Love's Cruelest Joke

When I was eighteen, I set foot in a bar for the first time—not by choice, but because a few boys from outside school forcibly dragged me there. The flashing lights made me dizzy; the mix of smoke, alcohol, and strange perfume stung my throat until I coughed uncontrollably. They shoved me into the corner of a booth seat, pressed a glass to my lips, their tone both flirtatious and threatening. I struggled desperately but couldn't match their strength; tears streamed uncontrollably down my face. Just as I was about to lose hope, a hand with distinct knuckles reached out and gripped the wrist of the guy handing me the wine glass. The grip wasn't strong, but it carried an undeniable pressure. I looked up and met a pair of deep, intense eyes. The man wore a black suit, his collar undone at two buttons, radiating a cool and noble aura that felt completely out of place in this chaotic bar. He was Ernest Mercer. The few guys clearly knew him; their faces changed instantly, and without even apologizing, they awkwardly let go of me and took off. Only the two of us were left in the booth seat, and the air felt a little quiet. Ernest Mercer handed me a tissue, his voice low: "It's okay now." I took the tissue, wiped my tears, and whispered a thank you. He didn't ask any more questions, just had the waiter bring over a cup of warm water. That night, he saw me home. The car stopped under my apartment building, an old residential block shrouded in darkness, with only a few apartments faintly lit. I clutched my backpack straps, hesitating to get out. Ernest seemed to see through my hesitation and softly asked, "You don't want to go back?" I nodded, then shook my head, but in the end, I still didn't say a word. I didn't dare go back. My father was drunk again, and going back would only mean getting beaten and scolded. My mother passed away early, and my father remarried Willa Patterson's mother. There was no longer any place for me at home. Ernest didn't ask why; he just said, "If you don't want to go back, then come with me." Almost without hesitation, I opened the car door and sat back in the passenger seat. I knew this decision was ridiculous—following a stranger, not knowing what I might face. But at that moment, he was my only lifeline. Ernest Mercer took me to an apartment—simple in decoration, clean and tidy. He found me some clean pajamas and cooked a bowl of noodles. I sat at the dining table, nibbling the noodles; the warm broth slid down my throat, slowly easing my tense nerves. Ernest sat on the sofa opposite, watching me eat without saying a word. That night, I slept in the guest room. Nothing I feared happened; he behaved properly, like a gentleman. The next morning, Ernest Mercer was already gone; on the dining table lay breakfast and a note. The note read, "Don't worry, no one will bother you." I stared at the note, a warm feeling bubbling up inside me. From that day on, I stayed by Ernest's side. We never defined our relationship, but lived like a couple. He rarely spoke about himself and never introduced me to his friends or family. I knew I was someone who couldn't be seen in the light of day. Everyone around thought I was there just for money, for Ernest's identity and status. But only I knew, I did it just for love. It was Ernest Mercer who pulled me out of the mud of my family of origin and gave me a place to shelter from the storm. He remembered I didn't eat cilantro, made me brown sugar ginger tea when I had my period, and held me gently when I was sad. He told me I was worthy of love—not some unwanted child. He said he'd protect me, guard me for life. Those words fell like seeds into my heart, taking root and sprouting. I was hopelessly caught up in my feelings for him, unable to break free.