The air was heavy with the scent of roses and expensive perfume, mingling with the faint aroma of fresh pastries.
An Ruo sat upright in the plush velvet chair, her posture flawless, her smile polite, yet beneath it all, a storm churned silently. Every word Mrs. Yu spoke scraped at her nerves like sandpaper.
"Ladies!" Mrs. Yu's voice rang through the room, bright and commanding. "Did I tell you about my darling son? The poor boy barely sleeps, working endlessly for the family's future…"
The ladies gasped, nodding with exaggerated sympathy, as though Zhen Yu's sleep schedule were a matter of state importance.
An Ruo sipped her tea, her grip steady despite the tremor of frustration in her fingers. Poor boy? The only one suffering here is anyone trapped in this room listening to this performance.
Mrs. Yu's eyes sparkled with delight at the audience's approval. "And just last week," she leaned forward, hands theatrically clasped, "I personally guided him through choosing his suits! You should've seen him—completely helpless in the fabric store! Truly, he doesn't know what he would do without me."
"Oh, Mrs. Yu, you're too kind!" one friend gushed, pearls clutched tightly as if they might shatter from excitement.
An Ruo's smile remained polite. Yes, mother-in-law, he's lucky… lucky to be paraded around like a living exhibit.
"And Ruo," Mrs. Yu continued, eyes gleaming triumphantly, "was so patient, so angelic… tolerating all of this!"
"Tolerating?" An Ruo's jaw tightened imperceptibly. More like surviving without throttling someone. She adjusted the napkin on her lap, calm and composed, while internally counting down the seconds until this torment ended.
The room buzzed with chatter and laughter, yet each word landed on Zhen Yu like a hammer. He stood rigid near the doorway, jaw tight, hands clenched.
"Mother…" he said, voice low, controlled but firm. "An Ruo isn't my wife."
Mrs. Yu's laughter rang out—warm, dismissive, impenetrable. "Nonsense, my dear! She is your wife. You simply need to acknowledge it."
Zhen Yu's chest constricted. "No, mother. Xin Yi is—was supposed to be my wife. She is the one—"
"Stop." Mrs. Yu's tone cut through the room like steel. "I will not hear another word. An Ruo is your wife. That is final."
Every fiber in Zhen Yu's body screamed, but he forced himself to remain composed. No scene, no argument, no confrontation. He drew in a slow, controlled breath.
"I… see," he said, voice low, measured. "Then I will go upstairs."
His gaze lingered briefly on An Ruo. She sat, calm and composed, mask perfect, eyes unreadable. He turned sharply, each step deliberate and heavy, the weight of the moment pressing down on him like iron.
Mrs. Yu watched his retreat, unbothered. "Remember your manners, Zhen Yu. Respect your wife. An Ruo has been nothing but gracious."
An Ruo's eyes followed him, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. Patience… soon, he will see. But not yet.
The room hummed with polite conversation, yet beneath the surface lay the tension of unspoken truths, restraint, and silent fury, coiling like a snake ready to strike.
Zhen Yu sank into the high-backed chair in his study, the room dim except for the late afternoon light filtering through the blinds. He rested his elbows on his knees, head in his hands, and let out a slow, controlled breath.
Everything in his life felt… out of place. His mother's insistence, the endless performances he had to endure… even An Ruo's perfect composure today gnawed at him.
But it wasn't just that. A nagging thought kept creeping back to him—something he had noticed at the office earlier.
Lu Yichen.
The way he had acted when people moved around, the way he positioned himself, the rigid control over every minor interaction…
Too tense. Too deliberate. Too… personal.
Zhen Yu frowned. He recalled the subtle gestures, the quick glances, the almost unnatural way Yichen seemed to anticipate everything happening around him. There was something in Yichen's behavior that didn't fit the usual cold, composed CEO mask.
Why did he block people like that? Why was he so… careful?
He pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to shake off the unease. He didn't know what it was yet, but something about Yichen's meticulousness felt different—too sharp, too precise.
Zhen Yu straightened, jaw tight. He had always been observant, always aware of subtle shifts in behavior, and something told him that Yichen's mask hid more than just professionalism.
What is he hiding? And why does it feel like it matters so much?
He leaned back, letting the chair creak under him. The city hummed outside, oblivious to the quiet storm gathering in his mind.
Zhen Yu's gaze narrowed, settling on a distant point. Tomorrow… I'll watch him more closely. Something about him isn't what it seems.
Suspicion took root, quiet but persistent, like a shadow at the edge of his thoughts.