After Tormenting Him, I Saw Comments and Fled

Chapter 1

For ten years, I gutted fish at a wet market for a living. Then I took in a ridiculously handsome mute as my helper.

The guy had a dark, intimidating stare and a body carved like he'd walked out of a fitness magazine. He just couldn't talk. That didn't stop me from working him to the bone every single day.

One afternoon, while I was making him scrape the scales off a hundred snakeheads with his bare hands, strange floating comments suddenly appeared in front of my eyes.

A: [The crown prince of a billionaire family got turned into her fish market errand boy? His vocal cords were only damaged because someone sabotaged him. Once his voice recovers and he takes over the company, the first thing he'll do is dump this woman in the middle of the ocean!]

B: [Didn't she pinch Mr. Stone's face with fish-smelling hands last week because she thought he was working too slowly? Yikes. I can already hear the countdown clock ticking toward her death.]

The fish knife slipped from my hand and clattered onto the cutting board.

Without hesitation, I transferred every penny I had in my bank account, all two thousand dollars, to him.

"We're done here. Just leave. I'm shutting this stall down."

The man, who always looked like he could kill someone with one glance, suddenly reddened around the eyes.

His long fingers, still covered with fish scales, wrapped tightly around my waist.

With trembling breath and a broken whisper, he managed to force out a sentence.

"Please don't fire me. I'm really fast at cleaning fish."

I pried at his fingers, one by one.

Fresh fish scales clung to his hands, scratching my palms raw, but his arms around my waist were absurdly strong.

Honestly, I should've realized something was off two months ago.

Last week, while gutting fish, the knife slipped and sliced open his index finger. It was a two-inch cut, blood dripping all over the chopping block.

I panicked and ran to find bandages. He didn't even flinch. Using his other hand, he calmly sliced open the fish's belly and kept going as if nothing had happened.

Who gets cut that badly and doesn't feel pain?

And those calluses between his thumb and index finger. Thick, yellow, hardened skin. No way those came from holding fish knives all day.

At the time, I didn't think much about it.

Now those floating comments were still hanging in front of me, glowing brightly. Every hair on the back of my neck stood up.

The heir to the Stone Group, Ethan Stone.

I shoved my knee into his thigh and squeezed myself out of his arms, backing away three steps.

Ethan reached toward me. A raspy breath escaped his throat. His lips moved, but no actual words came out.

His eyes were red. There was something inside them I'd never seen before.

Six months ago, Ethan collapsed beside the drainage ditch next to my stall. He was skin and bones, cheekbones sticking out sharply, dark bruises covering his neck.

I dragged him inside and forced a bowl of soup down his throat.

After that, he just stayed. He was strong enough to carry entire crates of frozen ribbonfish by himself.

I paid him two thousand a month, fed him, gave him a place to sleep on a folding cot behind the stall.

I thought he was just some runaway laborer.

Another comment flashed across my vision.

A: [Run! Brian Parker is already on his way. Once he gets here, they'll tear Jade Market apart looking for Ethan!]

I hurried to grab the rolling shutter chain. The metal door rattled halfway down.

Ethan lunged forward. One hand clamped onto the bottom edge of the shutter. The other pointed frantically at his chest, meaning "I'm not leaving."

"Ethan." It was the first time I'd ever called him by his real name.

"That ID of yours was fake, wasn't it? Who exactly are you?"

His entire body stiffened.

For the first time, I saw a different expression on his face. Not the obedient helper I'd known. Just a split second of guilt from someone whose secret had been exposed.

Only a second. Then he grabbed the strings of my waterproof apron again and tugged gently, shaking his head.

I took a deep breath and peeled his fingers away one by one.

"My business is bankrupt. I can't afford to keep freeloaders around. You should go."

I turned around and pulled the shutter all the way down.

Locked it.

A dull bang echoed outside. His fist hitting the metal door.

Then came the rain.

June rain in Pearlgate arrived without warning. Heavy drops pounded against the steel shutter.

I switched on the old security monitor in the corner. In the grainy black-and-white footage, Ethan stood alone in the pouring rain. His shirt was soaked, plastered against his body.

He hadn't left.

Rainwater streamed down his face. Or maybe it wasn't all rain.

I shut the monitor off and sat down at the chopping block.

I Emptied the cash box and counted every last bill.

Three thousand seven hundred dollars. Together with the eight thousand in my savings account, it was enough to buy two train tickets back home.

For Grandma and me.

The rain never stopped that night. And I never turned the monitor back on.