The next morning came with a rare warmth.
Sunlight filtered through the curtains. Tang Yueru sat at the vanity, brushing her hair when the door creaked open.
Lu Shenyan stood in the doorway, already dressed—black suit, crisp white shirt, silver tie pin that gleamed like ice.
"I'm leaving for the office," he said.
Yueru didn't turn to face him. "You don't need to tell me."
"I do. You're expected at the gallery opening this evening. Our appearance matters."
She sighed softly. "Do we matter?"
He paused.
"You're my wife."
"That wasn't an answer."
---
That night, she wore a crimson dress. Silk, off-shoulder, striking. Not because she wanted to impress anyone.
Because if she had to keep pretending, she might as well do it flawlessly.
The Lu family's private gallery was packed. Art collectors. Investors. Media. Everyone buzzing around like bees circling honeyed lies.
Lu Shenyan stood beside her, hand on her lower back again—just enough pressure to feel possessive.
To the world, they looked perfect.
To her, they still weren't real.
---
She wandered away briefly, needing space. Her gaze landed on a painting in the corner.
A stormy sea. A single paper boat drifting between waves.
She stared at it too long.
"You like it?" his voice said behind her.
"It's lonely," she murmured. "Like it's waiting to drown."
He looked at the painting for a long moment. "I bought it the year I took over the company."
She turned to him. "Why?"
He loosened his cufflink silently, then rolled back the sleeve.
There it was.
A scar.
Thin. Jagged. Pale.
Right beneath the wrist where his luxury watch usually sat.
Her breath caught. "What happened?"
His tone didn't change. "I was seventeen. I tried to jump off the Lu Tower."
The words hit her like a slap.
"Why are you telling me this now?"
He met her gaze—finally without armor.
"Because you asked me last night what I wanted from you."
She could barely speak. "And this is your answer?"
"No," he said, voice low. "This is my truth."
---
She reached for his hand, gently brushing her fingers over the scar. He didn't pull away.
"You didn't die," she whispered.
"No," he murmured. "But a part of me never came back."
Their eyes locked.
For once, they weren't strangers, weren't actors in a scripted performance.
They were two broken people staring into a mirror made of the other.
---
They didn't kiss.
They didn't need to.
But when he laced his fingers with hers for the rest of the night—she didn't let go.
---