CHAPTER 3: CHAPTER 3: RENEE WINSLOW, YOU REALLY ARE COLD-HEARTED!

The moment Renee Winslow stood up, everyone in the room rose as well. Evan Fenton moved fastest, already running out the door, followed by everyone else except for Renee.

Renee stood there as if rooted to the spot, stunned and motionless.

In truth, when she decided to come to Northcity, she was already prepared to meet Jack Yates, and had her strategies ready. She just never expected it to happen this soon—so soon she was caught completely unprepared, thrown off balance in a single strike.

It seemed none of this was a coincidence; once again, everything was premeditated, just like the year she wandered into that small house by mistake.

Eight years ago, she entered the little building where Jack nursed her to health, thinking it was chance. Only later did she realize, it was a carefully constructed trap by Jack Yates.

Soon, everyone returned to the room.

Jack Yates walked in front—aloof, unattainable, his tall and imposing figure instantly becoming the center of everyone’s attention.

Declan Donovan followed just behind, with Evan Fenton half a step to the side, walking next to Declan.

Renee couldn’t avoid meeting Jack’s gaze. Five years apart, he was even colder and stronger than before, that ruthless edge about him now intensified.

He still loved to dress in black: black bespoke suit, black shirt underneath. That air of unapproachable authority, his chilling depth, overwhelmed the space.

Their eyes met for a split second. In the end, Renee couldn’t hold out. She pressed her lips together and looked away.

Jack looked at the girl he’d longed for day and night—but no, she was no longer the naïve, pliant girl from back then.

She used to be like early spring fruit on a tree branch—tempting, but always with a hint of astringency.

But now, in her sleek, fitted mermaid dress, her figure was perfectly outlined; she was like a fully ripened peach, tender pink skin concealing luscious flesh, her natural allure enough to drive a man insane with longing.

When he couldn’t see her, his longing was something he could rein in. Now, seeing her again, any restraint was impossible.

Jack’s throat worked as he slowly drew closer to her, step by step.

He wondered if, even once in these five years, she’d thought of him—even just for a moment.

But seeing the calm, indifferent look in her eyes, all his heated yearning turned cold.

She never thought of him. Maybe not once.

She couldn’t wait to get away, to never see him again. How could she possibly miss him?

This woman looked gentle and serene, but in reality, her heart was colder than anyone’s—a stone heart, forever immune to warmth.

Jack’s face grew tense, ink-black eyes seething—quickly suppressed—as he reached Renee. As if she were a stranger, he walked right past her with chilly indifference and chose a seat at random.

Declan Donovan shot Renee a meaningful glance. But, seeing Jack made no move to acknowledge her, he too pretended not to know her.

Evan Fenton walked up to Jack with deference. "Mr. Yates, please take the main seat."

Jack waved it off. "I’ll sit here."

Evan then invited Declan to take the host’s seat; Declan didn’t refuse, sitting down with poise.

The core production members, after the two powerhouses and Evan settled, each chose seats seemingly at random.

Seemingly random, but in reality, not—no one dared sit on Jack’s right.

At last, everyone was seated except Renee, who still stood there in a daze. Now, only the seat beside Jack was left.

Evan noticed Renee’s misstep; though his face darkened, he said nothing, choosing not to reprimand her in public. Instead, he respectfully asked Jack, "Mr. Yates, would you mind if Renee sat next to you?"

Jack: "I don’t mind."

Renee had no choice but to bite the bullet and sit to Jack’s right, hoping Jack would get a call soon and leave.

She knew he was always busy—sometimes he didn’t even get to finish a meal in peace, interrupted by call after call.

After she sat down, Jack didn’t look her way again—not a single glance, as if she really were just a stranger to him.

Renee quietly breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed five years had finally worn down what they shared; now, they were just strangers. No love, no hate—that was good. That was for the best.

Evan raised his glass to Jack with respect, offering up some routine flattery as well.

Jack said nothing, simply lifted his glass in silent acknowledgment.

Afterwards Evan toasted Declan, repeating familiar words of praise.

Renee listened blankly to the empty pleasantries around the table, half-hearing, half-not, as if drifting outside time.

Then, suddenly, Evan looked at her and smiled. "Renee, the gentleman next to you—Mr. Yates, known as ’The Third Young Master Yates’—he’s our true investor this time. You should toast Mr. Yates."

Renee froze for a second, then forced herself to appear calm, smiling as she stood and raised her glass. "Mr. Yates, allow me to toast you."

Jack couldn’t hold back in the end and smiled coldly. "Miss Winslow, if you have something to ask, why not come directly to me? You know I’ll give you anything you want, as long as you ask."

He half-turned toward her. The look in his eyes was a sharp hook, as if he could dig right into her heart and pull it out.

Apart from Declan, who looked ready for a show, everyone else was stupefied—next, shock full in their faces as they stared at Renee.

But Renee no longer cared about onlookers. Jack’s fathomless, terrifying gaze tore at her composure, her heart thudded loud and fast; her hand trembled, making the wine glass shiver as she hesitated—should she down it in one gulp? Suddenly there was a crisp "clack."

Jack slammed his glass onto the table, eyes coldly sweeping over to Evan. "Letting female employees drink to entertain clients—Mr. Fenton, is this really your business model?"

Evan, startled, jumped up in a panic. "You must be joking, Mr. Yates—Nimbus Media is a proper company! We would never do something so improper!"

Jack’s voice cut like ice: "Glad to hear it."

Before the crowd broke up, Declan Donovan signed the contract, promising payment within three days.

As soon as the dinner ended, Renee couldn’t sit still any longer; she hurried to the restroom.

Sylvia Carrington quickly followed and, after Renee finished, pulled her into a secluded corner and whispered, "What is going on? What’s your history with the Third Young Master Yates?"

Renee gave a bitter smile. "Nothing. Just an ill-fated debt, that’s all."

Behind a column, Jack watched, lips curled in a cold sneer, his gaze icy as frost.

He really wanted to cut open her heart, just to see—was it warm? Was it red? Was it flesh at all?

How could someone so soft seem to have such a cold, hard heart?

Sylvia wanted to dig further, but her phone rang. She hurried to answer, talking on the move.

As soon as Sylvia left, Renee started to walk away too—when suddenly, an arm wrapped hard around her waist, strong and insistent, dragging her into a nearby private room.

Renee struggled desperately. "Jack! Let me go!"

"An ill-fated debt?" Inside the private room, Jack’s eyes burned red as he pinned her to the sofa, his hand caressing her neck, his gaze feverish and greedy on her face. "Renee Winslow, am I just your ill-fated debt?"

Renee turned her face away, refusing to respond. Seeing her silent only stoked Jack’s rage—he lowered his head and bit down.

The pain made Renee raise her hand to hit him, but he grabbed her wrist with practiced swiftness, pinning her legs as well—he had her trapped, she could only glare at him with her eyes.

Forcing back her anger, she tried for calm. "Jack, you promised to let me go."

Jack clenched his teeth hard, voice hoarse and freezing: "But I also said, if you left, don’t ever come back. And now—you’re back."

Renee sneered. "You really don’t know why I came to Northcity, Mr. Yates?"

Jack stared at her face, flushed with anger, those shimmering eyes moist and dazzling, her little mouth so succulent and red it made him parched—made him ache with longing.

His Adam’s apple bobbed; he buried his head against the pale skin of her neck, voice low and ragged, sultry in the ambiguous darkness. "Renee, I already let you go once. But I can’t let myself go."

Renee forced herself calm. "Jack, acting like this will only make me despise you."

Jack bit down on her neck, holding back. "Renee Winslow, you really have a heart of stone!"

-

The group made their way down to the underground garage. With his assistant’s help, Declan Donovan approached his orange Porsche.

Before opening the door, Declan turned, sweeping his gaze across the women. "Who can drive?"

Sylvia jumped to answer. "Mr. Donovan, I can."

He beckoned her over. "Come drive for me." Then, "Who else? Give my third brother a ride."

Evan Fenton pushed Renee forward. "Renee, you give Mr. Yates a ride."

In front of everyone, Renee couldn’t refuse. Refusing would mean openly disgracing Jack; and even if Jack didn’t snap at her after, he might vent his anger on Evan or Sylvia. For her friends, the production, the company, she could only grit her teeth and agree. "Okay."

As she slid into the customized black Phantom, Renee’s heart raced. She forced herself to sound calm. "Mr. Yates, where to?"

Jack leaned back against the leather seats, eyes heavy and tired, watching her. "Don’t you know where I’m going?"

Renee: "..."

Jack closed his eyes. "Valerorn Street. The Winslow Estate."

The Winslow Estate was a high-end residential development under Jack’s real estate company—there were apartments, as well as garden villas. And that name, "Winslow Estate," was changed after it was built, taking her last name and his first name.

Her surname, followed by his name.

Renee wasn’t as calm as she’d hoped. Hearing "Winslow Estate," her hand trembled as she keyed the words into the car navigation system. The resulting destination displayed—Home.

It felt as if a wad of cotton was stuffed in her throat, suffocating. She bit down hard on her lip, forcing back tears.

Move forward. Don’t look back.

That was the warning she’d repeated for five years, making herself go on bravely, forget the past—good and bad, forget it all.

She held it back and held it back—still, in the end, failed. Her eyes misted over.

Jack kept his eyes closed, not looking at her, not speaking—but his moving Adam’s apple betrayed his unsettled mood.

The biting autumn wind unique to Northcity blew into the car, cooling Renee down. She inhaled deeply, started the engine, and drove south.

But as the car stopped in front of The Winslow Estate, Renee found she couldn’t keep calm anymore.

This used to be their home—Jack’s birthday gift to her.

She’d moved in seven years ago, that summer she was nineteen—in the prime of her youth.

Lost in her thoughts, she was pulled back by Jack’s voice. "The persimmon tree you planted bore fruit last year. Golden persimmons—very sweet."

Renee turned to look out the window, lips pressed tight.

Jack’s voice was rough. "The thirtieth birthday gift you gave me: ’all things as you wish.’"

Renee kept silent, lips still clamped shut.

Jack reached out, grasped her slender arm, held it for a moment, then released. His voice, husky as if drunk—low, deep—it lingered in the ambiguous darkness, seductive and dangerous. "Baby, I miss you so much."

Hearing him call her "baby," Renee’s chest burned hot; her eyes stung, and she couldn’t help but recall those fevered nights of desperate entanglement with him.

Memories she’d tried so hard to bury sprouted back up, fresh as new grass in spring.