Early Morning

The sofa was so hard it made her bones ache.

When Shen Zhi sat up from that expensive Italian handcrafted sofa, the sky outside was a lifeless grayish blue. She hadn't slept all night, just lay there with her eyes open, watching the darkness outside the window slowly thin until she could make out the blurred silhouette of the silk tree in the garden.

Her neck was stiff as rusted iron. She moved it and heard a faint, crisp crack from her joints.

The light in the dressing room was still on. The ivory-white mermaid gown that had tormented her all night—the one Lu Jingnian had pulled off her—was now carelessly draped over the velvet ottoman. Wrinkled. Disheveled. Like a cicada shell that had been forcibly shed, no longer vital. For the first time in three years, she didn't hang it back in the climate-controlled wardrobe at the first light of morning, press it smooth, and act as if nothing had happened.

She also didn't go to the bathroom. She didn't take the精油 bath that Lu Jingnian specified. She didn't coil her hair into that meticulous bun that imitated Lin Shi's. And she certainly didn't spray that tuberose perfume called "Vol de Nuit" on her wrists and behind her ears.

Instead, she walked barefoot onto the cold, smooth marble floor.

A piercing chill shot up from her soles, jolting her mind—muddled all night—awake as if doused with ice water. Step by step, she walked down the hallway that seemed endless. In the empty villa, the only sound was the soft yet distinct patter of her bare feet hitting the ground. That sound reminded her that this house was alive—just living under another woman's rules.

For the first time, she felt that Cloud Perch Villa was so vast, so empty, so cold.

There was already movement in the kitchen.

Shen Zhi stopped at the doorway, not entering. She saw two uniformed maids bustling at the counter, moving with the practiced efficiency of programmed machines. One was carefully spooning pale yellow scrambled eggs onto a bone china plate; the other, using tweezers, was precisely placing slices of black truffle, thin as cicada wings, onto the eggs.

A rich, overpowering aroma wafted out.

French scrambled eggs with black truffle, served with lightly toasted whole wheat bread and a small cup of hand-poured Blue Mountain coffee. That was Lin Shi's standard breakfast. It was said that when she studied at Cambridge, she ate this every morning.

For three years, this had been Shen Zhi's breakfast too. She had always thought it was Lu Jingnian's obsessive cleanliness—as a control freak—demanding that everyone in the household follow a healthy, precise nutritional regimen. She even thought Lu Jingnian treated her well enough, at least in terms of food and clothing, never being stingy.

Now she understood. There was no health regimen. He was simply too lazy to remember another menu for a stand-in.

Without a word, over three years, he had reshaped even her stomach into Lin Shi's mold. Fucking ridiculous. She had never once questioned why a girl from a southern city, who had grown up eating rice porridge with pickled vegetables, had come to "love" this greasy, expensive Western breakfast.

A young maid who was plating the food saw her, froze for a moment, then bowed respectfully. "Madam, you're awake. Breakfast will be ready soon."

Shen Zhi said nothing. She just looked at the breakfast prepared for "Lin Shi," then turned and walked toward the garden.

Behind her came the lowered, puzzled voices of the maids.

"What's wrong with Madam today? She hasn't combed her hair, and she's not wearing shoes..."

"I don't know. And doesn't she usually come down at exactly eight?"

"Shh, don't talk. The master is still in the study..."

The voices soon faded. Shen Zhi pushed open the glass door leading to the garden. The damp morning breeze brushed against her, raising goosebumps on her bare calves. But this cold felt good to her.

The silk tree stood quietly in the center of the garden.

A grayish-blue mist clung to it, and those pink, pom-pom-like flowers appeared and disappeared in the haze, carrying an unreal, melancholic beauty.

Shen Zhi walked over and sat down on the white bench beneath the tree. The cold ironwork sensation spread from her thighs, merging with the chill in her feet. She looked up at the silk flowers and suddenly remembered three years ago, when Lu Jingnian had first brought her here.

Back then, pointing at this tree, he had spoken to her in a tone that was almost gentle: "Do you like silk flowers?"

Flattered, she had thought it was his way of showing her affection, so she nodded vigorously, saying she loved them, that they were beautiful. From that day on, she had genuinely tried to "love" silk flowers. She looked up their flower language, learned about their habits, and even tried to paint them.

She had done everything to align herself with that rare "preference" he had revealed.

Now she realized, he hadn't been asking her at all. He had been looking through her eyes, asking someone far away across the ocean. All the tenderness in his eyes had never, from the very beginning, had anything to do with her, Shen Zhi.

Shen Zhi lowered her gaze to the armrest of the bench.

On it, two characters were carved with a knife.

Lin Shi.

The strokes were deep, the penmanship sharp, carrying a forceful possessiveness that brooked no argument. It was clearly Lu Jingnian's handwriting. The carvings were already somewhat old, the edges blurred by wind and rain, but the two characters remained clearly branded into the cold ironwork, like a mark of sovereignty.

So that was it.

So this tree, this bench, the entire garden's scenery—all belonged to another woman. She was merely a passerby temporarily allowed in, to sit here and admire someone else's view.

She reached out her finger. The icy tip gently traced the two characters, stroke by stroke.

"Lin."

"Shi."

Every turn, every flourish, felt as if Lu Jingnian were holding her finger, teaching her how to write another woman's name. That feeling was even more nauseating than seeing the letter last night. The letter from Lin Shi was a provocation. But these carvings left by Lu Jingnian—they were evidence of a crime.

Evidence that he had personally erased her existence from every corner of this villa.

She suddenly wanted to laugh. Laugh at her own three years of stupidity. Laugh that she had played three years of devotion under a tree carved with another woman's name.

She was the century's biggest fool.

A gust of wind rose again, scattering some of the morning mist. A faint light began to break through the clouds. Shen Zhi withdrew her hand, stood up, and silently walked back into the cold house.

It was time to take back what was hers.

Back in the main building, the house was still eerily quiet.

Shen Zhi walked up to the second floor and stopped in front of Lu Jingnian's study door.

The heavy, carved wooden door was tightly shut. The hysterical overseas phone call from last night had faded. In its place was a very vintage, intermittent tapping sound.

Tap.

Tap, tap.

Tap.

It was the sound of a typewriter. Lu Jingnian had a vintage German-made typewriter. He said using it to write helped him stay absolutely focused and calm. He only used it for the most important documents, or... the most important letters.

Shen Zhi leaned against the wall opposite the door. The cold wall sent a shiver through her exposed back. She listened quietly.

He was probably writing a reply to Lin Shi.

Using that treasured typewriter, letter by letter, typing out his longing, his reassurance, his promises. He might be telling her to wait a little longer, that he would soon take care of all the "unimportant" matters here, then come to take her home.

And she, Shen Zhi, was one of those "unimportant" matters.

The typewriter's rhythm was steady. Each crisp tap was like a small hammer, striking precisely at the already fractured bone of what she had called "marriage."

Tap.

The crack deepened by another inch.

Tap, tap.

The bone began to splinter.

Tap.

The pain had already gone numb.

Shen Zhi closed her eyes, but the corner of her mouth involuntarily curled upward. She thought, when he finishes this letter, puts it in an envelope, and sticks on a stamp, he will find that the recipient's address is etched in his memory. But the signature—the place that should read "Your only Jingnian"—will have no one left qualified to sign it.

She listened to that rhythmic tapping, as if it would never stop, and suddenly felt that it sounded wonderful.

It wasn't writing a love letter.

It was, word by word, typing out the most precise, most ruthless epitaph for her ridiculous, tragic three-year marriage.