My Daughter's Tears Don't Lie

The wind at the airport exit carried the sharp chill of late autumn. As it slipped inside my collar, I instinctively tightened my scarf. The cashmere scarf was soft to the touch, yet it could not keep out the cold that seeped from my skin deep into my bones. The suitcase wheels clicked over the gleaming tiles, producing a steady, rhythmic sound. The sound rang out distinctly in the hall as the crowd slowly thinned, each echo seeming to tap against my heart, reminding me that I had truly returned to this city—both familiar and estranged. Lifting my gaze, the black sedan parked by the roadside struck me with painful familiarity. Its body gleamed with a cold metallic luster—the very same car he had used to take me to the airport three years ago when I left. The window slowly slid down, revealing Mark Collins's sharply chiseled face. His brows and eyes had scarcely changed; only his jawline was more defined, and the warmth that once lingered in his gaze had all but vanished. He strode towards me, the hem of his dark gray overcoat swaying gently with each step. The fabric was of fine wool, catching a subtle sheen beneath the lights; yet this refinement only served to make him appear more distant. As he took the suitcase, his fingertips brushed accidentally against the back of my hand; the touch was unnervingly cold, like a layer of unmelting ice, and I immediately retracted my hand. "How was the journey?" His voice drifted through the cool air, much the same as three years before, yet the warmth once concealed within it had vanished, replaced by a formal politeness, as though addressing a business client. "Quite smooth, though the airplane was a little stuffy." I nodded, my gaze passing over his shoulder to settle on the woman standing beside the car. It felt as though my heart had been lightly stung by something, sending a subtle sting through me. The woman wore an off-white professional suit, perfectly pressed with not a wrinkle in sight, every seam crisp and exact. Her long hair was styled into an exquisite chignon, revealing a slender neck adorned with a delicate silver necklace that highlighted her poised and elegant aura. She clutched a thick folder in her hand, her knuckles pale from gripping it tightly, and in the look she gave me lay a faint, almost imperceptible hostility, like a needle tipped with cold light, silently piercing me. Before I could speak, she had already stepped forward, arms outstretched to embrace me. The scent of her perfume enveloped me—a sickly sweet floral and fruity fragrance that, though alluring, felt stifling. "At last, you have returned—Mr. Collins has been constantly mentioning you lately." Her voice was sickeningly sweet, as if cloaked in a thick syrup, yet her arm suddenly tightened, her sharp nails digging into my waist with cruel force. The blow was swift and merciless, making me draw a sharp breath. The sudden sting made me instinctively push her away. "What are you doing?" Her voice betrayed a surge of anger, her breath quickening as her chest heaved slightly with frustration. She immediately took a half step backwards, her eyes reddening visibly, as if weighed down by a great injustice. Those reddened eyes, set against her pale face, made her seem particularly pitiful. Turning to look at Mark Collins, her voice trembled with tears: "Mr. Collins, I only wished to properly welcome Madam; have I done something wrong to displease her?" Mark Collins furrowed his brow, his brows knitting tightly into a deep shape. Instinctively, he shielded her behind himself, erecting an invisible barrier that shut me out. Turning to speak to me, his tone already carried a clear reproach: "What's wrong with you? Lisa was only being warm, trying to get closer to you. Is such a big reaction really necessary?" "She pinched me!" I abruptly lifted the hem of my shirt; the skin on my side was already reddened, faint imprints of fingernails visible on the pale flesh, stark and unmistakable. I pointed to the marks, my voice heavy with both grievance and anger. "It's nothing serious." He glanced at them, his tone growing more impatient, his brow furrowing more deeply, as if looking at a child making an unreasonable fuss: "You're just too sensitive, making a fuss over something so minor." Lisa did not mean it; do not dwell on such a trivial matter, lest we become a laughingstock. I followed his gaze to Lisa and saw her lower her head, a sly, triumphant smile playing at the corners of her lips, like a child caught stealing candy. Though hidden beneath her falling hair, I saw it clearly. Watching Mark Collins shield her like that, my chest felt constricted by an invisible weight, so stifling that even breathing became a struggle. It seemed that over these three years, much had changed. Even the look he cast at me no longer held its former warmth, but was now cold and distant.