"He… that bastard…"
The elevator doors closed, sealing her in a mirrored box of fluorescent light and suffocating memories. Su Rui finally let out the words she'd been holding in since she fled the office.
She leaned heavily against the elevator wall, chest heaving, throat dry, her heartbeat crashing against her ribs like waves in a storm.
All that careful acting—
The composure, the silence, the role she had rehearsed down to every breath—
Broken.
Undone by one sentence.
She thought she had buried that part of her life so deep even time had forgotten it.
But the moment he called her name, that buried part clawed its way back, raw and unstoppable.
The past spilled open like ink across water.
—
She remembered the first time she met Shen Yichen.
It was at a charity gala—crowded, glittering, noisy. She stood alone in a deep navy satin gown, her heels aching, her soul even more so.
Then he appeared from the crowd, champagne glass in hand, eyes steady, voice quiet:
"You don't like crowds, do you?"
It wasn't flirtation.
It wasn't a pick-up line.
It was simply… someone seeing her.
That one sentence pierced something in her.
From then on, he appeared everywhere.
He'd wait outside studios. Bring her food between shoots. Shield her from pointless socializing. He didn't promise her the world. He gave her space to breathe.
Eleven days later, she married him.
It was madness.
It was love.
In the beginning, it was everything she dreamed of.
Cooking together. Watching documentaries on the couch. Grocery runs that ended in laughing fits in the frozen food aisle. She gave up three endorsement deals and moved out of the penthouse apartment she'd loved—because none of that mattered next to him.
She had never loved someone so fiercely, so recklessly.
But life didn't stay soft for long.
She got busier. He grew quieter.
He still waited for her, but no longer asked how her day went. He stopped reaching for her hand. Her photos went unread, her messages unanswered.
The silence between them thickened.
She tried to fill it with jokes. Then with complaints. Then with fights.
She wasn't angry—she was scared.
Scared of losing him.
Scared of being unworthy.
Scared that the thing she thought was "forever" was already slipping through her fingers.
Then came that night.
Late, after filming, she was driving through the city when she saw them—
Shen Yichen, walking beside a woman in a red dress outside a hotel.
The woman's laugh rang through the street. Her hand brushed his arm.
And Shen Yichen didn't pull away.
He didn't lean in either—but he didn't walk away.
They disappeared into the hotel together.
The automatic doors closed behind them.
And so did everything Su Rui believed in.
She didn't scream.
She didn't chase.
She sat in her car, fingers white on the steering wheel, heart cracking inside a silent chest.
That night, something in her died.
Not just love.
Her pride.
Her certainty.
Her self-worth.
The next morning, she was different.
Sharper. Louder. Cruel, sometimes.
She fought over little things. She threw barbed words like knives.
And she never—not once—mentioned what she saw.
Because if she said it out loud, it would be real.
And she wasn't ready for the truth to win.
She still loved him.
Even when it hurt.
Even when it humiliated her.
Even when she didn't recognize herself anymore.
And so, when Shen Yichen finally placed the divorce papers on her desk, she stared at them for a long time.
Then, without a word, she picked up the pen and signed.
No drama. No demands.
Only one sentence left behind:
"You're free."
At the time, she thought she was being dignified.
That she was still in control.
But looking back now—sweaty palms gripping a mop cart, her reflection distorted in the elevator mirror—she realized that wasn't pride.
It was fear.
It was her last, trembling way of pretending she hadn't lost.
And yet, strangely, she no longer hated that woman she used to be.
She could look back now and not flinch.
Not cry. Not scream. Not curse him again.
Just quietly admit—
Loved, is still a kind of love.
It didn't last.
It wasn't enough.
But it was real.
And that, in its own tragic, fragile way, would always mean something.
Even if it ended in silence.
Even if the scars never fully faded.
To have loved that deeply… meant she once lived.