On the First Day of Our Flash Marriage, She Couldn’t Keep Up the Act

The night Shen Miaoyan's own father pushed her forward to take her sister's place in an arranged marriage, there wasn't a star in the sky.

Her intended was a disgraced heir from a wealthy family, rumored to be disfigured, crippled, and vicious-tempered. Her aunt messaged her: You were born tough. Just tough it out, and you'll get through it.

She had toughed it out for twenty-seven years. From the day she was sent to live with relatives, she'd learned not to count on anyone.

She walked out of the Shen family estate without looking back and went straight to the civil affairs bureau.

Getting married was simple. They signed the agreement, took a photo, stamped the papers, and each took a copy of the marriage certificate. She said, “We're going our separate ways.” He said, “Fine.” They parted without hesitation, owing each other nothing.

Then his car came back.

The window rolled halfway down. “Get in,” he said.

She did.

From that day on, his car was parked outside her apartment complex every morning when she left for work. A cup of coffee sat in the passenger seat, just the right temperature and exactly what she usually drank. He never said he'd bought it especially for her, and she never thanked him. They came and went in silence, like parties to an unspoken transaction.

He had said, “Clause three of the agreement: we keep each other informed of our whereabouts. Strictly business.”

But someone who was strictly business wouldn't wait downstairs for four hours when she worked until midnight. He wouldn't stay by her side all night when she had a fever, then act the next day as if nothing had happened. He wouldn't take a drink meant for her at a family banquet and say in front of everyone, “She's mine.”

She once asked him why.

“It's only right,” he said.

Only right. There was no such clause in the agreement.

Shen Miaoyan had always believed she needed no one. She lived with clear eyes and sharp edges, never yielding an inch.