The familiar sound of the front door closing stirred something in her, breaking the quiet rhythm of the evening that had stretched on far too long. Feng Mian straightened, setting aside the book she had barely been reading, her heart fluttering in spite of herself. She rose from the couch, smoothing her dress and brushing her hair back. She had been waiting—longer than she'd admit, even to herself.
As he stepped into the hallway, suitcase in hand, she moved toward him, offering a gentle smile. "You're home."
Han Chen's gaze flicked to her, his expression barely shifting. He made a small sound of acknowledgment, something between a grunt and a hum, before looking away, already preoccupied with something she couldn't see. It was enough to make her feel as though she'd intruded, as if her simple greeting had been a nuisance.
But she swallowed it down, letting her smile soften, telling herself she was used to this by now.
"Let me help with your things," she offered, reaching for his suitcase. He let her take it without protest, walking past her toward the bathroom without a word. She watched him disappear down the hallway.
In silence, she brought his suitcase to their bedroom and unzipped it carefully, her hands moving with the practiced familiarity of someone who had done this a hundred times before. Soon the faint sound of running water beginning as he turned on the shower. She folded each piece of clothing, taking care to smooth the fabric and place them neatly in the closet. Years ago, she might have done this eagerly, wondering if he had brought her a small gift from his travels, even something as simple as a postcard or a little trinket. But over time, she had learned not to expect anything.
As she folded his shirts, she murmured to herself, almost as if saying it aloud would make it easier to accept. "I wasn't expecting anything, anyway." It was a lie she repeated often, hoping that one day it might feel true.
She placed the last item—a dark, tailored jacket—onto a hanger just as he stepped out of the bathroom. Han Chen's hair was damp, beads of water glistening on his shoulders, and a towel wrapped low around his waist. He looked at her, his gaze lingering in a way that was rare, almost as if he had something to say.
Feng Mian felt her cheeks warm under his stare, and for a brief moment, hope flared to life within her. "Um," she started, her voice barely a whisper. "I'll… I'll go get dinner ready."
But he shook his head, cutting her off. "I already ate."
The words dropped like a stone into the silence, their weight pressing against her chest. Her hand fell to her side, fingers curling into the fabric of her dress. She forced herself to nod, her voice small and resigned. "Oh… I see."
She left the bedroom without another word, closing the door softly behind her. She made her way to the dining room, her footsteps slow and heavy, as though each step carried the weight of her unspoken hopes and disappointments.
The table was set, a modest spread of dishes she'd cooked earlier in the evening, imagining how they'd share this meal together after his long absence. She stood there, staring at the food she'd prepared—soup, vegetables, steamed fish—each dish made with the quiet care of someone who loved too deeply, who had given too much without knowing if anything would ever be returned.
A part of her wanted to leave it all untouched, to turn away from the table and pretend she wasn't hungry. But then she remembered, with a pang of tenderness, the life growing inside her. She couldn't go to bed hungry, not when she was nurturing a child. Their child. The thought gave her a fragile sense of purpose, a reason to take her seat and spoon small bites into her mouth, even as the food tasted hollow and cold.
When she'd eaten enough to ease the dull ache in her stomach, she cleared the table and headed to their bedroom, the quiet of the apartment wrapping around her like a heavy blanket. She lay down on her side, pulling the covers up to her shoulders, her hand instinctively resting on her stomach. She closed her eyes, listening to the silence, waiting.
Minutes passed, stretching into what felt like hours. She turned onto her other side, glancing at the clock. Midnight had come and gone, and the bed beside her remained empty.
He was in his study. She knew this because she'd learned his routines by heart, understanding that when he felt restless or distracted, he would retreat there, shutting the door firmly behind him, as if to separate himself from her even within the same home.
She lay there, staring at the empty side of the bed, her fingers gently tracing the curve of her stomach. "I'm trying," she whispered to the darkness. "I'm trying not to expect anything. I'm trying to be content with this… with us."
But hope was a stubborn flame, refusing to be snuffed out no matter how many times it was met with cold indifference.
The afternoon sunlight filtered through the living room as Feng Mian sat on the couch, her fingers working rhythmically over the soft yarn. She was knitting a small sweater, the pale yellow wool slipping easily through her hands, forming neat rows. The faint sound of laughter from the TV filled the room, a comedy show she'd put on for background noise, though she barely registered the jokes.
For a moment, she wondered if he'd ever notice her knitting, or if he'd even be curious. Wouldn't any husband be intrigued by these tiny creations lying around their home? She imagined him picking up the little sweater or booties, maybe raising an eyebrow and asking, "What's this?"
But she knew better. She could leave her knitting right in front of him, on his desk or by the door, and he wouldn't spare it a second glance. Just like he didn't spare her one.
Her phone rang, interrupting her thoughts. She picked it up, glancing at the screen. Jiang Wei. Han Chen's secretary. A small pit formed in her stomach. Why would he be calling her? Did something happen to Han Chen?
"Hello?" she answered, her voice quiet but steady.
"Hello, Mrs. Han," Jiang Wei's polite voice came through. "I'm sorry to disturb you. Mr. Han has an important meeting in about an hour, but he left a critical file at home. I was going to retrieve it myself, but got stuck in traffic. If you'd be willing to bring it to the office."
"Of course," she replied softly. "I'll bring it over. Could you let me know which file it is?"
"It should be labeled 'Investor Projections Q1,'" Jiang Wei said. "It's in a blue folder, likely in his study or on his desk. Thank you for doing this, Mrs. Han. You can leave the folder at the front desk."
"Yes, of course. I'll be there shortly," she replied, hanging up.
She set her knitting aside, carefully folding the half-finished sweater before placing it on the coffee table. The empty look of her home settled back around her as she made her way to Han Chen's study, a room that always felt more like his sanctuary than a shared space. She found the file easily, right on his desk where Jiang Wei had said, its blue cover crisp and official.
Clutching the folder, she slipped into her coat and stepped out of the apartment. The cab ride was brief, but with every passing building, she found herself feeling smaller and smaller, as if she were shrinking before she'd even arrived.
When she finally stepped out of the cab in front of The Chen Corporation, she found herself looking up, almost in awe, at the towering structure. The building was sleek and modern, all steel and glass, rising high above the city streets. It was as formidable and imposing as Han Chen himself, a symbol of his power and ambition.
She'd been here only a few times, and each visit had left her feeling the same way—like an outsider in her own husband's world. The people who walked in and out of these doors were part of his empire, trusted colleagues and employees who respected him. And yet, despite being his wife, she couldn't help but feel that she was always looking in from the outside.
Holding the blue folder close to her chest, she squared her shoulders and took a deep breath before heading through the glass doors.