Hua's POV — Present
After I declined Yichen's offer to grab dinner, I went straight to the bus stop.
The night air was sharp and cold, brushing against my skin like tiny needles.
Perfect. Just what I needed—more discomfort.
I crossed my arms, staring blankly at the empty street. The city lights flickered against the glass of the bus shelter, and every sound—the wind, the hum of cars, even my own heartbeat—felt louder than usual.
I didn't know why I was mad.
Actually, no—I did know.
I was mad at him.
Liang Yichen.
I didn't want to talk to him, didn't want to see his stupidly perfect face or his fake, polite smiles. I didn't understand him at all. One second he was treating his secretary like she was made of glass—soft voice, gentle tone, subtle smile—and the next, he was talking to me like I was an unpaid intern who forgot her place.
I mean, sure, we were strangers...
But also—we were married.
I sighed so hard it fogged up the glass next to me.
God, what kind of joke was this marriage? A contract? A business move? A cosmic punishment?
My chest ached in that weird way it does when you realize something you shouldn't.
Because deep down… I think I finally started to understand my own feelings.
Jealousy.
That's what it was.
I hated to admit it, but yeah—I might've been slightly, just slightly, jealous.
But I hated him, right?
So how could I be jealous of something I didn't even want?
My thoughts were interrupted by a sudden plop.
Then another.
Then a thousand more.
It started raining. Heavily.
Of course it did.
I groaned. "Perfect. Of course I didn't bring an umbrella because the weather forecast said clear skies."
Now I was standing there—cold, soaked, frustrated, and emotionally confused.
A wonderful way to end my fantastic day at work.
Then my phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Then nonstop.
I glanced down. A dozen notifications from social media.
My stomach dropped.
It was pictures.
From the wedding.
Yiran's wedding.
My ex.
And his new wife.
The photos were everywhere—him smiling, her radiant. They looked so happy.
So... perfect.
A single tear hit my phone screen.
And I knew it wasn't the rain.
She was stunning, I couldn't even deny it.
And he—he looked the way I'd always dreamed he'd look with me.
But then my eyes froze on one tiny, devastating detail.
Her earrings.
Those earrings were mine.
I blinked. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe they just looked similar.
But no. I remembered them too well.
I bought them when I was just an university student, in a tiny hidden market that smelled like sandalwood and rain.
I'd saved up for them all year—working late shifts, surviving on instant noodles—just to buy that one precious thing. I wore them every day for a year. Until I forgot them at Yiran's apartment.
Right before he "broke up" with me.
More like: right before he got engaged to someone else.
And now… she was wearing them.
At their wedding.
The fury that rushed through me was immediate. Hot. Raw.
He knew how much those earrings meant to me. He knew everything.
And yet he let her wear them.
On their wedding day.
That was it.
Something inside me snapped.
"This damn bus can go to hell!" I hissed under my breath.
To hell with this bus—I was going to get my earrings back myself.
I ran. Through the rain. Through the streets. Through every ounce of pain in my chest.
By the time I reached his building, I was completely drenched and out of breath.
And then I saw them.
Standing under the building's golden lights.
Yiran and his new wife.
Kissing.
My heart cracked again.
How many times could a single heart break before it stopped altogether?
I stood there frozen, until suddenly—something covered my eyes.
A hand.
I gasped and spun around.
And there he was.
Yichen.
Even under the pouring rain, he looked effortlessly good—shirt clinging to his chest, hair wet and disheveled, expression unreadable.
"Why do you always come back here?" he asked, voice low and calm, almost drowned by the rain.
That was… a good question.
One I didn't have the answer to.
I forced a shaky smile. "Are you going to drive me home again?"
"Not in this condition."
What was that supposed to mean?
Before I could ask, he grabbed my wrist and pulled me down the street.
"Wait—what are you doing?!" I tried to resist, but his grip was firm.
He didn't answer. Not once. Just kept walking until we reached another building a few meters away. He dragged me inside, into an elevator, and pressed the button for the 20th floor.
I frowned. "Where are we?"
He didn't look at me when he replied.
"My place."
My brain short-circuited.
His place??
I didn't even think we were at the "see each other outside work" stage, let alone the "inside his luxurious penthouse" stage.
When the elevator doors opened, I just stood there—speechless.
The apartment was insane.
Spacious, sleek, modern—huge windows overlooking the city. Everything gleamed.
It was the kind of home that screamed money and loneliness.
He grabbed a towel and dropped it on my head, rubbing my hair a bit too roughly before stepping back.
Then he handed me slippers.
"Your clothes are soaked. I'll get you something to change into."
He shrugged off his suit jacket, and I couldn't help but notice how the white shirt clung to his shoulders, the fabric slightly translucent from the rain.
Focus, Hua. Focus.
As I followed him further inside, my eyes widened even more. Paintings, chandeliers, velvet sofas—everything was excessive.
"Are you cold?" he asked suddenly.
I nodded automatically.
He pressed a button on a sleek remote, and a massive electric fireplace came to life, filling the room with a soft glow.
I blinked. "Did you just… flex your heating system at me?"
He ignored me. Of course he did.
Then he led me to his dressing room—bigger than my entire apartment—and handed me a crisp white shirt.
"Here. Wear this."
The fabric was ridiculously soft. Expensive. It even smelled expensive.
Or maybe it just smelled like him.
I touched the collar gently, testing the fabric against my cheek.
It was so soft it made me laugh quietly.
He gave me a weird look.
"Sorry," I said quickly. "Just… uh, testing the quality."
He raised a brow. "Don't get your makeup on it."
Then he walked off before I could reply.
"Unbelievable," I muttered, slipping into the shirt. It was far too big, but warm.
When I came back, he wasn't in the living room.
I followed the sound of movement—into the kitchen.
He was cooking.
Actually cooking.
"What are you doing?" I asked, curious.
He looked up, eyes catching mine for a second too long.
"Dinner," he said flatly.
"Oh. How do I look?" I asked, tugging on the hem of his shirt like a child seeking validation.
He coughed, eyes flickering away. "It's… perfect."
That didn't sound convincing, but I smiled anyway.
I stepped closer, trying to peek at the pan.
He was cutting vegetables with the precision of a surgeon, but his gaze kept drifting toward me.
I could feel it—his eyes on my face, my hands, the curve of my neck.
When I looked up, our eyes met.
The air between us shifted.
Warm. Heavy. Charged.
He dropped the knife, slowly leaned forward, and reached for me.
My heart stuttered.
What… what was he trying to do?
His hand brushed my collar, his face dangerously close.
Rainwater still clung to his hair, dripping down the side of his jaw.
I froze, every nerve in my body screaming.
Then, instinctively, I closed my eyes—too scared to see what would happen next.