Shen Anran moved through her days as if walking on glass. Every gesture was measured, every word carefully chosen. She had learned early that a single misstep could invite criticism or, worse, cold judgment. The villa, so pristine and orderly, felt more like a cage with each passing day.
I tried to tell myself it was all in my imagination. Maybe he didn't mean it, maybe he wasn't… angry. But then I saw the way his eyes narrowed at me across the dining table, how his jaw tightened when I mentioned a minor mistake at work I hadn't even committed.
"Why wasn't this done?" he asked, voice calm but sharp enough to make my chest ache. I opened my mouth to explain, but the words caught in my throat. What could I say? That I hadn't done it, that someone else had? He wouldn't have believed me. He never believed me.
Lin Qianyu, dressed impeccably as always, arrived that evening under the guise of visiting for tea.
Her smile was sweet, innocent, but in her eyes danced a predator's satisfaction. She had spent months learning every nuance of our lives, every subtle fracture, every moment of vulnerability.
She knew exactly how to exploit Lu Beichen's pride and suspicion.
"Anran, you've been so busy lately. I hope you're not overworking yourself," she said softly, sitting down beside him as if she belonged there.
Lu Beichen barely glanced at her, but I could feel the unspoken words lingering between them.
I smiled politely, though it was difficult.
"I'm fine, thank you." My voice sounded small, barely above a whisper.
Lin Qianyu's lips curved into a knowing smile.
"Of course… but mistakes happen when one is tired, don't they?" Her gaze flicked toward me, almost casual, but it carried the weight of accusation.
I stiffened, my stomach knotting. Her words weren't outright, but the implication was clear. Mistakes. That was what I was now—someone who could err, someone who could be blamed. And Lu Beichen… he listened. He always listened, and he always assumed the worst.
"Are you saying she made a mistake?" he asked, calm yet unnervingly precise. His eyes finally met mine, cold and scrutinizing.
"No," I said quickly. "I—" I paused, realizing that even a single explanation might sound like an excuse. My throat tightened. "I haven't—there's nothing…"
Lin Qianyu leaned slightly closer, her voice soft, careful.
"Of course, Beichen. I just thought it might be stressful for Anran. Perhaps she overlooked something because she's… preoccupied."
She allowed the word to hang, heavy and suggestive.
Preoccupied. I felt my chest tighten. My thoughts raced. Was she insinuating something? Something personal? My heart pounded violently, yet I had no idea what to say.
Lu Beichen's gaze hardened, and the room felt smaller, colder.
"Is that so?" he murmured. He didn't move, but the tone of his voice made it clear: he was already judging.
I wanted to disappear. To vanish into the walls. My own home, which had once felt safe, was now a battlefield I could never win.
Every glance, every word, every subtle gesture could be twisted, manipulated, used against me.
Later that night, I found myself alone in the study, attempting to calm the storm inside me.
My hands trembled as I picked up the notebook where I kept a record of work tasks, just to prove I hadn't erred. Every page, every note, was a shield I desperately hoped would protect me from the inevitable accusations.
I whispered to myself, "Why is it always me? Why do I feel like I'm walking through fire every day?"
Outside, Lin Qianyu's soft laughter echoed faintly from the hallway, though she wasn't near me. It was as if the sound had been etched into the walls, a reminder of her presence, her power, her control.
I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms. Anger and fear battled within me, but the stronger feeling was exhaustion. The exhaustion of living under constant scrutiny, suspicion, and the silent judgment of the man I had once trusted completely.
The days that followed were no easier. Lu Beichen's coldness became more deliberate, his scrutiny sharper.
A misplaced dish, a slight hesitation in conversation, even a barely audible sigh could draw a questioning glance or a pointed comment.
"Why didn't you notice this earlier?" he would ask softly, making the words sting more than a yell ever could.
And Lin Qianyu… she continued to appear, always perfectly timed, always smiling, always insinuating. It was never direct, never accusatory, but it was enough.
Enough to make me doubt myself, enough to make Lu Beichen doubt me, enough to slowly chip away at the fragile foundation of our marriage.
I tried to remind myself that patience and loyalty had always been my strength. I told myself that my love, quiet and enduring, could survive even this. But the nights were long, and sleep offered no comfort. In the dark, I would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if anyone would ever believe me, if anyone would ever see me for who I truly was.
One evening, as I prepared tea in the kitchen, I heard Lu Beichen speaking on the phone with Lin Qianyu nearby. His voice was low, precise.
"She didn't send the files again?" he asked sharply.
"She's been preoccupied," Lin Qianyu replied softly, almost casual, but each word carried insinuation.
"Perhaps you should check on her yourself."
My fingers froze on the teapot. I hadn't sent any files. I hadn't been involved in any mistakes. And yet, the implication was already festering. I felt my heart squeeze painfully, the familiar sense of helplessness washing over me.
"I'll take care of it," he said, the words deceptively calm, but the tone… it was a warning. A judgment.
I wanted to shout, to explain, to defend myself—but I didn't. I had learned by then that explanations would only delay the storm, never stop it. Instead, I whispered to the empty kitchen,
"I can't do anything right for him, can I?"
No answer came. There never was one. And so, I endured. I smiled when I had to, I remained silent when I feared speaking, and I clung to hope like a fragile thread. A thread that might soon be cut.
I didn't know it yet, but Lin Qianyu's games were only beginning. And Lu Beichen's indifference, which had once been cold, was starting to sharpen into something far more dangerous—a quiet judgment, a slow, deliberate punishment that would leave marks far deeper than anyone could see.
I closed my eyes that night, praying silently that somehow, I would survive what was coming. And deep down, I knew survival alone might not be enough.