Lu Shifeng glanced at her, nodded, and left by himself.
He knew that Zhuang Heng had always been favored by his mother, so since she wanted to stay, she could stay.
He took the driver's car back home, where the living room on the first floor was very quiet; the usual little wife who would sit on the sofa waiting for him was not there tonight, leaving it cold and empty. He went upstairs in the dark, pushed open the bedroom door, and moonlight spilled inside.
In the hazy light and shadows, he saw a small figure curled up in bed, looking very helpless.
As he approached to take a closer look, it was indeed her, eyes tightly shut, sleeping restlessly. He wondered if she was having a nightmare; her forehead was damp with cold sweat. He reached out to gently touch her pale cheek, the delicate sensation like a fragile porcelain doll. On the bedside table were torn warming stickers and half a cup of cold brown sugar water.
So desolate.
