The drawing room of Yunhe Villa was cloaked in quiet opulence. Sunlight slanted through tall windows, casting latticed shadows onto the polished floors. The faint scent of jasmine tea and sandalwood hung in the air—calm, composed, as if the house itself held its breath.
Everything in this villa was elegant, timeless… and painfully still.
Lin Shuyin sat on the cream-colored settee, her posture poised but relaxed, like a porcelain figurine set just right. She was dressed simply in a pale linen dress, her makeup minimal. Yet there was something distant in her eyes, like she lived half a world away from this moment.
Across from her, the other woman accepted the offered cup of tea with an easy smile. Her features were refined, her skin glowing with the kind of grace that defied age. Clad in an embroidered jade cheongsam, Yang Meilan exuded both nobility and a disarming warmth, the kind that made people instinctively lower their guard.
But Lin Shuyin had long since learned not to.
She watched Lin Shuyin for a moment in silence, then finally asked, "How have you been lately?"
Lin Shuyin offered a polite smile as she pushed the freshly poured tea across the table.
"I've been well."
Yang Meilan accepted the cup, exhaling softly. She didn't drink—just cradled the porcelain like it anchored her.
"And…" Her eyes lifted. "How has my son been treating you lately?"
The question was wrapped in silk—but it cut through the air like glass.
Lin Shuyin's fingers stilled.
Of course.
This wasn't just a kind guest. This was her mother-in-law.
The mother of the man she had been married to for three long, empty years.
Her gaze dropped to the steam curling from her untouched tea. When she finally looked up again, her eyes were unreadable.
"He's… been fine," she answered quietly.
But what was the use of saying more? What did "fine" even mean in a marriage that had always been a contract cloaked in ceremony? A performance perfected over time. A partnership built on silence.
Never on affection.
Certainly not on love.
Yang Meilan's expression softened, her smile fading at the edges. The room fell into a hush, broken only by the soft ticking of an antique clock and the heaviness of everything left unsaid between them.
"Shuyin," she said, quieter now, hesitant, "I know I may not have the right to ask, but... are you certain this is what you want?"
There it was.
The question that hung like a sword between them.
Lin Shuyin didn't flinch. She didn't look away.
Her voice, when it came, was steady.
"Yes. I'm sure."
She'd spent countless nights staring at the ceiling, listening to the silence on the other side of the bed. Wondering how long one could survive in a marriage that neither hurt nor healed—just hollowed.
A marriage of three years. No warmth. No intimacy. No real cruelty either—just distance. A perfect facade. A silent transaction between two people, sealed with red paper and gold ink, not affection.
"I'm sure," she said, her voice even.
Her hand curled slightly around her cup."I've thought about it for a long time," she continued softly. "And I know now—there's nothing left to save."
Yang Meilan reached across the table, her hand covering Lin Shuyin's. Her touch was warm. Human.
"I won't make excuses for him," she said, voice low. "I know he's cold. Distant. I used to think he'd change with time. That he'd come to care for you. But I see now… you've always given more than you received."
Her fingers tightened slightly. "And I'm sorry for that."
Lin Shuyin didn't pull away. But she didn't respond either.
Her silence said enough.
"Some things," she whispered, "once broken, can't be put back together."
Yang Meilan blinked hard, her throat moving as she swallowed. She hesitated, then asked the question slowly, as though it pained her to voice it.
"When do you plan to go through with it?"
Lin Shuyin looked up, her voice quiet—resolute.
"Next Monday."
And at that exact moment, just beyond the hallway, a floorboard creaked faintly.
He stood there.
Unseen. Uninvited.
Drawn in by instinct, not intention. Dressed in a crisp white shirt, sleeves pushed up his forearms, his tall figure half-shadowed beneath the hallway light. He hadn't meant to linger. He wasn't even sure why he'd come.
But hearing her voice—he had stopped in his tracks.
And when she said the word "Monday," something inside him shifted.
Final. Inevitable.
Irreversible.
He didn't move. Didn't speak.
Just stood there, heart caught somewhere between disbelief and something he couldn't quite name.
Back inside, Lin Shuyin continued, unaware.
"This marriage was never about love. Not for him. Not for me. It was always a deal—nothing more. A neatly written arrangement between two people."
She looked down."And after three years of silence, I've realized... no amount of loyalty can fix something that was never whole to begin with."
There was a pause.
Then a soft chuckle—sad, almost affectionate—from Madam Yang."You say that… but I think a part of you did love him."
Lin Shuyin looked up, startled.
Her lips parted.
Something flickered in her eyes—too quick to catch.
But before she could respond, the man in the hallway turned away.
He didn't wait for her answer.
He didn't hear what came next.
"Yes," she whispered. "I did."
But the hallway was already empty.
Back inside, Yang Meilan placed her teacup down gently.
"Yes. He's stubborn, cold even. But he's still my son." She exhaled.
"He may be slow to realize the things that matter, but he has a good heart. If one day… if he comes to you—not as a husband, not even as a man begging for forgiveness—but simply as someone who regrets... I only ask that you don't shut the door completely. Just… listen. Even if you can't forgive."
Lin Shuyin's eyes glistened faintly under the light.
"I'll think about it."
And that was all she could offer.
Madam Yang gave a soft nod, withdrawing her hand, folding it in her lap as though trying to fold her grief as well.
There was nothing more to say.
Outside, he gripped the stair rail, unaware that his hands had curled into fists.
He couldn't explain it—this… this thing twisting in his chest. It wasn't regret. It wasn't anger. It wasn't even heartbreak.
But something inside him had shifted.
Something that refused to settle.
And no matter how far he walked from that moment, he knew—it would follow.
He told himself it didn't matter.
He told himself it was better this way.
But the echo of her words followed him, haunting and unrelenting.
Next Monday.
It shouldn't have mattered.
But it did.
God help him—it did.