, where Stella's favorite sparkling lemon water was. She had mentioned casually a few months ago:
"If someone apologizes, they should bring me my favorite drink, then I'll know they're serious."
She had said it in jest, but I felt there was truth in those words. So here I was, the CEO of GT Group, standing in line like an ordinary person, just to buy a bottle of lemon water.
It had to be me. Not Taylor, not an assistant. Me.
No one taught me how to apologize properly, but I had to learn. For her.
Finally at the counter, I paid and turned to leave, when a young woman stopped me.
"Hey," her voice slightly sharp, "can I have your contact information? I promise not to bother you randomly!"
I looked at her, momentarily taken aback by her directness. "I'm married," I replied shortly, "I don't stray."
Disappointment flickered across her face as I walked away, drink in hand, with Taylor following behind.
In that moment, I suddenly understood a bit of what Stella wanted—perhaps more than just what was in the marriage contract. But the thought slipped away, and I still didn't know what to do.
All I knew was that I wouldn't give up. I had to reconcile with Stella, bring her back home, where she belonged, where we belonged together.
I want Stella—I want her smile, her stubbornness, her wit, her unexpected vulnerability. I want it all.
I just want her.
The evening wind blew across my face as I carefully balanced the paper tray with two sodas. I chose soda instead of coffee, wanting her to know I remembered she preferred cold drinks in the evening.
My phone kept vibrating in my pocket, but I ignored it completely. Company crises and whatever else could wait. Three days now, Stella wouldn't answer my calls or respond to messages. Three days since she dropped those words by the lake: "I want a divorce."
Remembering her face—cold, determined, hurt—anxiety washed over me again. This fight was different from our previous arguments, something had fundamentally changed.
As I approached the entrance, the security guard stared at me, his eyes full of suspicion. He wasn't young, wrinkles etched into his face, but his uniform was perfectly pressed.
"Can I help you, sir?" he asked, his tone professional yet cautious, blocking the door.
"I'm here to see Professor Winston," I replied calmly, adjusting the drinks in my hand.
His expression darkened. "Looking for Stella Winston, Professor Winston?"
I nodded, reaching for my wallet to show identification.
"Name and purpose?" he asked, pulling out a visitor log.
"Adam Lancaster. I'm her—"
"Wait," he interrupted, narrowing his eyes as he examined me. "It's you!" His professional demeanor vanished, replaced with hostility. "You should leave. Now."
I was confused. "What do you mean?"
"Professor Winston is a female scholar," he stated firmly, as if explaining something obvious. "Men aren't allowed in the residence without proper authorization."
"I understand security protocols," I replied calmly, "but I need to speak with Stella—Professor Winston."
He crossed his arms, his posture more confrontational. "Oh, I know your type. Wearing fancy suits looking proper, but I know what you're really after."
What the hell is going on?
"Sir," I tried again, keeping my temper in check, "there must be some misunderstanding."
"No misunderstanding," he countered. "You Wall Street types with money, think it solves everything? Think you can harass our professors whenever you want?"
I was speechless. This was ridiculous.
"I'm married," I finally said, as if that would clarify everything.
His expression changed from hostile to disgusted. "You're married and still harassing Professor Winston? Get out! You piece of trash!"
This conversation felt surreal. "Stella Winston is my wife," I said, emphasizing each word.
He actually laughed—harsh and dismissive. "Kid, do you have some kind of delusion? She's young and accomplished, you think she'd marry someone like you?" He shook his head. "Leave, or I'm calling campus security."
I stared at him, trying to process this bizarre interaction. Then it hit me—Stella had told him to stop me.
The realization felt like a punch to the chest. She had deliberately created this barrier to keep me away.
I pulled out my phone and dialed Stella's number while maintaining eye contact with the guard. Again, straight to voicemail.