The laughter was gone, but the ache it left behind refused to fade.
Xu Meilin stood in the center of the room where joy had bloomed just minutes ago, now wilted and cold. The sketchbook was clutched tightly in her hands, the charcoal smudging against her fingers. Her heart pounded,not in fear, not in sadness, but in heat.
How dare he.
She swallowed hard.
Her gaze drifted to the doorway he had disappeared through, the echo of his cold words still lingering in the air.
"You're not here to laugh away your afternoons."
As if her laughter was some kind of sin. As if her joy was a burden to him.
She turned sharply, the sketchbook falling with a thud onto the table.
Her feet moved before she could reason with herself.
Out of the art room.
Down the quiet corridor.
Through the winding halls of the Moon Pavilion.
She walked with purpose, her breath sharp, her jaw clenched.
She didn't stop until she reached the master bedroom.
Her hand paused on the doorknob for just a second, then she pushed the door open.
She walked in like she belonged there. Like the shame he tried to place on her didn't stick. The room was cold and sterile, as if it, too, had been trained not to feel.
But Meilin was burning.
She dropped her cardigan onto the edge of the bed and marched into the bathroom.
The light flickered on overhead. Marble counters. Cold fixtures. A pristine tub that looked untouched. She twisted the knob and hot water gushed into the basin, steam rising quickly to fill the air.
She pulled off her clothes methodically. Shirt. Pants. Undergarments. Each piece a layer of tension peeling away. Her chest rose and fell in uneven rhythm, but her hands didn't shake.
She didn't know why she was doing this.
She wasn't tired.
She wasn't dirty.
But she was burning inside, and she needed something,anything, to cool the fire or let it rage.
She stepped into the water.
It was scalding.
It kissed her skin like anger, sharp and sudden. But she didn't flinch.
She sank deeper, letting the heat swallow her whole.
And finally, finally, she let herself feel it.
Not just the anger.
But the humiliation. The helplessness. The way his words had turned her joy into foolishness.
He had looked at her like she was a child.
Like she had no right to smile.
Like her happiness had no place in his house.
Her fingers curled over the porcelain rim of the tub. Water sloshed slightly with the motion, but she held still.
Why does he always make me feel so small… even when I try so hard to be invisible?
She stared at the white tiles on the wall across from her. Spotless. Lifeless.
She hated that she cared.
She hated that his voice had that much power over her.
And more than anything, she hated that she wanted him to notice her. Just once. With warmth. With something other than indifference.
The memory of his gaze flickering to her sketchbook flashed behind her eyes.
He hadn't even looked at the drawing.
He didn't care.
Or maybe he did.
And that thought made it worse.
She let her head fall back against the edge of the tub. The chandelier above was dim, casting faint golden halos in the steam.
The silence pressed against her, thick and suffocating.
And then, in a whisper so small it almost wasn't there...
"…He is my husband."
The words floated up to the ceiling, lost in the mist.
She blinked at them.
Not because they were new. But because they were real now.
Not just a title. Not just a contract. Not just a name on paper.
Her husband.
Not by choice.
Not by love.
But by some strange twist of fate that had tied her to a man with eyes colder than winter and a heart hidden behind ten thousand locked doors.
And yet…
Something in her chest ached at the memory of how he had looked at her. Not just today, but at the hotel, that night he was burning with fever, the moments when he thought she wasn't looking.
There was something there.
Something real.
But it was buried deep beneath pride. Beneath pain. Beneath scars neither of them had shown.
She reached for the bath sponge and slowly dipped it into the water, pressing it gently to her shoulders.
She wasn't trying to wash away her anger anymore.
She was trying to understand it.
Trying to understand him.
Trying to understand why her heart had whispered husband like a secret, when he had only ever made her feel like a stranger.
Maybe tomorrow she would walk past him with silence.
Maybe tomorrow she would draw again.
But tonight, in this water, in this room, Xu Meilin allowed herself to burn quietly.
Not with rage.
But with realization.
And just a flicker of hope.