Fang Tianzhuo sat there for four hours. By 11 PM, Wang Shaolong and Xu Yanran hadn't emerged. His racing heart slowed, replaced by a numbing cold.
Outside, the wind cut like knives, piercing skin and bone. The sweat on his back dried, leaving him shivering. His stomach ached, his steps felt hollow. He walked, crying, thinking—twenty years, gone? Wang was perfect, he admitted that. But Yanran had turned down plenty of excellent guys in college. What changed? Had he really neglected her that much?
Memories blurred past—their life together, bit by bit. He saw it now: Yanran had changed. Complaining about their tiny apartment, their shabby life, gushing over rich men and their wives' easy lives. She was a stranger, living in a world he didn't recognize—even in their bed.
Eventually, he dragged himself back to their once-sweet home. The porch light was on—she was back. He froze at the door, terrified to face her. Pretend nothing happened? Yell, then split? Both options tore him apart.
The door opened. Xu Yanran's beautiful, gentle face smiled up at him.
"Tianzhuo? You're back! Why stand there? Do you know what time it is?" She sounded worried, tender.
But he felt nothing—only falseness, betrayal.
He pushed past her, sat on the bed, staring at the floor.
"What's wrong? Did you drink?" She spoke softly, cautiously.
"Saw a nice American car tonight. Parked at a hotel. The woman in it looked a lot like you. Was it?" His voice was flat, as if discussing a stranger.
"Tianzhuo, I…." She started, then fell silent.
They sat, motionless, the room so quiet he could hear her breathing.
"I get it. Take care." He stood, left without a glance—polite, like leaving a stranger's house.
The door clicked shut. A white-hot pain lanced through him, as if a thousand needles stabbed his heart. He'd never imagined—no argument, no tears, no begging. Just… silence. The calmest breakup he'd ever seen, real or on screen.
Back on the street, the wind was crueler, nearing 3 AM. Even motels were closed. Sleep was the last thing he wanted—he needed to numb the pain. Alcohol.
He hit the bar street. Most places were shut; a few stayed open all night. He stumbled in. The crowd was thin, no singer—just a few drunk couples making out.
He collapsed in a corner, ordered a bottle of Chivas and a dozen beers, and drank alone. Dim lights, soft music—mournful, like a woman crying. He checked his phone: no missed calls. The last sliver of hope died when the screen went dark. For a man, sometimes pride hurts more than heartbreak. He choked down a drink, slammed his phone shut.
A woman's heart, once gone, can't be reclaimed. Xu Yanran's silence proved it. He hated his failure—Wang hadn't even met him, yet stole twenty years of love without breaking a sweat. I'll rise, he vowed. I'll face Wang Shaolong someday. This can't be how it ends.
Empty stomach, swirling thoughts—he drank faster. Bottles emptied quickly.
"Mind if I join you for a drink?" A honeyed voice purred in his ear.
He squinted. A sexy, beautiful woman slid into the seat beside him. Familiar… but his head was too fuzzy to place her.
Another one, he thought, rage flaring. "Why the hell would I buy you a drink, you bitch? Get lost!"
Eyes turned to them. She winced, then leaned close, breath warm on his cheek. "You're drunk."
A soft, sweet kiss landed on his face.
Memories jolted. Chen Yuqi. The woman from the bar fight, the BMW millionaire. He stared, mumbled "Hi," then face-planted on the table.
Golden wheat fields waved like ocean swells. Cool wind lifted Xu Yanran's white dress; sunlight gilded her, making her glow—angelic, bridal, tempting. He reached for her face, her neck, her body beneath the fabric—soft, warm, like touching liquid gold. Her giggles filled his ears…
He jolted awake. A naked woman lay in his arms, breathing heavily. Chen Yuqi. He looked around—hotel room. Panic surged, cold sweat breaking out.
"Don't stop," she moaned, pressing closer.
He froze, like a kid caught stealing. "Ms. Chen, I'm sorry—I was drunk…"
She laughed. "Naughty boy. You had your hands all over me all night. Who knew you were such a tiger in bed?"
"No, I—" He stammered. "I'll make it right. I'll take responsibility."
"Responsibility?" She howled with laughter, her chest bouncing. "Oh, that's rich."
His face burned.
"I don't want your responsibility. Let's be friends." She stood, naked, unashamed, grabbed her bag from the table, tossed him a cigarette, lit one, and sat on the bed, legs crossed, eyeing him like prey.
He was naked too, her gaze making him squirm.
"Friends? But we…."
"Ever heard of a one-night stand?" She leaned in, lips brushing his ear.
He'd heard of it, sure—just never thought it'd happen to him, especially with a woman like her.
"Though for friends, one night's not enough. How about… many nights?" She traced a finger down his chest.
He was already hard, her teasing sending fire through his veins.
"Lend me your phone." She held out her hand, sudden as a storm.
He handed it over. She typed a long number—his phone rang a second later, from somewhere in the room.
"There. Got your number. Oh, and your name?"
"Fang Tianzhuo."
"Sweet Tianzhuo," she purred, "let's be many-night friends. And remember—call if you need anything." She winked, disappearing into the bathroom.
Sweet Tianzhuo? Yanran had never called him that. Many-night friends? That meant… lovers.
His head spun. He checked his phone—11 AM.
He dressed quickly. The shower ran in the bathroom. He hesitated, then slipped out, firing off a text:
I'm sorry. I left.