On our wedding night, he tossed me a contract. "Separate bedrooms. No interference. No falling in love."
I signed it. The whole city was waiting to see me live as a wife in name only.
But no one knew that in the middle of the night, he would pull me, blankets and all, into his arms. When I had a fever, he held my wrist and stayed by my side all night. When someone bullied me, one phone call from him was enough to get them fired.
He claimed it was "just a contract," yet turned around and tucked the pillow I'd slept on into his own room.
By day, he was the city's coldest Mr. Fu, giving me the cold shoulder and laying down three rules.
At night, his eyes red, he would corner me against the wall and grip my chin, saying each word slowly: "Stay away from him. Anywhere he touched you is dirty."
I thought he was holding back.
Until one day, I found an old keepsake from his mother at the very back of his drawer. My father's name was written plainly on it.
My hands trembled. He opened the door and saw what I was holding.
The air fell silent for three seconds.
He walked toward me one step at a time, looking down at me, his breath scorching.
"You found out?" he asked softly, as if soothing me, or perhaps mocking himself.
Before I could speak, he pulled me hard against his chest, pressing his chin firmly to the top of my head, holding me so tightly it felt like he wanted to fuse me into his bones.
"Shen Zhiyi, don't leave. This time, no one is allowed to take you away from me."
