The house was steeped in its usual silence, but tonight, something was different. Gu Yichen's stomach was a cauldron of agony, a sharp, twisting pain that even his usual remedies couldn't touch. He was hungry, and the thought of facing the kitchen—of even attempting to make toast—felt like an impossible task. The chefs had long since gone home, their work for the day complete.
Just as he was about to give up and retreat to his study, a scent drifted through the air, pulling him from the depths of his misery. It was a rich, savory aroma—the kind of smell that promises warmth and comfort. His stomach, betraying his pride, let out a low, rumbling protest. The smell led him downstairs, and he found himself standing in the doorway of the kitchen.
Mei Lian was there, her back to him, humming a quiet tune while stirring a pot on the stove. It was a side of her he had never seen before—relaxed, at ease, and completely absorbed in her own world. The sight of her, the sound of her humming, was a strange comfort.
He cleared his throat, the sound a clumsy interruption. She jumped, startled, and the spoon in her hand clattered against the side of the pot. Her humming stopped, and the familiar guarded expression she wore in his presence took over. "Gu Yichen," she said, her voice flat.
He swallowed hard, the words catching in his throat. "What are you making?" he asked, the question sounding awkward even to his own ears.
"Some noodles," she replied, turning back to the stove. "My stomach was feeling a little empty."
A familiar emptiness echoed in his own stomach. He watched her for a moment. "Are you... making a portion for me as well?" The question came out softer than he intended, almost a plea.
She paused, her back still to him. A small, humorless laugh escaped her lips. "No."
He felt a flash of indignation, but the gnawing pain in his gut quickly overrode it. "Why not?" he said, his voice hardening.
She turned to face him then, her eyes meeting his with a chilling clarity. "Why should I?" she asked, her voice laced with a cold bitterness he hadn't heard from her before. "I'm not your personal chef. You have staff for that."
The words were a direct hit. He felt a surge of frustrated pride. "You're my wife," he said, the words tumbling out on a thoughtless impulse. "It's your duty to serve me."
Her body went rigid. The silence that followed was so complete it seemed to suck the air from the room. She looked at him, her gaze unwavering, and a ghost of a smile touched her lips. A sad, painful smile. "A few days ago," she said, her voice dropping to a low, cutting whisper, "you told me to 'know my place.' You said I wasn't your wife." She took a step toward him, closing the distance between them. "So tell me, Gu Yichen, which one is it? Am I your wife, or am I just a stand-in for your business needs?"
He was speechless. The question made him completely stunned. He stood there, defeated, as the savory aroma of the food she was cooking filled the air around them, a cruel, mocking comfort. He opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. He was trapped in a corner of his own making, and the silence was his answer. She had him. He couldn't speak.