Chapter 217
"Tell me about it." Terry curled his lip in disdain, "Women can be so vicious. George said that in the divorce, she only wants Milly, not Jack."
"To be able to say she doesn't want her own biological son—this woman's heart must be cold as ice."
Atticus let out a low, cold laugh, his tone detached, "When a woman becomes heartless, not even ten oxen could pul her back. Poor George, running into someone like that, and he still gave her the house and the car. How generous of him."
The words sounded like sympathy for George, but if you listened closely, there was something else lurking beneath them.
Terry nodded vigorously in agreement, "Exactly! If you ask me, George is just too sentimental. No, too stupid! Why give her so much? Just give her whatever and be done with it."
Atticus didn't continue the topic. He slowly finished the cigarette in his hand, stubbed it out in the ashtray on the windowsill, and then, as if mentioning it casually, said, "Terry, don't you find it strange that Grace agreed to the divorce so quickly? She only wanted the daughter, and took the house and car almost as afterthoughts. Maybe she’s been wanting to divorce George for a long time."
Terry was puffing away when he heard this and clearly froze for a moment.
Then, as if he had just heard the biggest joke in the world, he burst into laughter. His harsh voice echoed through the quiet hallway, "How is that possible? Atticus, are you kidding? Back when she was trying to get close to George, what dirty tricks didn't she use?"
"Drugging him, causing scenes out of nowhere. And after she finally married into the family, she wanted to follow George everywhere he went."
"How could a woman like that willingly give up the position of Mrs. Smith? She'll definitely regret it. Maybe in a couple days she'll come back crying and begging George to remarry her."
The more he spoke, the more convinced he became of his own judgment, his tone growing increasingly certain. "So when we go in later, we need to talk some sense into George. This thirty-day cooling-off period is just giving her a chance to change her mind."
"We need to tell George to be decisive, not to drag things out. He should find a way to skip these thirty days and finalize the divorce agreement immediately. Get it over with, so nothing goes wrong."
Atticus said nothing. He simply pulled out another cigarette and lit it, the brief flare of the flame illuminating his expressionless profile.
Through the swirling smoke, his eyes looked dark and unreadable.
Seeing him like this, Terry suddenly felt that something was off.
He stopped smiling and stepped closer, narrowing his eyes as he studied Atticus, "Atticus, you're not thinking of telling George not to divorce, are you? Or even to remarry?"
Behind the corner, the three of us held our breath.
William's face had already darkened.
Emily was biting her lip hard, her fists clenched so tightly they trembled.
And I leaned against the cold wall, that faint trace of tipsiness completely washed away by the icy anger this conversation brought, leaving only clear, bone-piercing coldness and disgust.
So in these people's eyes, I, Grace, had always been nothing but a joke who deserved to be abandoned.
The cigarette between Atticus's fingers glowed a deep red. He took a silent drag, then slowly exhaled, his voice flat, "I won't get involved in their business, and you shouldn't either."
He turned to look at Terry’s displeased expression, his tone calm but firm. "That's someone else’s family matter. Even as a friend, you should stay out of it."
"You..." Terry choked on his words, clearly frustrated by Atticus’s stubborn stance. He wanted to argue but couldn’t find the right words for a moment.
He was used to Atticus going along with the crowd, even occasionally joining in when they put me down.
This sudden distance and warning from him now both surprised and irritated him.
On our side of the corner, William and Emily had shifted their attention from the conversation to me.
They watched me nervously, afraid I might be upset.
To their surprise, my face showed neither anger nor sadness, only a faint, almost indifferent calm.
Terry's vicious speculation and slander were like splashes of dirty mud against glass—unpleasant to look at, but unable to seep into my heart anymore.
From someone who had long trampled yme into the dirt and never truly respected me, what kind of kind words could I possibly expect?
I was used to it by now.
Though hearing him falsely accuse me of having someone on the side and seducing men still made me feel disgusted, more than anything I found it laughable.
Seeing my composed expression, Emily relaxed. She gently tugged at my hand and whispered, "Let's go, Grace. Getting upset with these trashy people will only dirty our ears. Let's go back downstairs and keep drinking."
I nodded, not sparing the hallway another glance. "Okay."
The three of us quietly retreated to the private room downstairs.
After that incident, the celebratory atmosphere was inevitably dampened.
Emily and William tried to lighten the mood, and I played along, but we all drank more slowly than before.
I took out my phone and, out of habit, opened Instagram.
A few minutes ago, Sarah had posted another update.
No text, just a photo.
The photo was artfully taken, showing only a man's well-defined wrist and a bit of dark gray shirt cuff.
The caption read: [Someone got so happy he drank too much again. Looks like I have to take him home again.]
The comments were predictably envy and admiration, mixed with a few crude, suggestive jokes.
I scrolled down expressionlessly and saw another photo she'd taken of a profile.
George was leaning back in a restaurant chair, eyes closed. Under the warm yellow lighting, his features looked softer, but his flushed cheeks and slightly open collar made it obvious—definitely looking quite drunk.
So that's how it is.
The “good news” of the divorce that freed him was clearly worth celebrating.
I tugged faintly at the corner of my lips, my heart completely cold.
At the courthouse this afternoon, his hesitant look, even his slight frown when I said he was sick—thinking back on it now, it all felt deeply ironic.
What great acting, George.
Even at the moment of divorce, you still had to put on a show of regret for me.
Ridiculous.
Emily, William, and I sat together a while longer, chatting about trivial things, until it was close to midnight before we finally left.
I had drunk quite a bit. Though my mind was clear, my head felt heavy, and my steps were slightly unsteady.
In this condition, I definitely couldn't pick up Milly, nor could I let Mom see me like this.
I took out my phone and called her.
"Mom, are you asleep?" I tried to keep my voice steady.
"Not yet, just about to. Are you done? Are you coming to pick up Milly?" Her voice sounded drowsy.
"Mom, I won't come get Milly tonight." I paused, quickly coming up with an excuse, "I had a few drinks and feel a bit dizzy. It's not safe to drive. Let Milly sleep at your place tonight, and I'll come get her tomorrow morning after I've sobered up."
Mom was silent for a moment, her tone turning concerned. "You've been drinking? Grace, you hardly ever drink. Are you upset? Tell Mom the truth."
My heart warmed, though a faint bitterness crept in.
Mom was always so perceptive.
"No, Mom, I'm really fine." I forced a lightness into my voice, "I was just celebrating with Emily and them today, happy you know, so I had a couple extra drinks. Really, I'm totally clear-headed, just a bit tipsy. I don't want Milly smelling alcohol on me. Don't worry, I’m really okay."
Hearing that my tone didn't sound forced, Mom seemed to relax. "Alright then. Be safe and get some rest early. Come over for breakfast tomorrow morning, I'll make you some hangover soup."
"Okay, Mom, you sleep early too."
After hanging up, I took a cab back to my own apartment.
I had turned down the rental William found for me earlier. With the first project payment I received from Star Tech, I bought this small two-bedroom place for myself.
I hadn'tgone to see the villa George gave me in the divorce agreement yet, and didn't want to for now.
Though this place was small, every inch of it belonged to me. That alone gave me a sense of peace.
The hallway was quiet. The motion-sensor lights seemed to be broken—they didn't turn on.
I fumbled my way to the door and pulled out my keys.
I'd just inserted the key into the lock and hadn’t even turned it yet when, suddenly, a hand shot out from the shadows beside me and yanked me back.