“Sheryl was always so gentle. Who would’ve thought she’d suddenly lash out like that? Really unexpected...”

“I didn’t realize Zaney was so outspoken and easygoing. Makes me wish I’d spent more time getting to know her before.”

I laughed—softly at first, then louder, until the tears I had just fought back began to surface again.

“Zaney,” I said, “only you know what’s really in your heart.”

Frans suddenly stepped in front of her, his tall frame shielding her like a barrier from my so-called "accusations." His stance was clear.

“Sheryl,” he said, voice low and controlled, “how long are you going to keep making a scene?”

I stared at the side of his face—still slightly swollen from the slap. Even marred, his features were achingly handsome, but now there was something human in them at last. A flaw. A bruise.

The clarity in his eyes—the sense of righteousness—was still unwavering. He looked down at me like a judge from a high bench, dignified and cold. Compassionate, yet detached. This ridiculous performance—after all—was always destined to end under Frans’s quiet command.

This time, Zaney didn’t get into the front seat of Fran’s car. He was thoughtful enough to call another one for her. Through the window, I saw him lean down, say something to the driver and nod at her gently—as if offering comfort. It reminded me of a summer long ago, outside the school gates. Someone had nudged me and told me to look ahead.

And I saw them—Zaney leaping into a car, Frans brushing her hair aside and murmuring something to the driver. His expression then was the same as now—gentle, indulgent.

Back then, they used to make plans to hang out with friends and I naively believed it was just an unspoken agreement to include everyone. What I didn’t know was that their invitations were exclusive—meant for each other only.

The Zaney of that time was bold and radiant. She’d kiss her own palm and, without hesitation, press it onto Frans’s cheek. He was stunned and she giggled, blushing with pride. I had stood frozen at the sight. All the subtle warnings, all the offhand comments from others—none had the impact of seeing it for myself.

The slamming of the car door brought me back to the present. Frans glanced at the front passenger seat, noticed I hadn’t taken it and let out a quiet sigh.

“Sheryl,” he said, “Zaney didn’t mean anything by sitting there. She just thought the air conditioning was better in the front. That’s all.”

His voice was gentle. Sincere. Usually, by this point, I would’ve melted. Maybe sulked a bit, then eventually climbed back into the passenger seat.

If he bought another rare gemstone necklace at auction and gave it to me, everything would’ve blown over. But not this time. Not when it came to Zaney.

“Frans,” I said, voice steady, “since we got married, you never let anyone else sit in the passenger seat.”

The car remained still for a long moment. Then, without a word, he lit a cigarette. He knew I hated the smell. Especially in an enclosed space like this. But he did it anyway.

“I thought,” he said, after a while, “you’d be happy to see Zaney again.”

“After all, the two of you were such close friends. Weren’t you?”

I let out a cold laugh. “Yeah. Close enough to share a boyfriend.”

Silence filled the car. I turned and cracked the window open, the smoke too suffocating to bear. He flicked the cigarette out the window, barely smoked. His voice was low and hoarse.

“Back then, when I looked at her… I was reminded of you. That’s all. So I tolerated her a bit more. But I only ever saw her as a friend… a brother.”

The dim light from the dashboard cast faint shadows in the car. I stared at my hands, a tear sliding silently down and soaking into my fist.

“You know what?” I said. “One night, she got drunk and cried to me. Said that if she’d been born a man, you wouldn’t be so guarded around her. That maybe the three of us wouldn’t have drifted apart.”

But I still remember the look in Zaney’s eyes the day she showed me that video. There was no sorrow in them—only pride.

She had smiled and said, “From now on, Frans will only have interest in you—no feelings.”

That sounds about right. At the very least, I can be certain of one thing, In all the years of our marriage, Frans has never defended me the way he now defends Zaney.

“She didn’t grow up with the kind of privilege you had,” he said.

“She got to where she is now through her own hard work.”

“Even if you’re upset with her, you shouldn’t jump to conclusions without letting her explain.”

“She just wanted to surprise you today. That’s all.”

A sudden pang clenched in my chest, but his voice didn’t stop—low, controlled, disappointed.

“Sheryl, there’s no longer any possibility of anything happening between me and her. Why can’t you just let Zaney go?”

Let go? But when did either of them ever let me go? My silence was deliberate. I had no interest in discussing it further. He didn’t press. Just gripped the steering wheel harder and drove in silence, foot heavy on the gas.

The twenty-minute ride home took only ten. When I stepped out of the car, Zaney was already waiting at the door.

She raised her hands in mock surrender and stuck out her tongue playfully. “I’ll grab my stuff and head out now.”

Her job overseas had been arranged through Frans. Naturally, she would still have professional ties with him after returning. I had long prepared myself for this. What I hadn’t expected… was that he would ask her to stay. From the way his jaw tightened, from that firm side profile I’d grown so familiar with, I could see—he was still angry.

As if silently reminding me. This is his home. And his word was final. And I—I could only choose to accept it. His gaze swept toward me and I could feel what he was waiting for. A soft word. A show of submission. A plea for peace.

Maybe then he’d “graciously” ask Zaney to leave. But I didn’t give him that. I simply walked past them and stepped inside. Zaney was put in the guest room at the far end of the hallway. Before bed, she called out a cheerful “Goodnight,” and apologized again with gentle eyes and a soft voice.

I said nothing. Just closed my door, turned off the lights and lay in the dark. But sleep wouldn’t come. So when the man beside me quietly lifted the covers and slipped out of bed in the middle of the night, I was already awake.

I kept my eyes shut, pretending not to notice. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, but I held them in. The hallway light clicked on. I heard the creak of a door—the door to the playroom. A room almost never opened.

“Frans,” Zaney’s voice came, light and full of wonder,

“This is incredible. You actually recreated the exact scene I described back then.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Frans replied. “I was worried it might feel outdated.”

“No way,” she said, her voice trembling, “I’m honestly… so touched.”

I pressed my back against the cold wall, suddenly unsteady. That room—he had designed it himself during renovations. Painstakingly obsessed over every detail. Even I had found it strange. He had no interest in any other part of the house, letting me choose everything. But that room? I wasn’t even allowed to peek inside until it was finished.

Now I knew why. It wasn’t for me. It was for a dream of Zaney’s. Maybe, just maybe, he’d always imagined living here with her instead. And if I hadn’t been in the way, he might’ve gotten his wish. I stumbled back to bed, dazed and hollow. That night, Frans never returned to the bedroom. And with each passing hour, what little love I still had for him quietly faded.

***

By morning, I got up and booked a hotel online. Threw a few clothes into a suitcase. Then left. When I passed the game room, its door was still wide open. I didn’t look in. I just walked straight out.

By the time Frans realized I was gone, I was already sitting in a plush armchair inside a hotel’s presidential suite, leisurely enjoying the elaborate breakfast brought up by room service.

My phone kept buzzing on the table. Five calls in total. I waited. Then silence. I knew he wouldn’t call again. Frans’s patience had always been limited when it came to me.

Besides, the Raymond Family was declining fast. We needed the Charles Family’s influence to stay afloat. He assumed this was just one of my temporary outbursts. He believed I would never dare to truly leave him.

***

But perhaps he forgot—I had already given up on the Raymond Family the year my father had an affair and my mother, in her depression, threw herself off a building.

I married Frans simply because I loved him. And now that I don’t anymore, there’s nothing left that I can’t walk away from. Just then, a friend messaged me.

“Wait… isn’t this your house? Who’s that woman?”

Attached was a tweet. I clicked the link. The photo was unmistakably taken inside my home—familiar backdrop, the dining table, dim lighting casting long shadows. The close-up showed a man’s hand on a mouse, veins prominent, the scene imbued with an unmistakable intimacy.

The caption read: [Nothing better than friends and dreams! PS: Frans’s fried eggs were a little burnt, but he’s improving~ hahaha~”]

The tweet was from Zaney. Posted just half an hour ago. The account was clearly her burner—no more than a handful of posts. I had never seen it before. Her main account had hundreds of thousands of fans. But this? This one was meant to be low-profile, meant for someone specific. Apparently, Frans wasn’t just willing to stay up all night with her. He even got up early to make breakfast.

I could only imagine how perfect this night had been for him. And if I hadn’t been in the picture, it probably would’ve been even better. I sent a screenshot to my friend, typing calmly.

[No idea. I’ll ask him.]

Then, without hesitation, I forwarded the post—along with our chat log—to Frans. He always cared about his public image. I wondered how he'd react to this. Half an hour later, his name lit up my screen again. I answered.

His voice was low, strained, tired.

“Where are you?”

“Does it matter?”

He let out a slow, weary sigh. “Sheryl… Zaney didn’t mean anything by it. She just wanted to share her life. That’s why she used a small account. She forgot to disable the contact recommendations.”

“I’ve already asked her to take it down.”

“Do you really have to jump to conclusions like this?”

I wiped the tears from my face. Then laughed. Cold. Bitter. Empty.

“Frans… the woman who spent the night with you wasn’t me.”

“If you really believe that was just two friends sharing a moment, then I sincerely hope you enjoy the life you’ve chosen.”

I ended the call. This time, I didn’t just hang up. I blocked him.

***

That afternoon, I sat quietly in a hospital waiting room, clutching a slip of paper. The doctor had said the procedure was simple. But it would be better to have someone accompany me.

I stared at the wall and realized, I couldn’t even think of a single person I could ask.

“Sheryl?” a voice called from behind me.

I turned. The man in the white coat was tall, strikingly handsome. Surprise lit up his face, along with a bright, unmistakable smile.

It took me a second, then the name came back.

“Harry Klein?”

He laughed. “It’s me! Long time no see! I’m working here now. Are you… feeling unwell?”

He still carried that dazzling energy—like when he used to be the captain of the varsity team and student council president. Everyone had adored him. Everyone except Frans. They never got along. One the school prince, the other a rebellious storm. Two different kinds of brilliance, clashing.

Back then, Harry didn’t pay me much attention. But now, seeing him again, I felt a flicker of warmth.

I nodded and said casually, “I’m pregnant. Here to get rid of it.”

His smile disappeared instantly. “Why?” His voice was tense. “Is Frans… not treating you well?”

So he knew I married him.

I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter.”

Harry lowered his gaze, jaw tightening. He looked genuinely upset. I didn’t know why he cared this much, but it warmed something in me.

I patted his shoulder, trying to defuse the tension. “Anyway, now that I know you’re still in Jiangcheng, let me treat you to a meal sometime.”

As I pulled out my phone to exchange contacts, he hesitated—then said softly,

“Actually… I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“It’s just… you never replied.”