On the night of her third wedding anniversary, Lin Zhiyi cooked a large table of dishes.
Not the perfunctory kind. Shen Yan loved to eat sweet and sour pork ribs, steamed sea bass, garlic broccoli, and even his most picky hen soup, which she had to cook for more than four hours. There was a layer of golden oil on the surface of the soup, so fragrant that even the neighbors downstairs poked their heads out to sniff it twice.
She set the table, lit the candles, and specially changed into a dress that Shen Yan had said was beautiful.
Then she sat at the dining table and waited.
