I am mute, and he acknowledged me as his wife himself.
Gu Yanzhi, the Buddhist devotee of Beijing’s elite circles, is aloof and ascetic, never without his prayer beads. Everyone says he broke his vows for me: he took off his beads, planted pear blossoms, and spent half his fortune to give me a place by his side.
I thought it was salvation.
That is, until Song Qingci, the heiress from Hong Kong, appeared. He personally fed me seafood congee, triggering an allergic reaction that left me in shock. He forced me to abort our child and even signed the papers to have my uterus removed.
With his new lover in his arms, all he had left to say to me was, “Why keep something that’s been sullied?”
They pushed me out as a scapegoat, where I was violated and trampled by several people. He came, but not to save me. He demanded, “Why didn’t you prove your innocence by dying?”
That night, my heart died for good.
For five years of marriage, I thought he had loved me, at least once. Later, I learned that his father was the man who burned my entire family to death.
He had known everything from the very beginning.
I disappeared, covered in scars and with a brand-new identity.
Three years later, I returned with a vengeance. He knelt before the Buddha for three days and three nights, begging me through blood and tears to come back. “A Du, I’ll give you anything you want. Even my life.”
But I only want to ask one thing:
“Gu Yanzhi, when you killed my child with your own hands, did you ever think this day would come?”
