Laura jolted awake in the dead of night to an unexpected presence — Ben's silhouette lying rigid on his side of the bed, a full arm's length between them.
She blinked in confusion. Tonight wasn't one of his scheduled homecoming days.
Their living arrangement had been clear from the start. This downtown apartment, her parents' wedding gift, stood nearly an hour from Ben's office in the new business district. He kept his own place there, honoring their agreement to spend just three nights a week together. Yet this marked his third unscheduled appearance in two weeks.
A dull throbbing pulsed behind her temples. Had the extra antihistamine done this? The autumn's first cold snap had brought its usual allergy flare-up — angry welts rising on her skin like some seasonal curse. One pill should have sufficed, but she'd swallowed two, half-hoping they'd drag her into dreamless oblivion.
Moonlight bled through the curtains, etching Ben's profile in silver. He slept turned away from her like the distant Qilian Mountains she'd once seen from a train - breathtaking yet untouchable, separated by impassable valleys.
She slipped from bed soundlessly.
The apartment felt different at this time - neither fully hers nor theirs. Her bare feet carried her to the living room's floor-to-ceiling windows where she hesitated, childhood superstitions whispering warnings. That old story about the girl who saw her doppelgänger staring back through midnight glass still haunted her.
With a sharp inhale, she yanked the curtains open.
The city lay transformed below - rooftops gleaming like fish scales, the river a ribbon of mercury. For someone who'd always been afraid of the dark, Laura felt strangely calm. Perhaps some fears faded when larger ones took their place.
The cigarette between her fingers glowed as she exhaled toward the moon. She'd quit after the wedding - Ben hated the smell - but started again when the disciplinary committee took her father.
Stephen King. Deputy Mayor. Corrupt official.
The titles had stacked like falling dominos. Looking back, the signs had been there - the lavish apartment gift, the new car, all supposedly purchased on a civil servant's salary. But like any privileged child, Laura had accepted her gilded world without question.
Her father had indulged her every whim, including Ben. That desperate summer when she'd pined for him, wasting away until her ribs showed, her father had promised: "Ben's father owes me. His uncle needs my approval for two projects. They won't refuse us."
The contract came later. Not just a prenup - a five-year marital lease agreement detailing everything from separate finances to scheduled conjugal visits. The cruelest clause? After five years, he could walk away unchallenged.
Ben's voice echoed in memory: "No signature, no marriage at all."
She signed. What was the five years of conditional love compared to a lifetime without him?
Now, watching smoke curl toward the stars, Laura wondered if her ancestors had felt this same hollow ache in their arranged unions. At least they'd had the decency to call their transactions what they were.
The balcony door slid open behind her.
It was June - seven years after they'd first met. Outside, the summer sun blazed, yet Laura felt an inexplicable chill.
Their marriage had always been conditional-a fixed-term contract. Ben's words still echoed: "I'm selling you five years of my youth." He'd used cruder analogies too — comparing their relationship to a prostitute and her client, purely transactional.
His warning had been clear: "Don't expect love from me."
Now, looking back, she saw how naive she'd been — believing her beauty and cunning could eventually win his devotion.
Three years had passed. The man remained as emotionally distant as ever. She didn't even know the details of his work — only that he was involved in some investment venture across town. The contract forbade her from asking: no interference in each other's careers, separate finances.
Sometimes she fantasized about hiring a private investigator or following him herself. But she never did.
Despite her spoiled upbringing and occasional selfishness, Laura remained at heart that same timid girl — too afraid to open curtains at night, haunted by childhood ghost stories.
What if Ben discovered her spying? His contempt would deepen.
After two cigarettes, her throat burned. She retreated to the kitchen, muffling coughs with water gulps. Returning to the living room, the moonlight remained — bright yet cold.
Laura was still Laura. But this house? She couldn't stay.
The bedroom doorway gaped black. The man she loved most lay somewhere in that darkness, invisible to her. Their modern arranged marriage had always been one-sided. Now, with her father's downfall and this apartment's impending loss, its collapse accelerated.
Wrapped in a blanket, she curled on the sofa.
Morning arrived with the front door's sharp click. The living room stood empty, but retreating footsteps echoed in her ears. Only Ben's slippers remained by the entryway. He'd left for work.
An extra blanket covered her.
Clutching it, Laura jolted awake. She sprinted to the kitchen window in time to see Ben's taillights disappearing down the street.
Always his back. No matter when. No matter where.
The icy floor tiles seeped cold through her bare feet, up through her bones, freezing her heart solid.
Five minutes later, dressed, she headed to her mother's.
Nancy was wiping tears when Laura entered. "Mom, crying won't bring Dad back," she sighed, exhausted by weeks of this.
The lawyer had called again," Nancy sniffed. "Returning the embezzled funds could reduce his sentence. But even selling your house and car leaves us a million short."
Laura stared. "How? You never spent extravagantly." Her father had always been frugal — his corruption shocked everyone.
Nancy's voice turned bitter. "He's been cheating for years. Bought his mistress an apartment."
Laura's mouth fell open. She knew corrupt officials often had affairs but never imagined her doting father would succumb.
Leaving her mother's, Laura carried a new address-her father's mistress's home.
At the suburban garden community's entrance, security directed her past the badminton court to Building 3. The intercom buzzed.
"Who is it?" A young woman's voice.
"Laura King."
The door clicked open surprisingly easily. On the third floor, the apartment door stood ajar.
Laura froze in the doorway.
A woman her age stood there silently, neither defensive nor apologetic, just numb. A corgi circled her swollen ankles — seven, maybe eight months pregnant.
They stared wordlessly until Laura finally turned away.
Tears welled as she descended. Everyone knew Stephen King spoiled his daughter rotten. Fewer knew his true favorite had been his son — the leukemia-stolen boy whose death made room for Laura's birth.
"If only Laura had a brother," her father used to sigh when she was small. At seven, she'd protested: "Why not a sister?" He'd smile: "Either would be wonderful." Back when he was just a lowly team leader overseeing dozens.
She never imagined twenty years later; she'd get that sibling.
Was this child her father's true late-life desire? Would he even live to see it grow up?
One thing was certain — she couldn't demand this woman return anything.