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The funds for Song Jiakai’s two high-end residential projects and a commercial building had finally come through, allowing construction to resume as planned. He shared this news at the dinner table one evening. Yet, despite what should have been a cause for celebration, Song Jiakai’s tone was subdued, carrying a hint of dejection.

“This is wonderful news!” Zhang Momo’s eyes sparkled with excitement at the announcement. Had Fan Tingting suddenly grown a conscience and decided to be merciful? Even though the project to make amends wasn’t yet complete, had she received forgiveness in advance? As Momo mused over this, she caught sight of Song Jiakai’s pained, conflicted expression, and her flight of fancy abruptly crashed to the ground.

“As for the bank’s cooperation, it’s all thanks to—”

“That’s enough! Don’t say it,” she interrupted, unwilling to hear another word about the mortifying process of apology. The outcome was all that mattered; there was no need to relive how her dignity had been trampled. “Instead, why not let my company handle some of the advertising for your properties?”

She smiled brightly, feigning ease, but Song Jiakai only gazed at her, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched on, growing so awkward that Momo began to think her request might have been too bold. At last, she blurted out, “I was only joking!” Only then did his eyes drift away, landing thoughtfully on the table, another long moment passing.

Finally, he moved—but instead of replying, he took a small red velvet box from his pocket, snapped it open, and placed it on the pale coffee-colored lace tablecloth with a soft click.

“Momo, will you marry me?”

His gaze was as deep as water—not the clear, sparkling kind, but a still, shadowed pool, devoid of the lively currents she once knew. But Momo had no mind to notice such details; her eyes darted between the glittering diamond ring and Song Jiakai’s handsome face, her mouth dry, unable to speak.

“Song Jiakai, are you—”

“Crazy?” He cut her off, as if exposing his own affliction in a fit of pique. For a moment, his expression relaxed, leaning back in his chair with a faint, indefinable smile. “I suppose I am.”

Song Jiakai sighed and looked away, idly fiddling with the dark red velvet box—open, shut, open, shut—with casual ease. “Why? I’ve asked myself that for days. To be honest, I’ve thought more than once about breaking up. But whenever I consider it, I feel uncomfortable wherever I go.” He shook his head. “Especially uncomfortable.”

“So, let’s get married instead. Forget about breaking up or staying together—I’m tired of agonizing over it. Let’s just leap over this hurdle and figure things out as we go. What do you think?”

That night, Zhang Momo lay awake, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep.

Was that a proposal? Why did it feel like a trip to the gallows? So reluctant, as if he were being forced to bestow a favor he’d rather not give, and his only reason was that he was tired of thinking about breaking up! If a man truly loved someone, shouldn’t he propose amidst a blaze of crimson maple leaves, his eyes burning with warmth, declaring, “Let’s get married. I’ll take care of everything—you have nothing to worry about”? Shouldn’t every word fall with certainty and conviction?

Suddenly alert, Momo sat up and switched on the bedside lamp. The soft light cast her face in a blank, expressionless daze. Hadn’t she promised herself to stop thinking about him? So why couldn’t she let go? Her gaze roamed restlessly until it landed on the small velvet box resting quietly on the nightstand. Only then did her heart settle.

Even if his proposal was born of resignation and bitterness, he had still prepared a wedding ring. Was that romantic, or simply pragmatic? Would pondering this question ever bring clarity? Unlike him—when she’d agreed to marry him, he hadn’t even brought flowers, let alone a ring! That man truly was...

At this thought, Momo’s face turned pale. Why did she always measure others against his shadow? She couldn’t let herself dwell on him—it was pointless, utterly meaningless!

Once more, Song Jiakai’s face, full of self-mockery and disappointment, floated before her eyes, impossible to dispel.

“Momo, don’t turn me down so quickly. At least think about it.”

“There’s nothing to consider, Song Jiakai. It’s impossible between us. To say I’ll consider it would only waste your time and feelings.”

She had managed to keep her composure while saying this, every word justified and resolute. Until Song Jiakai’s brows knotted with pain and frustration.

“You’re still thinking about Xiang Zuo, aren’t you? You and he are impossible. Do you really not know, or do you just refuse to admit it?”

His words pinned her to her chair. Her legs wanted to run, but she couldn’t move, trapped as if under a spell.

“Do you know who Xiang Zuo is? Do you know his family? His father is a bureaucrat, his mother a powerful woman—status means everything to them. Don’t you understand that? Just think about the fact that your sister was once married to him. Do you really believe he could marry his former sister-in-law?”

He grew agitated, his usual careless charm now sharp with painful accuracy. Watching his lips move, Momo was seized by fear. She couldn’t bear to hear another word. She sprang up, but he caught her arm across the table.

“Take your time to consider. Keep the ring. If you don’t want to wear it, throw it away—or wait until the day I come to take it back.”

He left then, striding out of the restaurant with a flourish, taking all her strength with him. Numbly, she sank back onto the cold, hard chair, his words echoing relentlessly in her mind.

How could she not know? She had been his family’s daughter-in-law for eight months! She remembered the first time she’d met his parents before the wedding, still using the name “Nianqing.” His mother had told her, “Xiang Zuo carries a heavy burden. I’m entrusting him to you today because you’re a good girl!”

A good girl. When she heard those words, she froze on the soft leather sofa. She didn’t know why, but she felt crushed by an invisible weight. Though his mother hadn’t made any unreasonable demands, and though she truly looked like a “good girl” at the time—gentle, pure, kind, deeply devoted to Xiang Zuo, even beautiful, with no past boyfriends, orphaned by a car accident, supporting her “sister” in a hospital bed—her pitiful background only added to her appeal.

What a good girl. Only she knew how false that image was. This “good girl” was full of confidence and cunning, planning that if Nianqing didn’t wake within a year, she would simply live out her own life in her place. After all, as a husband, Xiang Zuo’s qualifications were perfect. Yet from that day, from that moment, she knew there was no future for them.

Heaven’s misfortune may be forgiven, but self-inflicted sin cannot be escaped—her story in a nutshell. It had nothing to do with others. Whether Nianqing woke or not, she would never be able to face Xiang Zuo, his family, her own deceased parents, or anyone upright in this world with her head held high.

She had foreseen all this long ago—so why, even now, couldn’t she let go? Why, even after he’d forgiven her, couldn’t she learn to forget, to start anew? Day after day, she remained mired in remorse and despair, stubbornly refusing happiness. Why?

All for his smile. At her doorstep, when she’d said insincerely, “I’ll miss you,” he had taken her hand and, for once, the usually reserved man smiled with a hint of shyness. “Let’s spend a little more time together.” That night, instead of going home, the soon-to-be married couple drove aimlessly through the city until dawn.

All for his smile. In their new home, when she forced a hollow sweetness and asked, “Why are you home so late? Come watch TV with me,” he drew her into his arms, weary from the day, but smiling with genuine warmth. “Alright.” That night, she fell asleep on his arm, and when she woke, he was still lying there, not having moved an inch.

All for his smile. In front of the art supplies she kept carefully hidden, when her fear of being discovered turned into unreasonable frustration taken out on an innocent bag of chips, he tapped her nose indulgently and smiled. “I’ll buy you more.” That night, in the early hours, he ran through who knows how many streets, returning with a whole box of chips—various brands and flavors—just for her.

All for his smile. By her sickbed, when, overwhelmed by self-loathing and despair, she pleaded, “Don’t be so good to me,” he gently tucked in her blanket, still smiling with boundless patience. “Now that your fever’s gone, let me make you some porridge.” That day, he sat by her side for twenty-four hours, dark circles under his eyes, and for the first time in his life, picked up a ladle. When he brought her a steaming bowl, she noticed the burn marks on his hand and tasted an indescribable sweetness in the unsalted porridge.

His smile—anyone who had seen it could never forget. Just as only those who had been cherished by him would know how wonderful that care was—so wonderful that even to wish for it again felt like an unforgivable sin.

So Zhang Momo sat there in a daze, the clock hands pointing to three in the morning. With every tick of the second hand, her blood seemed to rush faster. No matter how many voices inside reminded her—wasn’t she supposed to forget, to never seek him again?—she grew only more deaf to reason. She and he could never be together; that fate was sealed the day she married him. But even so, she still possessed him, didn’t she?

He had never stopped caring for her. No matter how extreme, whether punishing or helping her, angering or protecting her, blaming her, or even tormenting her as he once did—as long as she still held his attention, she was willing. She’d come to take this for granted, to the point where greed or shamelessness no longer mattered—even being despicable was acceptable—so long as she still occupied a place in his life.

On that early spring night, in the last darkness before dawn, a silver Hyundai pulled slowly to the curb of the parking lot at Junyue Hotel. Zhang Momo sat inside, wearing only a cardigan over her pajamas, her eyes fixed on a black Bentley parked neatly not far away.

It was his car—a car she’d ridden in countless times. Now, just to steal a glimpse, she had to be furtive. She was even grateful for the opportunity—since moving out of Nianqing’s home, Xiang Zuo had been living at this Shenglian Group hotel. He never returned to his old house in Jiangnan City; the new house by the lake, just as he’d promised, remained empty, waiting for its mistress.

The sun rose slowly in the east, carrying a trace of chill. Amid the fresh, budding green of spring, a burst of orange radiance shone with youthful vigor. Zhang Momo rubbed her sore eyes, drew a deep breath of the crisp morning air, started the car, and drove toward the sunrise. How fortunate—at least, for now, he was still living in that hotel…