CHAPTER 5
The smell of coffee fills the kitchen, wrapping everything in its comforting warmth. The sound of the coffee machine, the soft clinking of cutlery against porcelain, the quiet rustling of newspaper pages… everything is as it's always been. But it's all a lie. I'm sitting across from Hu Ge, my hands wrapped around a cup of tea, watching as he reads the paper with the same serenity as always. His face, perfectly calm, shows no trace of fatigue or guilt. To anyone outside our life, he would seem like a devoted husband, a man enjoying a relaxed breakfast with his wife before starting a new day. But I know the truth. And that truth is suffocating me.
I try to focus on the spoon as I stir my tea. Each circle is an attempt to calm myself, to erase the hollow feeling that's taken hold in my chest. Hu Ge came home late last night, slipped into bed as if nothing had happened, held me with the same natural ease as always. And I, with tears caught in my throat, pretended to sleep.
"You slept a lot last night," he comments suddenly, without looking up from the paper.
My hand freezes over the cup for a split second before continuing its movement.
"Yes," I reply softly, forcing a light smile. "I was tired."
He nods, satisfied with my answer, and keeps reading. He has no reason to doubt me. He doesn't know I heard everything.
I take a small bite of my breakfast, though I have no appetite. Every detail of this moment is unbearable—the crunch of the toast in my mouth, the coffee scent I once found comforting, even the golden light streaming through the windows, bathing the table in a warm glow. None of it soothes me now.
My husband sets the paper down and looks at me.
"Sweetheart, there's something I need to tell you."
I lift my gaze with apparent curiosity.
"What is it?"
"A business trip came up," he says casually, leaning forward. "I have to leave the city for four days."
Four days. The exact dates he mentioned last night during the call with her. I swallow slowly and nod calmly.
"Oh…" I murmur, setting the cup gently onto its saucer. "Where are you going?"
"Shanghai," he replies without hesitation. "There's an important negotiation with some investors and I need to be there."
Shanghai doesn't sound like the city his lover mentioned yesterday, but it's a good cover for the lie. It's remarkable how flawlessly he pulls it off. I keep my expression composed and respond with understanding.
"Even if I don't love the news—because I was thinking we could go to the restaurant where you proposed and made me so many promises—I understand you can't turn it down if it's something that important for your company," I say, feigning disappointment.
"Our restaurant?" he echoes with genuine surprise. "Wow, I didn't know you had such a brilliant idea planned. But we'll do it when I get back."
My husband, with all the falseness the world can contain, takes my hand across the table. His touch is firm and warm, just like always. Once, that gesture gave me a sense of security. Now, it fills me with revulsion. I smile softly and stroke his hand with the tip of my fingers.
"Don't worry," I whisper. "I'll cancel the reservation and save it for when you have time. It'll be nice to remember everything that happened that day."
At first, he watches me closely, but a second later he relaxes, and his eyes reflect serenity, as if he truly believes I'm completely convinced he won't break that promise.
"I love you, Yifei," he says, intertwining his fingers with mine. "And I'm going to miss you these next few days. I'll try to call whenever I can, even though I'll be busy."
I bite my lip, pretending to feel a trace of sadness. Playing this role is easier than I thought.
"I'll miss you too."
Hu Ge smiles, pleased with my answer. His confidence in me remains intact. But he should be worried… He should, because there's nothing more dangerous than a woman betrayed by the man, she loved the most.
After breakfast, he gets up calmly and disappears down the hallway. I hear the sound of a drawer opening and closing, and a few seconds later, he returns holding a package.
"I have something for you," he says, offering a box wrapped in black satin paper with a golden ribbon. "I didn't want you to think I wasn't thinking about you, so I got this a few days ago."
My heart races. A gift. For a moment, the image of the receipt from the jewelry store flashes in my mind. Could it all have been a misunderstanding? I hesitate. For the first time in weeks, I hesitate. Hu Ge has always given me gifts without occasion. What if this is the one he bought at the jewelry store? What if everything I've suspected up to now is a mistake?
My hands tremble slightly as I take the box. If there's a piece of jewelry inside, it would mean I was wrong. I take a deep breath and untie the ribbon carefully. Inside, neatly folded, is a silk blouse. A beautiful piece from my favorite designer. I run my fingers over the fabric, feeling its softness. It's a lovely gift—elegant, thoughtful, perfectly chosen. But it's not jewelry. The air thickens in my lungs. I look up and try to keep my expression neutral, but I can't stop the flicker of sadness from passing across my face.
Hu Ge frowns.
"You don't like it?"
I react instantly.
"No! It's beautiful. I love it," I say enthusiastically, faking admiration.
He doesn't look convinced.
"Then why that face? Are you disappointed?"
I shake my head quickly and lower my gaze, pretending to be shy.
"It's not that… It's just…" I pause, then smile at him with a hint of nostalgia. "I can't help thinking you're giving me this gift as a reward for something you're doing. Something bad, of course."
My husband's face turns whiter than milk. But a second later, the color returns and he smiles at me tenderly.
"My gifts are little gestures to show you how much I love you."
Liar.
Fraud.
Cretin.
Bastard.
He reaches out to embrace me, and I let him. The scent of his cologne is suffocating. It's as if he poured the whole bottle onto his clothes to mask any trace of another fragrance. He doesn't need to hide it anymore. I already know.
"I love you, Yifei." He tilts my chin and kisses my forehead.
His words are warm. Too warm for someone who promised a trip to another woman just last night. Too warm for the woman he once swore to love forever.
I force a smile and look him in the eye.
"I love you too."
And with that, the lie is sealed.
*****
The door closes behind me with a soft click. The day is just beginning, but my mind is still trapped in what happened at the breakfast table. Hu Ge's words, his promise to call me, the tenderness in his gaze that now feels false—everything echoes in my mind like a persistent refrain. I walk calmly down the sidewalk, adjusting my bag on my shoulder as I try to focus my thoughts on work. I don't want to think about Hu Ge's trip, about the way he looked at me so tenderly when he promised he'd try to call. But it's impossible. Each step I take seems to drag the weight of my doubts with it.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. Obsessing over what I already know won't help me. Or at least, what I think I know. But then, as I turn the corner, something makes me stop.
A moving truck is parked a few houses down. Two workers are carefully unloading a gleaming black grand piano, while others carry boxes and furniture that look like they belong in a design magazine. I frown without realizing it. That house has been empty for months, and now suddenly it's buzzing with activity. I pause for a moment, watching the movement. Everything they're bringing in looks exclusive, expensive, too perfect. It's not a typical move. There's something in the elegance of the items, in the way the workers handle them with reverence, that catches my attention.
Two of them are taking a break beside the truck, each with a cigarette between their fingers. Their voices reach me clearly.
"Can you believe how many luxury things this woman has?" says one, letting out a laugh.
"No surprise, she landed a big fish," the other replies, exhaling smoke slowly. "Her life's done a full 180 in three months. From cheap commercials to a house like this… It's not talent, trust me."
I keep walking, eyes straight ahead, as if I haven't heard a thing. But their words stick in my mind. I can't help but wonder who this woman is, how she managed to rise so quickly, and above all, what kind of "big fish" she caught. Questions pile up in my head, but I force myself to move on. It's not my problem. Or so I try to tell myself.
"The maids asked us to be extra careful with the garments," one of them adds. "They're limited editions by Shen Fenhua."
The name makes my lips tighten. Shen Fenhua. My favorite designer. I don't often meet people with the same taste, especially not someone whose wardrobe is filled with exclusive pieces from her. It's an odd coincidence—but not impossible. Still, something about that detail unsettles me. Who is this woman who shares my taste for luxury fashion? And why has her life changed so dramatically in such a short time?
Before I can dwell on it further, something else catches my eye. On the other side of the gate, leaning against the entrance wall, is a huge painting still wrapped in a golden frame. Two workers approach to hang it in the main hallway. One of them peels off the protective cover, and my chest tightens.
It's a woman. Tall, with elegant features, black hair cascading in perfect waves, and lips painted a bold red. A striking image—one that stays in your memory. My eyes scan the painting carefully. I don't recognize her face immediately, but there's something familiar about her. Why would someone have such a massive portrait of themselves in their entryway? It's like she wants everyone to know who she is, to admire her beauty and her style. But who is she?
I press my lips together and force myself to look away. It's not my problem. It shouldn't matter to me. I shake my head with a quiet sigh and raise my hand to flag down a taxi. If I stay any longer, I'll start overthinking things that don't concern me. When the car pulls up, I get in with smooth movements and give the driver my office address in a firm voice.
As the vehicle drives away, my hands rest on my lap. They're not trembling.
But something about that house won't leave me alone.
Something about that woman—her sudden luxury, her imposing portrait—makes me feel… uneasy.
CHAPTER 6
I cross the company lobby with firm steps, dodging employees rushing back and forth with folders in one hand and coffee in the other. The atmosphere is just as it always is—dynamic, noisy, full of energy. The phone rings constantly at reception, the clacking of keyboards echoes rapidly, and in the background, someone is arguing about structural design optimization while a printer spits out large-format plans. This is the rhythm I've known for years, the life I built with effort, the space where I've always felt in control. Today, however, I feel like I'm walking through a stage set, as if all of this belongs to me only in name, but not truly.
I take a deep breath before entering my office and closing the door behind me. Inside, the noise is muffled, though not completely gone. My desk is impeccably organized, except for a stack of documents and a still-warm cup of coffee that my assistant left a while ago. But what catches my eye isn't the paperwork or the drink, it's the withered flowers in the vase in the corner. I stare at them for a long moment. A few weeks ago, they were fresh, vibrant in the middle of this sober space. Now, their petals are dry, curled inward, and the leaves have turned a dull, faded color. I wouldn't have let them reach this state before.
I run my fingers along the edge of the desk and notice another detail. The picture frame that used to be here is gone. It was a photo of Hu Ge and me, taken on our last trip together. I removed it days ago, but now the empty space it left behind feels too obvious. A knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts.
"May I?" asks a familiar voice.
Before I can respond, the door opens anyway. Na walks in with her usual confidence, dressed in an elegant black suit and high heels that strike the floor with authority. She holds a folder in one hand and a cigarette in the other, turning it between her fingers without lighting it. Her eyes sweep over the office in a quick glance before landing on the flowers.
"Well, Yifei," she says casually, though I know she's noticing more than she lets on. "Since when do you let the flowers die?"
I force a smile as I take a seat behind the desk.
"I didn't even notice."
She doesn't say anything else, but I catch her gaze drifting toward the empty space where the photo with Hu Ge used to be. She doesn't ask about it. She doesn't need to. Instead, she drops the folder on the desk and sits across from me with usual ease.
"Let's finish this quickly so you can treat me to a decent coffee," she says with a faint smile.
I appreciate that she doesn't press. That's how Na is—perceptive, direct, but she knows when to speak and when to stay silent. We open the folder and review the documents. The terms had already been negotiated, so we just skim through the general clauses before signing the pages. We've done this so many times that it's practically mechanical. Once we're done, Na closes the folder with a crisp snap and pushes it aside. I lean back in my chair, waiting for her usual sarcastic remark after every deal. But instead, she looks at me intently.
"Now tell me the truth, Yifei," she says in a lower tone. "Do you still just have suspicions, or have you found something more?"
The air in the office shifts. I don't look away immediately, but I don't answer right away either. Instead, I let out a sigh and force myself to keep my expression composed.
"I don't know," I murmur at last. I don't want to sound too certain, because even though everything points to it, I still haven't confirmed anything.
Na leans back in her chair and crosses her legs with elegance, but her gaze stays fixed on me.
"You never see things that aren't there," she replies, unwavering. "If you have doubts, it's because some part of you already knows the truth."
A sharp pang tightens my chest. She says it as if it were the simplest thing in the world, as if accepting the truth were as easy as admitting the flowers in the vase are dead. But it isn't. Because accepting the truth means making decisions—and I'm not ready for that yet.
As if sensing she's pushed too far, Na sighs and changes the subject in a lighter tone.
"Guess what my mother did this time?"
Her expression softens, and so does mine. I welcome the distraction.
"Surprise me."
"She went to see her psychic again and came home thrilled, saying she finally had a great revelation about my future."
I raise an eyebrow, intrigued.
"And what does fate have in store for you this time?"
Na stubs out her cigarette in the ashtray and looks at me with a mock-serious expression.
"A husband!"
It takes me a second to process what she just said. Then, laughter bursts out of me, uncontrollable.
"No way. A husband? For you?"
"Can you believe it?" She throws her hands up with exaggerated drama. "I told my mom to stop wasting money on that phony psychic, that I'll never have a husband, that it's all just a fantasy."
We both laugh at the same time, and the sound of it echoes strangely in this office. It's the first time in weeks I allow myself to truly laugh. Na leans back in her chair with a satisfied smile.
"That's what I want to see from you, Yifei. I want you to laugh like that again."
I rest my chin on my hand, elbow propped on the desk, still smiling.
"Then you'll have to come by more often."
She smiles and stands, collecting the folder before heading to the door.
"I will. And next time, I expect to see fresh flowers."
I nod lightly, but I don't say anything.
Because the truth is…
I don't know if I want to replace those flowers just yet.
The door closes behind her, and the sounds of the office flood back in. I glance again at the vase, at the petals curled in on themselves.
Something inside me feels just like withering.
But at least, for a few minutes, I forgot.
*****
The echo of my own footsteps resounds through the house as I close the door behind me. I don't turn on the lights. There's no need. The dim light of late afternoon filters through the curtains, casting soft shadows over the immaculate furniture. The home we built together is still the same, but there's something in the air, in the stillness of the rooms, that no longer belongs to the warmth of a marriage.
Before, when I came in after work, I was greeted by the scent of sandalwood incense burning in the vestibule, the distant hum of instrumental music from the speakers, the warm lights illuminating every corner. Back then, this house was a sanctuary. Now it's just an empty space, soulless, where the shadows of what we were slowly fade.
I set my purse down on the console with a calculated movement and stand still for a moment. I know why I'm here. I didn't come back to rest, or because I had unfinished business. I came to search. To find what I already know.
My hands are cold, but my mind feels sharp. I won't let anger cloud me. I won't make the mistake of acting without thinking. I take a deep breath and walk through the vestibule with steady steps, climb the stairs with the same calm I'd use for a trivial decision. I don't know exactly what I expect to find, but if there's one thing I've learned in these past days, it's that lies always leave traces.
The bedroom is in perfect order. Too perfect. The cushions are in place, the bed impeccably smoothed, the rug without a single wrinkle. Almost as if no one sleeps here. My eyes scan the dressing room, stopping at the section that belongs to Hu Ge. His shirts are hung with millimetric precision, his jackets arranged by color, his shoes polished as if they've never been worn. Everything is exactly as it should be—and yet, something feels off.
I walk slowly toward the shelf where he keeps his accessories. I ran my fingers over the tie boxes, recognizing some I bought for him myself. But there's one I don't recognize. The texture is different, the design is more subtle, the material is more expensive. It's not his style. Nor mine.
My fingers reach for it slowly, feeling its weight in my hands. I don't know what compels me to open it, but when I lift the lid, a small object falls onto the silk of the tie, as if it had been hidden between the folds.
A tie. And wrapped in it, a hotel key card. Worn, as if it's been used a thousand times.
My heart stops for a moment before slamming painfully against my ribs. I hold it between my fingertips, as if mere contact could burn me. It belongs to a luxury hotel. One of the most exclusive in the city.
I close the box with the same calm I used to open it and leave the dressing room. I walk to the bed and toss the card onto the comforter, as if I couldn't bear to hold it for one more second. I stare at it in the dim light of the room, feeling the cold slide across my skin.
I don't feel anger. I don't feel desperation. Only a hollow sensation expanding in my chest with every passing second. Something inside me has shut down. It doesn't hurt. It doesn't destroy me. It just leaves me empty.
Without thinking too much, I walk to the bathroom and turn on the shower. The sound of the water filling the room is the only thing breaking the silence. I undress with mechanical movements and fold my clothes precisely before stepping under the hot stream. Steam fogs the mirror, erasing any trace of my reflection. I don't want to see myself.
I rest my forehead against the cold tiles and close my eyes. The image of the card is still burned into my mind, its presence still weighing down the bed, waiting to be addressed.
I came back determined to find a flaw in the perfection—and I did. And yet, what am I supposed to do next?
I could call the hotel and ask if there are more bookings under Hu Ge's name. But what if he used another name to avoid leaving a trace? Could I ask if he left something behind on his last visit? Maybe I could pretend to be his assistant, make up some excuse.
My breathing is slow and deep. The water continues to run down my skin, but my mind is no longer here. His betrayal is no longer a possibility. It's real. Tangible. Something I can hold in my hands.
When I step out of the shower, wrapped in a silk robe, the bathroom is blanketed in steam. I walk barefoot back to the bedroom, leaving footprints on the floor with each step. I stop in front of the bed. The card is still there, unchanged, an irrefutable piece of evidence of what I always feared.
I reach for it again, staring at it closely. In another moment, maybe I would have doubted my own suspicions, convinced myself there was a logical explanation for all this. But now, after everything I've seen, after everything I've felt, there's no room for naïveté.
Just as my mind begins to debate what my next move should be, the sound of my phone breaks the silence.
A shiver runs down my spine.
I grab it from the nightstand, certain it's Hu Ge. He hasn't called all day, and it wouldn't surprise me if now, as if he sensed something, he tried to reach me.
But the screen shows something else. An unknown number.
I hesitate a moment before unlocking it. A single message appears on the screen, cold and without context.
"Your days of happiness are over. Now I'm the one enjoying your husband."
My fingers freeze on the screen. The air grows thick around me. I don't know how long I stare at those words, unable to react.
The phone slips from my hand and falls to the floor with a dull thud. I don't bend down to pick it up. I can't move.
In the dimness of the room, with my damp hair clinging to my skin and the hotel card trembling between my fingers, the certainty of my reality settles in with brutal clarity.
There is no escape.
CHAPTER 7
I didn't sleep. Dawn arrived without warning, and when I glanced at the nightstand, the digital clock read seven. I hadn't closed my eyes for a single moment. The hotel card was still there, untouched, waiting for me to do something with it. Waiting for a reaction, a decision. But I didn't touch it again. I didn't put it away, nor did I throw it out. I didn't call the hotel to ask, either. I had no answers, and for now, I wasn't looking for any.
The message from last night was still burned into my mind, playing on repeat without mercy: "Your days of happiness are over. Now I'm the one enjoying your husband." I read it so many times the words started to lose all meaning. At first, I tried to figure out who had sent it—whether it was a joke, a mistake, or some cruel lie. But I knew it wasn't. What tormented me the most wasn't the existence of the message, but the certainty that, on top of fighting my own thoughts, I also had to face the games of my husband's mistress.
Now I'm in my office, sitting behind my desk with my elbows resting on the polished wood. My employees are working like it's any other day. I hear the clatter of keyboards, the hum of printers, phones ringing nonstop—but everything feels distant, as if I were separated from reality by some invisible glass. The coffee on my desk has gone cold. I haven't taken a single sip.
My fingers rest on my phone's screen, unmoving. I don't know if I should unlock it. I don't know if I want to see that message again, if I want to reply, if I want to call Ge. Part of me screams that I should, that I need to face what's happening and demand answers. But another part—a stronger part—tells me it's not time yet.
I decide to distract myself. I swipe across the screen and open my news app. I want to read something meaningless, anything that might help push these thoughts from my head, even if only for a few minutes. But the first thing I see in the entertainment section has nothing to do with economy or politics. It's a name. The actress. My neighbor.
I frown, not because it bothers me to see her there, but because it surprises me. Just a few days ago, I watched her moving into the neighborhood, and now, according to the article, she's in Paris, live-streaming for her followers. It's not something I particularly care about. I don't usually pay attention to the lives of celebrities or linger on these kinds of stories. And yet, my eyes remain fixed on the screen. I scroll down and see a direct link to her live stream.
I don't know why I hesitate. I shouldn't care what she's doing. She's just a neighbor. Maybe I just want a glimpse into her lifestyle, to know a bit more about the person I'll be sharing a neighborhood with. There's nothing wrong with that.
My finger taps the screen…
The image takes a few seconds to load. When it does, I see her. Tall, stunning, her hair cascading over her shoulders in perfect waves. The smile on her face is dazzling. She speaks with confidence, like the whole world belongs to her.
"Hi, everyone!" Her voice is sweet and enthusiastic. "I'm so happy to be sharing this moment with you. Paris is amazing!"
The background is breathtaking. She's in a luxury hotel suite, with massive windows offering a panoramic view of the city. In the distance, the Eiffel Tower rises, majestic and bathed in morning light.
"We just had breakfast on the most beautiful terrace," she continues. "Croissants, coffee, strawberries with cream… everything was delicious."
I curve my lips into a faint smile. She looks genuinely happy. I lower my gaze for a moment, intending to exit the stream. There's nothing interesting to see. But when my eyes return to the screen, something shifts. My breathing slows, as if my body senses something before my mind can catch up.
The actress keeps talking, her hands moving gracefully, but what draws my attention isn't her face or the luxury surrounding her. It's what she wears around her neck. A scarf. A designer scarf, tied with elegant precision, partially covering her skin. At first, I don't think much of it. But something about its color, its pattern, the texture of the fabric sends a shiver through me.
I bring the screen closer. My eyes scan the design's details, the stitching, the finish. No. It can't be. A hollow feeling settles in my stomach. That scarf… it's not just any scarf. I bought it. I had it custom-made by an exclusive designer. It was a birthday gift for Hu Ge. And I know—there is no other like it.
Then the actress tilts her head, and for a brief moment, her neck is exposed. The marks on her skin are clearly visible. A wave of nausea crashes over me. The air thickens. I can't breathe. And then I see something else… the sunglasses. Oversized, with dark reflective lenses. And in the reflection… there's a silhouette.
The pounding in my chest becomes painful. My body goes weak. The pieces fall into place all at once. Paris. Her. The scarf. The marks on her neck. The reflection in her glasses. The message I got last night. "Your days of happiness are over."
I shoot up from my chair, but my legs buckle. My head spins. Her laughter still echoes in my office. But I no longer hear it. The air won't enter my lungs. I try to breathe, but I can't. The pressure in my chest grows, as if something invisible were crushing me, dragging me into an abyss with no return.
I take a staggering step. The chair. I try to reach it. But my body won't obey. The floor disappears beneath my feet.
Darkness...
*****
A faint light seeps through my closed eyelids. It's a cold, artificial glow—nothing like the warm dimness of my bedroom. I don't need to open my eyes to know I'm not at home. The air carries that sterile, slightly chemical smell you only find in hospitals. It's a scent that reminds you you're in a place where life and death coexist, where emotions fade beneath the chill of machines and white walls.
I try to move my fingers, but my body feels heavy, as if I've been asleep for days, submerged in a dream I couldn't wake from. There's a steady beeping in the background—a machine monitoring my vitals—and a sharp sensation on the back of my hand, where an IV reminds me that I'm not in control of my life. The sound is constant, a quiet reminder that my heart is still beating, even though something inside me feels irreparably broken.
With effort, I open my eyes.
The white ceiling and the round lamp hanging at its center greet me with their impersonal chill. The room is plain, with no more decoration than a pale curtain dividing the space, as if trying to offer privacy in a place where privacy is a luxury. A small cabinet with medication and a glass of water sits beside the bed, and in the air floats the faint scent of disinfectant, mixed with something warmer, something familiar I can't quite place. Maybe it's the smell of freshly washed sheets—or maybe it's the lingering trace of someone who's been here, watching over me in silence.
My breathing is slow, measured, as though my body is still trying to process what happened. I don't remember the moment I lost consciousness. All I know is I was at my office, the image on my phone struck me like a hammer, I tried to move… and then, darkness. Now, here, in this cold and silent room, I feel like the world kept turning without me, and I've returned to a place I no longer recognize.
A slight movement to my left pulls me from my thoughts.
"Ah, you're finally awake."
The voice is warm but firm, with that blend of sweetness and authority only older women carry effortlessly. It's a voice I recognize instantly, though I didn't expect to hear it here.
I slowly turn my head and see her.
A woman with dark hair streaked with carefully tended grays, gathered in an elegant bun. Her face is serene, marked with fine lines across her forehead and around her eyes, but her features still hold the strength of youth. She looks at me with a mix of relief and sternness, as if she's been waiting for this moment just to scold me. It's Mrs. Li, Na's mother. A woman who's always been there, like a lighthouse in a storm—even though she's never been my mother.
"Mrs. Li…" I whisper, recognizing her with a raspy voice, as if my vocal cords had forgotten how to work.
She huffs, settling into the armchair beside me with the grace of someone who's spent a lifetime taking care of others.
"So, you remember who I am. I thought your fainting spell had been worse than they said."
I try to sit up, but the dizziness hits me at once. My head throbs with a dull ache, as if someone were pressing down on it with both hands. I let out an involuntary gasp and shut my eyes, waiting for the wave to pass. The world tilts, like it's about to collapse again.
"You shouldn't move too much," she warns in that unmistakable motherly tone that leaves no room for argument. "The doctor said it was a case of extreme stress. And as if that weren't enough, he also mentioned you haven't been eating properly."
I open my eyes and find her watching me with raised eyebrows. There's no judgment in her gaze—only genuine concern. It's the first time in a long time someone has looked at me like that. Like they actually care. Like I'm more than just a problem to be solved.
I try to push away the vulnerability creeping over me. My fingers grip the white sheet tightly, searching for something solid in the storm inside my head. I need to anchor myself to something, or someone,though I don't know how.
"How… did I get here?" I ask, unsure whether I truly want to know the answer.
Mrs. Li sighs, as if the weight of the situation is too much even for her.
"One of your employees called emergency services. They said you collapsed in your office." She pauses, choosing her words carefully before continuing. "They called your husband first, but when he didn't answer, they contacted Na. She's away on a work trip, so she asked me to look after you."
A sharp pain stabs at my heart, but I recover quickly—because knowing that someone cared enough to come and care for me brings a strange comfort. I'm used to doing everything on my own, to being the strong one, the one who never falls apart. And yet, knowing she was the one who came… brings me peace in a way I didn't expect. As if, in the middle of all this chaos, I've found a small refuge.
"Thank you…" I whisper, not quite sure why. The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, and they surprise even me.
She studies me for a moment, then shakes her head with a faint smile.
"Don't thank me just yet. I haven't finished scolding you."
Her tone is serious, but her expression is kind. She reminds me of the mother I never had. The mother I always wished for…
I grew up in a house where betrayal destroyed everything. When my father discovered my mother's affair, she left with her lover and never came back. From that day on, I lost them both. My father, shattered by grief, was never the same again. He became distant, cold, only interacting with me when it came to business. The day he handed me the company, he said goodbye with a handshake and disappeared with his new wife. He never called. Never asked how I was. Never looked back. Maybe that's why, when I married Hu Ge, I thought I was building something I never had. I believed I was finally going to have a family. A home. Someone who truly loved me. And now that illusion has collapsed in the cruelest way.
"What are you thinking about?"
Mrs. Li's voice pulls me out of my thoughts. I look at her, and for a moment, it feels like she can see right through me. Like she knows every one of my secrets. Every wound I carry.
I let out a slow breath.
"Nothing important."
She doesn't push. She doesn't need to. Instead, she takes my hand gently, as if trying to communicate something beyond words. Her touch is warm, comforting, and for a moment, I allow myself to feel safe.
"In life, everything has a solution—except death."
Her voice is firm, without drama. It's the voice of someone who's lived long enough to know that pain is never eternal.
"When I was young, I dreamed of becoming a dancer," she continues with a wistful smile. "I imagined myself on grand stages, the spotlights shining down on my every step. But I had no talent." She pauses and laughs softly, as if fondly remembering that naive version of herself. "I tried many times. Failed even more. And when I finally accepted it, life took me down a very different path. Now I'm happy—even though I never fulfilled that dream."
Her words linger in the air, filled with a kind of wisdom only time can give. I listen to her, though I can't quite find the connection between her story and mine. What's the point of any of it, when betrayal has shattered what little was left of my heart?
She senses my silence and offers a small, knowing smile. She doesn't expect me to understand her words right away. She knows pain needs time to heal. Then, without saying anything else, she pulls something out of her purse.
"I'm going to do you the favor you need right now."
She hands me a card. My fingers tremble slightly as I take it and read the name printed in elegant lettering.
Dr. Walter: Healer. Clairvoyant. Psychologist.
I frown, remembering Na once mentioned her mother's fondness for psychics.
"My daughter says he's a two-bit healer," she comments, as if reading my mind, "but I trust him. He's helped a lot of people. He might be your lifeline."
I look up and meet her calm gaze.
"Make an appointment with him," she goes on. "Sometimes, shame keeps us from asking for help from those around us."
I press my lips together and stare at the card for a long moment. I don't believe in this sort of thing. I don't believe in clairvoyants or healers. But for some reason, I don't reject it. Maybe because, right now, I'm willing to try anything.
A familiar smell interrupts my thoughts. Mrs. Li opens a lunch container and sets it on the table. Inside is homemade food, still warm. The scent of chicken soup and fresh vegetables fills the room, and for the first time in weeks, I feel a flicker of hunger.
CHAPTER 8
The engine goes silent, leaving only the echo of stillness behind. The driver glances at me through the rearview mirror. His eyes show a mixture of curiosity and concern. He waits for me to get out, but I remain motionless, as if the car seat were the last safe place I had left.
"Do you need help, ma'am?" he asks, his voice soft, as if trying to pierce the wall of my silence.
It takes me a few seconds to respond. Do I need help? The question echoes in my mind, but I can't seem to find a clear answer. How could anyone help me when I don't even know what I need myself?
"No," I reply in a low voice, almost a whisper, as I open the door with trembling hands. My fingers cling to the edge of the frame like it's a lifeline, though I know I can't stay here forever.
I step out slowly, but my legs feel weak, as if they no longer belong to me. Every step takes effort, and the ground beneath my feet seems unsteady. In front of me rises the mansion, modern and imposing, with its massive windows and flawless design. It's the same house I've lived in for years, the place I once called home. Now it feels different. Strange. Hostile.
I feel like a stranger in my own home…
I walk toward the entrance with unsteady steps and stop just before crossing the threshold. A tightness grips my chest, as if my body is warning me that something is wrong. That this place is no longer safe. That it no longer belongs to me. I take a deep breath, but the air doesn't reach my lungs. I step inside.
Silence is the first thing that hits me.
There used to be life here. Hu Ge's presence lingered in every corner—in the sound of his footsteps down the hallway, in his scent that filled the rooms, in the ticking of his desk clock as he worked late into the night. Now, nothing. Only an emptiness that seems to have swallowed everything that once felt familiar.
I close the door behind me and place my bag on the table in the foyer. The house is still perfect, pristine, but it feels dead. As if the soul that once lived in it has vanished.
I walk slowly into the main living room. Every piece of furniture is in its place, every detail untouched… The cushions we bought together in our first year of marriage, the coffee table where we'd leave unfinished cups of tea, the portrait I took down weeks ago and never put back up. None of it belongs to me anymore.
My home has become a cage.
The knot in my throat tightens, and I feel like I'm suffocating. I need to leave. I need to escape this place that now chokes me.
I reach into my bag and fumble for my phone. I don't have anyone specific in mind—just a desperate need to find some way out. I unlock the screen and scroll through my contacts, but there's no one I can call. No one who could understand what I'm feeling without making me feel ashamed.
Then I see it…
The card Mrs. Li gave me at the hospital is still with me, close. I take it in my trembling hands and examine it, as if the printed words might offer an answer. My first instinct is to drop it and forget this ever happened. I don't believe in healers or clairvoyants. I don't believe in magical solutions. Then again, I didn't believe in Hu Ge's betrayal either… and yet, it's real. As real as the pain consuming me now.
My fingers shake as I dial the number. One… two… three rings.
"Good afternoon."
His voice is deep, calm, with a kind of absolute stillness that sends a chill through me. He doesn't ask who I am. He just speaks, as if he'd been expecting my call. I wet my lips, my mouth dry.
"Uh… hello. My name is Bai Yifei." My voice sounds tense, broken. "I was given your number by a friend… well, actually, my friend's mother. I'd like to make an appointment with you."
The silence on the other end lasts only a second.
"I believe now is a good time."
My body tenses.
"Now?"
"Yes," he says, his tone still steady, without a trace of hesitation. "I'll send you the address. Will you be able to come in two hours?"
"I can," I answer.
Something in the way he speaks makes my skin prickle. It's not the words themselves—but the certainty behind them. As if this weren't just a regular appointment, but something that had already been written.
"Thank you…" I murmur, not even sure why.
"Don't thank me until I've healed the wound in your heart." He hangs up.
My breath catches.
The air escapes my lungs all at once. My fingers grip the phone tightly, as if it were the only thing tethering me to reality. He doesn't know me. He knows nothing about me. So how could he say something like that with such confidence?
My legs buckle slightly, and for a moment, I have to sit down. The house remains silent, but now it's no longer an empty silence. Now, the echo of his words fills every corner.
I close my eyes. I'm not okay. And somehow, this man understood it in seconds.
I rise abruptly. I can't stay here. I glance around, taking in the setting of what I once thought was my life. Every object, every memory, every detail is saturated with the presence of a man who no longer belongs to me. This place suffocates me.
I grab my coat from the rack with shaking hands. I don't bother checking how I look, whether my hair is a mess, or whether I still smell like the hospital. None of that matters now.
I walk toward the door, but before opening it, I stop. I look back at the house one last time. I don't know why—whether to say goodbye to who I used to be or to accept what's coming. I exhale sharply and open it.
The cold afternoon air hits my face, though it feels less oppressive than the air inside. I take a step outside. Then another. I don't look back.
I'm going to find the Healer.
*****
The taxi moves through the illuminated city, but I don't see the signs or the faces of the passersby. My mind is trapped in a whirlwind of thoughts, as if every memory from the past few days had turned into a sharp blade spinning relentlessly inside me. Ge, the scarf, the reflection in the sunglasses, the mistress's message, the collapse in my office. Everything loops in my head, again and again, not letting me breathe.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the images, but it's useless. Everything feels unreal, like I'm caught in a nightmare I can't wake up from. And yet, I know it's the truth. The painful, devastating truth.
The car stops abruptly, and the driver looks at me through the rearview mirror.
"We're here, ma'am."
I blink several times before reacting. My body feels heavier than usual, as if I've aged a thousand years in a single day. I pay the fare with trembling hands and step out of the car, feeling the cold night air strike my face. The taxi disappears into the traffic, leaving me alone in front of the building where the healer is.
It's not a hidden or eerie place like I had imagined. It's an ordinary building, with no luxury or mystical symbols. People walk past on the sidewalk without a glance, lost in their own lives. The world keeps turning, as if what I'm about to do doesn't matter at all. But to me, this moment is a beginning. If I walk in, nothing will ever be the same again.
A shiver runs down my back as I climb the steps slowly. Each movement echoes inside me, as if every step draws me closer to a truth I'm not sure I'm ready to face. When I reach the second floor, I see the letter A on the door. I stop, hesitating.
My fingers tremble before rising to touch the wood. What am I doing here? For a second, I want to turn around and leave. I still have the option to run. But I don't. I take a deep breath and knock gently on the door. The sound echoes in my ears like a distant drum.
A few seconds later, it opens.
CHAPTER 9
The smell of incense is the first thing that hits me. It's not floral or sweet. It's a deep, heavy scent—like the kind found in ancient temples, where time seems to have stopped and the air is thick with centuries of prayers and silence. The smoke floats in the room, forming spirals that dance in the dim lamplight. It's the kind of scent that wraps around you, making you feel small—and at the same time, part of something much greater.
My eyes meet his. Blue. Bright. Intimidating. He's not an old man in robes with strange necklaces. He's not a mystic holding a crystal ball. He's a middle-aged man, bald, with light gray hairs on his eyebrows that lend him an air of wisdom without needing to speak. His face is calm, but there's something in his gaze that sees beyond the obvious—as if he could read every one of my thoughts, every one of my wounds.
"Come in. Don't just stand there."
His voice isn't just sound. It's like a vibration that passes through me, soothing my nerves and yet intensifying my curiosity. There's authority in his tone, but it's not domineering. It's a voice that invites trust, like he knows I'm standing on the edge of a cliff and he's ready to hold my hand so I don't fall.
I take one step. Then another. I cross the threshold. The door closes behind me with a soft click, and the sound echoes in my ears like a distant chime. There's no turning back. I'm here, in this place that doesn't seem to belong to the world I know, facing a man who seems to know more about me than I'm ready to admit.
The apartment is small, but not claustrophobic. The walls are painted a warm color, and the soft lighting creates an atmosphere that invites calm. In one corner, a fish tank glows gently. Orange fish swim peacefully inside, as if they have no worries in the world. It's a strange contrast to the storm churning inside me.
Walter walks slowly to the center of the room, where there's a small sofa and a low table with an open book. There are no mystical symbols, no candles, no strange objects. Everything is simple—almost ordinary—and that unsettles me even more. I expected something… theatrical. But this, this normalcy, is what unnerves me the most.
"Have a seat," he says, gesturing kindly toward the sofa.
I obey, feeling my legs give in under the weight of my body. My hands are cold, and I place them on my knees, trying to steady them. Walter sits across from me, his eyes locked on mine. There's no urgency in his movements, no tension in his posture. It's as if time has stopped for him—and now he's willing to stop it for me too.
"How are you feeling?" he asks, with a voice that seems to resonate deep inside me.
I could lie. I could say I'm fine, that everything's under control, that I don't need help. But the words leave me before I can stop them.
"Scared," I whisper, realizing how vulnerable I suddenly feel.
He doesn't react with surprise. He just nods, as if he already knew. As if he's seen this moment play out a thousand times, in a thousand different people, and knows exactly what I need to hear.
"Trust me," he says, taking my hands in his. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm here to help."
His touch is warm and comforting. There's no tension. No judgment in his eyes. And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I don't need to be on guard. Like I can lower my defenses—if only for a moment.
"When you feel ready, we'll move to the other room," he says, rising and gently gesturing for me to follow him.
I've felt ready since the moment I walked in. Strange, but ready. So I stand and follow him. The idea that he could be a murderer preparing to chop me into pieces crosses my mind. But then I remember Mrs. Li has visited him and she's still alive. That reassures me… somewhat.
The area we enter is simple, with a couch in the center and a chair beside it. There are no unnecessary decorations, just a quiet space that invites introspection. I sit on the couch, and Walter settles beside me, placing a hand on my left shoulder.
"Tell me who you are and why your eyes look so sad," he says, his voice a whisper that seems to speak directly to my soul.
I frown, because I don't like giving away too much about myself. Privacy has always been my top priority in life, and now this man wants me to erase it and tell him who I am.
"My name is Yifei, and I'm an architect. I was born here, into a humble family," I begin, offering details that feel meaningless.
He lets me speak, never breaking eye contact, his hand still resting on my shoulder. At times I feel warmth in that spot. At others, tingling. And sometimes, pain. Still, I continue with my monologue.
"You're here because of your husband," he interrupts. I open my eyes wide and hold my breath. "Because of what you experienced with your mother and father, you've always wanted a faithful man by your side. But now you've discovered he isn't."
My fingers grip the edge of the couch, the ground seeming to shift beneath my feet.
"If what I see is correct, it's been at least three winters since he's been with her. At first, he didn't seek her out. There were no feelings. But over time… there are."
The air leaves my lungs in a rush. I feel my stomach tighten, my body reacting before my mind can process what he just said.
"How… how do you know that?" I ask, my voice trembling with a mix of disbelief and fear.
Walter doesn't answer. He just looks at me, his expression saying I don't need explanations—only acceptance.
"If you're wondering whether he still loves you, I'll tell you: he does. Your husband does love you. However, the temptation this other woman presents is stronger than the love he feels for you," he says, his voice resonating deep within me.
A wave of dizziness washes over me, and the world seems to tilt on its axis.
"Right now, you're caught in a battle between disappointment, sadness, anger, broken dreams, shattered promises, and hope. That's what's causing the mental chaos you're experiencing. But I see that you are a strong, calm, brave, and determined woman. All of this will help you stop the chaos and focus on what you want to do."
His words float in the air, full of wisdom I can't ignore.
"The pain you're feeling isn't only about your husband," he says, his voice whispering to my soul. "It's because this has shattered the idea of what you believed love was."
My breath grows uneven, and I feel the tears beginning to blur my vision.
"You're in the second stage of grief." When I frown in confusion, he clarifies, his tone gentle. "When we go through a traumatic experience, we move through stages we must live through before it ends. The first is denial—you refuse to believe it happened. The second is anger. You're beginning to accept that it did, but you're enraged, because part of you still refuses to accept it. The third is depression. When you fully accept the truth, you start to ask, 'Why me?' Sadness floods your days, sometimes for weeks or even months—until eventually you reach acceptance. I'm here to help you become aware of what's happening without falling into depression."
I don't know what to say. I just sit there, feeling how each word strikes me with precision—a truth I can't deny.
He closes his eyes again, and then, his tone shifts.
"I see a tall man, strong and protective. It's as if he's become your guardian. But it's not a vision of the future—it's the present," he says, looking directly into my eyes. "Have you noticed, over the past year, that everything you plan professionally… succeeds?"
I stop breathing. Another man? Protective? Work? How do I make sense of this inexplicable information?
"My work does require a lot of legal support, since I have to draft contracts that need strict legal supervision. It's true that since last year—after I gave a talk about my company's mission—the contracts that have landed on my desk have all been favorable to me, almost as if someone had reviewed them thoroughly before they reached me."
"Something legal? I see a tall man, dark-haired, with dark eyes, watching you from a distance, protecting you as if you were his most precious treasure."
"Walter, I came here because my husband is unfaithful, and I need to accept that the relationship I've had for more than seven years is over. That my love wasn't enough. That none of the dreams I had with him will come true. And you're talking to me about another man?"
The atmosphere between us shifts completely. His laughter catches me off guard, and I find myself laughing too—at everything around us. For a brief moment, I don't feel pain, or sadness, or betrayal. I just feel joy.
"I have visions of your life. They may be from the past, the future, or the present," he says, returning to his calm tone. "Today I've seen that your longing for a faithful man stems from your parents' infidelity and the damage it caused you. Your husband chased after you for a long time, and you accepted him because, at that moment, you believed in his promises. Now you realize he couldn't keep them—and you're disappointed. Not in him, but in yourself. You've reached the awful conclusion that you're suffering because you didn't stand your ground. Because you let yourself be carried away by emotion. But I insist—you shouldn't blame yourself. Things happen for a reason, and destiny is already written."
"Can you see my destiny?" I ask, a little more relaxed, because Walter has uncovered parts of me that no one else ever could.
"I can. And I like what I see—because God has decided to give you what you've always asked for. And now… you're on the path to triumph."
My throat tightens, and I feel the tears begin to fall down my cheeks.
"Life is a staircase. To reach the top, you must climb step by step," he says in a voice that feels like it whispers directly to my soul. "Right now, you're leaving one step behind—and about to begin the next. And I promise… it will be a good one for you."
"So… there's no solution," I reflect, thinking about my relationship with my husband.
"Your time with him has ended. It's time to move on and leave the past behind."
"I understand…" I murmur, though my mind lingers on what the first step in that moving on might be.