In the third year of my marriage to Bo Sihan, the golden boy of Beijing's elite, I was still a laughingstock among the wealthy.
The woman he loved lived in his heart like a white moonlight. He married me only to bring good luck to his gravely ill grandfather.
I played the part of an invisible wife, knowing my place, until I found the divorce papers he'd already prepared in his study.
I calmly signed my name, then vanished without a trace, pregnant and all.
Five years later, at an international summit, he cornered me at the end of a hallway, his eyes red and his voice so hoarse it was almost unrecognizable:
“The world-famous pharmaceutical scientist everyone is searching for is my ex-wife?”
A mixed-race cutie peeked out from behind me and delivered the finishing blow: “Sir, Mommy says old men don't deserve a second spring.”
