I typed out a reply:
"Okay. I'll pick you up in three days."
Three days later, I went to the prison gates to collect Austin—without exposing his lies.
I spotted him from a distance, dressed in tattered clothes.
Playing the part of a man ruined by bankruptcy, living in squalor. He'd even used makeup to create a fake scar across his face.
The moment he saw me, he limped over, rushing toward me with exaggerated emotion.
"Pearl!"
He pulled me into his arms, eyes glistening with tears.
"I reflected on everything while I was inside. They said I showed excellent behavior, so they released me early."
"Pearl, you've been through so much these past years. I'm so sorry."
He looked so sincere, so deeply moved—as if he'd truly suffered through three years behind bars.
But I gently pushed him away, my expression unchanged. "It's good you're out."
Austin froze, seemingly sensing something off about me. But the next second, he grabbed my wrist.
"Pearl, what happened to your wrist?"
His concern seemed genuine.
But I found it almost laughable.
Austin, what exactly are you pretending for?
You're the one who sent those people. They showed up pretending to be debt collectors and beat me until I looked like this.
And now you're playing innocent?
A wave of exhaustion washed over me. Or maybe I was just afraid to face what would happen if I tore away the mask.
"It's nothing. I fell."
I pulled my hand free. "The doctor said it'll heal with time."
Austin finally relaxed, letting out a breath. "That's good."
He reached for my hand again, lacing his fingers through mine with practiced tenderness.
"The injury's on your right wrist. If it gets worse and affects your painting, you'll be crying your eyes out again."
His voice dripped with indulgence. But every word cut straight through me.
I used to have extraordinary talent for painting.
International awards, more than I could count. Everyone said I had a brilliant future ahead of me.
But for those drug trials—for that money—
To get Austin out of prison sooner—
I let them destroy my wrist.
Now I can't even hold a brush.
And now I'm told it was all just a punishment game Austin orchestrated.
How utterly absurd.
I stayed silent the entire drive. Austin seemed nervous, filling the quiet with endless chatter.
Obviously rehearsed lines he'd pulled from the internet.
All to convince me he'd really spent three years in prison.
I listened without really hearing. When he finally stopped, I asked quietly:
"Austin."
"Did I do something wrong?"
He went completely still. His eyes reddened as he turned to look at me.
"What do you mean, Pearl? Why would you ask that?"
I suddenly remembered the last time I'd been allowed to visit.
I was so happy. I'd saved up my pocket money for ages and bought some meat to cook for him—a proper meal I'd made myself.
No wonder he'd wrinkled his nose and refused to touch it.
He thought the meat was cheap.
Of course. I believed he'd spent three years suffering in prison.
But in reality, he'd been traveling the world with his little secretary.
Fine dining. Imported delicacies.
Why would he ever lower himself to share my hardships?
Even that prison visit—he'd paid a hundred and twenty dollars to stage the whole thing.
These past three years, I'd been nothing but a fool. Their plaything, spun in circles by their lies.
When Austin saw my tears, panic flashed across his face. He stepped closer, reaching up to wipe them away.
"Pearl, why are you crying? Did someone hurt you?"
