Chapter 3
805words
I place the signed "Divorce Agreement" on the coffee table.
"Signed it all?"
Theodore doesn't even lift his eyelids.
He's fastening his cufflinks.
His movements are agitated.
The migraine makes his fingers tremble slightly.
"Take this settlement money and get lost."
A check flies in my face.
Two million.
For a discarded trophy wife, this money might be enough for the rest of her life.
But for me, carrying a fifty-million high-interest loan, it's not even enough to fill a cavity.
But I don't complain it's too little.
I bend down.
Pick it up.
Nod like an obedient mute.
I pick up the empty glass from the tray—the one I left last night when bringing medicine.
Taking the opportunity while bending down to clean up.
My fingers release.
The backup phone slides down silently.
It slides into the plush carpet under the sofa.
Screen brightness: minimum.
Call status: active.
I need to eavesdrop.
As Siren, I need to know when "Mr. M" will have the money ready.
As Ivy, I need to confirm whether this madman will actually transfer the money after I leave.
"Butler! Prepare the car!"
Theodore grabs his coat, his face flushed.
It's a pathological excitement.
Suddenly, the villa's front door is pushed open.
"No need to go, Theodore."
A woman walks in.
Chloe.
His chief secretary.
She wears a professional suit, holding a tablet in her hand, her eyes sweeping over me with contempt.
When she turns to look at Theodore, her expression changes to one of tearful distress.
"You don't need to go to the hotel."
Her voice is coquettish.
"Because... Siren is right here."
My hand, which was packing my luggage, suddenly freezes.
Theodore stands rigidly in place.
He slowly turns around, staring intently at Chloe.
"What did you say?"
"It was me."
Chloe takes a deep breath, rushes over, and grabs Theodore's hand.
"The person who's been accompanying you in the livestream all along was me."
"That Mr. M... I knew it was you all along."
Standing in the shadows, I almost laugh out loud.
How interesting.
A personal secretary monitoring her boss's online activities, trying to intercept?
Theodore's expression changes from shock to suspicion.
"It's you?"
"Impossible... your voice is nothing like Siren's."
Chloe is clearly prepared for this.
"Theodore, that's my 'work voice.'"
She smiles bitterly.
Her voice is sweet, with a nasal tone.
"I use voice modulation techniques when I'm streaming."
"After all, for the chief secretary of the Winterbourne Group to be doing ASMR streams online..."
"It would be bad for the company's image if it got out."
"That's why I've always used a different voice and kept it secret from you."
An impeccable explanation.
The suspicion in Theodore's eyes wavers.
He's too desperate to find Siren.
So desperate that he's willing to ignore the obvious logical flaws.
"Is it really you?"
His voice trembles.
"It's me."
Chloe embraces him, burying her face in his chest.
"I don't want that fifty million. I just want you to be okay."
Theodore clutches at her like a drowning man grasping a straw.
"Damn it... save me, Chloe."
"My head is about to split open."
I coldly observe this scene.
Turn around.
Walk toward the nanny's room.
Since someone wants to act, let her perform.
I return to the room.
Lock the door.
Take out my main phone.
The screen shows: Call in progress.
It's the backup phone under the sofa in the study, transmitting real-time audio.
I put on my headphones.
Inside the study.
Theodore's heavy breathing and the sound of fabric rubbing against fabric are clearly audible.
"Since you're Siren," his voice comes through the headphones, suppressing pain, "make me fall asleep now. I can't take it anymore... I'm dying from the pain..."
"Okay, alright. Lie down."
Chloe's voice sounds somewhat flustered.
Then.
A soft humming.
Objectively speaking, it's sweet.
But for someone with severe bipolar disorder like Theodore, sweetness is useless.
What he needs isn't something "pleasant to hear."
But soul resonance.
The frequency that only I can produce—one that can smooth the neural pathways in his brain.
"That's not right..."
In the headphones, Theodore's breathing grows increasingly rapid.
"This is not right! Chloe, use your streaming voice! I want that voice!"
"I... I'm too nervous right now, I can't find the right state..."
"Can't find it?!"
Bang!
The loud crash of glass shattering.
"Damn it! It hurts even more!"
Theodore begins to roar, like an injured wild beast.
"Shut up! Stop singing!"
The moment has come.
I look at the screen, my fingers typing a line on the keyboard.
As Siren.
Send.
Ding.
In my headphones, Theodore's phone notification sound rings.
Dead silence.
He's reading the message.
In my message, I only wrote one sentence:
[Mr. M, if you've already found a better "medicine," then I wish you good luck.]
