The broth bubbled furiously, sending up curls of steam thick with the scent of chili and garlic. I poked at a few limp pieces of imitation crab floating in the hotpot, pretending to focus on them while the television mounted on the far wall droned on in the background.
The news anchor's voice rose above the clatter of chopsticks and chatter of other late-night diners.
"In the past month, our city has successfully reduced rush-hour congestion at major intersections. Much of this achievement comes from introducing AI into public transportation—analyzing real-time traffic, predicting patterns, and guiding drivers with alternative routes. Today, we're joined by Nhat Huy, CEO of DragonTech Corporation, the company behind the breakthrough ECAR Eye System that has revolutionized the city's traffic management…"
I glanced up at the screen. There he was.
The camera framed a tall man in a smoke-gray suit that fit his shoulders perfectly. His features were so sharply defined they almost looked unreal—like an artist had carved them from marble. Gold-rimmed glasses glinted under the studio lights, but the smile he offered the host was cool, measured. His voice came smooth and even, the kind of tone executives trained to perfection. And yet, underneath, I could hear what most people would miss: detachment.
Of course. He'd told me once he despised these media appearances. Cameras, interviews, glossy magazine spreads—they bored him. But climbing to the top required sacrifice, and public image was just another weapon in his arsenal.
That was who he was: a man who didn't need to like something in order to do it. Control mattered more than preference. Feelings were insignificant, lighter than dust.
Just like our marriage.
Across from me, Kim Chi slurped loudly at her noodles, then elbowed me when she caught my blank expression.
"Your husband's getting more famous by the day," she teased, her eyes glinting. "He shines like some celebrity."
I shrugged, spearing another crab stick. "He's a businessman. Media comes with the territory. Someday you might even call him up for an interview yourself."
"Still… today's DragonTech's big celebration, and here you are, eating hotpot with me on the sidewalk. Doesn't the CEO's wife want to show her face?"
I gave a soft laugh, the steam from the pot fogging my glasses. "What for? We're going to divorce sooner or later. Why flaunt something I'll only have to explain away later?"
"You keep saying that. Divorce, divorce, divorce." Kim Chi set her chopsticks down with a clatter. "What's wrong with you? Is Huy that cruel to you?"
"No." My chopsticks paused mid-air. "He's not cruel at all. It's just… this marriage was wrong from the very beginning. And wrong things don't last."
She studied me for a long moment, then shook her head. "All I see is a rich, handsome man who's brilliant and treats you well. Why not let things unfold naturally?"
"'Naturally?'" I let out a short laugh. "Do you really think what you're seeing is natural? Look at the TV. My husband doesn't even need glasses. He only wears them when he thinks it serves a purpose."
On the screen, Huy's long, elegant fingers tapped lightly against the desk as he listened to a question. His jawline caught the light, sharp enough to cut. With unhurried precision, he removed his spotless glasses, polished them on a folded handkerchief, and slid them back on—every gesture calculated.
Tonight, DragonTech was celebrating their victory with the city government, the signing of a major contract that would reshape traffic systems. It was Huy's first big project since taking the CEO position. My colleagues were all at the company party, toasting with champagne. I, however, had claimed "family matters" and quietly slipped away. No one noticed my absence. My role in the company was too small, too replaceable. Honestly, I preferred it that way. Pretending to be the supportive wife of a man I barely knew wasn't something I had the energy for.
By the time Chi and I finally pushed away from the table, the streets outside had quieted. Neon signs buzzed against the night sky, their reflections shimmering in puddles along the pavement. We parted ways with a hug, and I flagged down a taxi.
When I stepped through the door of the house, the familiar scent of cedar polish and lilies greeted me. The maid bustled over, her smile warm.
"Back later than Mr. Huy again, Miss An? Did you have dinner?"
"Yes, I ate with a friend. Don't worry about me."
"Alright then, I'll water the plants. You go rest."
"Thanks."
Upstairs, the bedroom was dim, the soft glow of the bedside lamp revealing his neatly folded suit in the laundry basket. The gray tie, the crisp white shirt—everything perfectly arranged. But he wasn't there. No sound from the shower either. Likely in his study, immersed in work.
I headed to the bathroom instead. The rush of hot water filled the silence, steam curling around me as I let the warmth sink into my skin. It had been three months since our wedding—three months of polite distance, of living under the same roof but worlds apart.
At DragonTech, no one knew we were married. That secrecy suited him, and I didn't resent it. After all, the marriage was never meant to last. Better to keep it hidden, clean, untainted.
We respected each other's boundaries to the extreme. I never asked about his private life; he never asked about mine.
Ninety days, the same routine.Breakfast together in silence. His driver pulled up out front, and I hailed a cab. At the office, our paths never crossed. After work, I usually came home first—ate alone, read a little, sometimes played a game on my phone—before going to bed. He often returned late, long after the lights in the neighborhood had gone dark. Some nights I stirred when he came in. Other nights, I only discovered his presence by the faint smell of cologne lingering in the hall.
We shared a bedroom but not a bed. I slept on the king-sized mattress. He chose the sofa.
At first, I'd tried to switch. After all, it was his house, and at his height, sleeping on a sofa had to be agony. I even carried my pillow across the room once. But he stopped me with one quiet, cutting line.
"If you sleep on the couch, I can't promise I'll control myself when I wake up in the middle of the night. Do you think I could?"
The warning lingered in the air, half a threat, half a confession.
And so I stayed in the bed, while he remained on the sofa, night after night.
Our married life continued—peaceful, proper, and utterly abnormal.