Emily Jordan.

She wore a large white shirt—one of Frederick’s.

She huddled in his arms like a frightened kitten seeking shelter.

Hearing the door open, she flinched, stiffening, then burrowed even deeper into his embrace.

"Lydia, you’re back." Frederick looked up at me, a flicker of unease in his eyes.

It was the panic of being caught, quickly masked by practiced composure.

"Emily’s rented apartment was awful. There was a barbecue stall downstairs, the soundproofing was terrible, and drunks kept knocking. She just got back from abroad, and her mental state is fragile. The doctor said she shouldn’t be under stress, so I brought her here first."

His explanation flowed smoothly, as if rehearsed.

I changed my shoes and hung my bag on the coat hanger.

I kicked the pink slippers aside.

"The guest room hasn’t been cleaned," I said casually. "The sheets are still in the closet."

Frederick frowned, a flash of displeasure at my coldness.

"She’s afraid of the dark. Sleeping alone in the guest room will give her nightmares. Besides, it’s too quiet. I’ll stay with her in the living room tonight."

Emily finally lifted her head from his chest.

Her face was streaked with tears, eyes red and swollen, lips pale—pitiful.

She looked at me timidly, her voice barely a whisper:

"Miss Sinclair, I’m sorry… it’s all my fault… Frederick was just worried something might happen… I… I’ll leave tomorrow, I won’t bother you."

She reached out and clutched Frederick’s sleeve.

He immediately patted her back tenderly, voice gentle yet cutting: "What nonsense are you talking about? How could you walk in this state? What if something else happens? Stay here until you recover."

Then he turned to me, eyes sharp, tone commanding:

"Lydia Sinclair, you’re sensible. Emily is a patient now, and also our friend. Don’t hold it against her. You should have that much compassion, shouldn’t you?"

Friend?

Whose friend?

The one sleeping in her fiancé’s arms?

I looked at them.

Under the light, how harmonious, how well-matched they seemed—one broken, needing saving; the other strong, eager to save.

And I, the normal person standing straight, emotionally stable, capable of handling everything alone, felt like the most superfluous presence in the room.

I suddenly felt exhausted.

Not physically, but deep in my soul.

Like walking a long road, only to find the destination a swamp.

"Whatever." I didn’t look at them again and went to the master bedroom.

That night, I locked the door.

Lying in bed, I didn’t toss and turn as I’d imagined.

Perhaps because my heart was dead, my body had activated its self-protection.

At two a.m., I got up for water.

Opening the door, the living room light was off, leaving only a floor lamp spilling dim yellow light onto a corner of the sofa.

Low voices came from the other end.

"Frederick, am I a burden?"

"Don’t think like that. You never will be."

"In my heart, you’ll always be that little girl who needs protection."

"But Miss Sinclair…, she seems unhappy. Her face was so cold when she came back. Does she hate me?"

I heard Frederick rustle the blanket around her.

"That’s just her personality—cold and aloof, a workaholic. Always staring at blueprints and construction sites, long forgetting how to speak gently. Don’t worry; she’ll be fine in a couple of days. She’s reasonable—she won’t actually kick you out."

I stood in the dark corridor, fingers stiff around the glass of water.

Cold and aloof.

Workaholic.

So, in his eyes, my calm independence and tireless work for our future were flaws—easy to belittle, even to complain about to another woman.

When his business collapsed, when creditors surrounded his door, penniless, I stayed with him in that moldy basement for two years.

I spent my days on construction sites, inhaling dust, and my nights drawing and doing freelance work until three in the morning, giving him half to pay debts, half as start-up capital.

Back then, he said, "Lydia, you’re the strongest and most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. Without you, I would have collapsed long ago."

Now, strength has become cold.

Beauty has become a lack of gentleness.

Time is a cruel magician, turning pearls to fish eyes, red roses to mosquito blood.

I didn’t say a word. I turned and went back to my room.

This time, I didn’t sleep.

I opened my laptop and pulled up the property ownership contract for this house.

Joint purchase.

The down payment was split fifty-fifty, and the mortgage payments had been made together.

Every transfer record was in my online banking.

I sent Ryan an email:

【Draft a property transfer agreement, and also, help me find out if there are any buyers urgently selling large apartments. Cash is fine, the price can be lower.】

Ryan, a night owl, replied instantly: 【? This is sudden. Aren’t you getting married next month? What’s going on?】

I stared at the blinking cursor.

Typed three words:

【It’s not happening.】

After sending them, I closed the laptop.

The room was pitch black, moonlight faintly filtering through the window.

No tears, no hysteria.

Only a resolute sense of finality.

In the following days, Emily took root in this house.

Her intrusion was gradual, like a spreading fungus.

My gray slippers disappeared, probably kicked into a corner.

Her skincare products appeared on the bathroom sink—bottles and jars crowding my minimalist set to the edge.

Even the sparkling water in the fridge was replaced with her favorite fully-sweetened fruit juice.

Frederick ignored it all.

Or rather, he seemed pleased.

He started coming home early. Once claiming busy social engagements, now he was in the kitchen wearing an apron, making soup for Emily.

"Emily has a sensitive stomach; she can’t eat takeout. It’s too oily."

Coming home from work, I saw a sumptuous three-dish meal and soup on the table.

Yam and pork rib soup, steamed sea bass, and blanched bok choy.

All stomach-friendly dishes.

Only two sets of bowls and chopsticks.

Frederick came out of the kitchen carrying soup. Seeing me at the entryway, he said casually,

"Oh, I thought you were working late, so I didn’t make you anything. Make some noodles, or order takeout."

As if I were the one who didn’t belong at the table.

Emily sat there, spoon in hand, wearing my silk pajamas.

Champagne-colored, brand new, tags still on—the ones I had hesitated to wear.

"Lydia, why don’t you eat mine? I can’t finish it; Frederick took too much."

She blinked, looking innocent and generous, pushing the bowl toward me.

I looked at the pajamas.

The silk hung loosely on her, like a child in adult clothes, cheap and mismatched.

"No need," I said calmly. "Remember to dry clean these pajamas. If it’s not clean, just throw it away."

Emily’s face went pale, and the spoon in her hand clattered into the bowl.

Tears welled instantly, filling her eyes.

Frederick slammed the soup bowl on the table, spilling a few drops.

"Lydia, can you not be so sarcastic? It’s just a piece of clothing—does it have to be like this?" He frowned, impatience written all over his face.

"She didn’t bring any clothes. What’s wrong with borrowing one? You have so many in your closet—would it kill you to lose one?"

I looked at Frederick.

The veins on his neck stood out slightly, eyes full of accusation.

He truly believed I was being unreasonable, truly thought I was overreacting.

In his mind, generosity and tolerance were my duties; if I didn’t comply, something was wrong with me.

I nodded. "Fine, I’ll take her." I turned and went to the bedroom, pulling a large silver suitcase from the top shelf of the wardrobe.

I opened the wardrobe and began unpacking.

There wasn’t much to pack; I’ve always kept things simple.

A few sets of business attire, some design drawings, and my computer.

Frederick followed me in, standing in the doorway, arms crossed, sneering:

"Here we go again? Running away from home? Lydia, you’re thirty this year, not eighteen. Tricks like this get old fast."

Each word stabbed my heart.

He knew exactly how much I cared about age.

Frederick and I had a seven-year difference—once a sweet burden he praised as "older women are more caring," now a supposed proof of my unreasonable, immature behavior.

I ignored him, hands moving steadily.

Seeing I didn’t reply, Frederick stepped closer, tone softening, tinged with condescending helplessness:

"Alright, stop making a scene. Emily is just staying temporarily. If you keep forcing this, I’ll let her leave."

"You know how much I love you."

"I’m not making a scene, I’m just making space."

I reached for my suitcase.

I couldn’t move it.

He was holding on tightly.

"Make room for what?" Frederick frowned, puzzled.

"I already said Emily is only staying temporarily. Why do you have to be so aggressive? Weren’t you generous before? How come you’re worse with age?"

I gave up on the suitcase and looked at him.

"You said it yourself—I’m thirty.

A thirty-year-old doesn’t like squeezing in with others. Not in space, not in a relationship."

"What do you mean?! Who’s squeezing in with you? You know perfectly well you’re the only one in my heart!"

Frederick roared,

"You insist on this? Fine! I’ll make Emily leave! I’ll make you happy!"

He turned abruptly and stormed out.

Before he even reached the door, Emily burst in.

Her hair was a mess, eyes were swollen like walnuts.

"It’s all my fault! It’s all my fault!" Her voice was shrill, piercing, full of heartbreaking sobs.

"If I hadn’t been so desperate to wear this instead of a nice outfit, you wouldn’t have argued… It’s all my fault!"

She screamed, tugging frantically at her pajamas.

The silk was slippery, and with her rough pull, the shoulder strap snapped with a sharp "pop."

The pajamas slid off her shoulders, bunched at her waist, and she yanked them down forcefully, throwing the garment onto the floor.

Frederick froze, his hand outstretched, hanging mid-air.

"Emily! What are you doing!"