Part 1

The rain over Beijing hammered against the tinted windows of the private hospital, a relentless, gray rhythm that matched the sterile chill of the room.

Dr. Sterling adjusted his glasses, his expression carefully neutered of emotion as he slid the medical chart across the desk. “Miss Xie, I’m sorry. You have late-stage gastric cancer. The metastasis is extensive. Realistically, you don’t have much time left.”

Xie Yan stared at the words terminal on the paper. They didn’t feel real. They hovered in the air like smoke. She reached for her phone with trembling fingers, her thumb hovering over her husband’s contact. Han Yufan.

She needed him. Just this once, she needed the man she had built a life around to look at her, to hold her hand, to tell her it was going to be okay.

She pressed call. It rang three times before a sharp, impatient voice cut through the static.

“Yan? What is it? When are you off work? I’m in the middle of a board meeting. I’m very busy.”

“Yufan…” Her voice cracked, a fragile thing breaking under the weight of her reality. “I need to talk to you.”

“Solve it yourself, Yan. I don’t have time for domestic trivia today.” The line clicked dead.

She sat there in the empty room, the dial tone buzzing like a trapped insect. Solve it yourself. For five years, those four words had been the anthem of her marriage. Everyone in their high-society circle envied her. They talked about the brilliant, untouchable Han Yufan and his devoted wife, whispering about how lucky she was to have secured such a catch. But behind the polished mahogany doors of their estate, she had handled every jagged edge of life entirely alone.

He had never cared about the quiet erosion of her spirit, never asked about the invisible grief she carried. When she ran a fever, she drove herself to the ER. When the loneliness clawed at her chest in the dead of night, she swallowed the panic and talked herself down. It was as if her existence was nothing more than a convenient background feature in his grand life.

What is the point of his existence? the thought whispered through her mind, cold and clear.

When she finally walked back into the cavernous silence of the Han residence that evening, Yufan was already in his study, the warm glow of his desk lamp spilling under the door. She didn’t knock. She walked into the bedroom, pulled a thick envelope from her bag, and placed it neatly on the nightstand beside his half-empty glass of scotch.

The door opened behind her. Yufan stood there, loosening his silk tie, his dark eyes narrowing in irritation. “Xie Yan. I’m back. What do you want to say now that requires a theatrical entrance?”

She didn’t flinch. She looked at him—truly looked at him—and wondered how she had ever mistaken his cold ambition for strength.

“Han Yufan, let’s get a divorce.”

The silence that followed was heavy, pregnant with disbelief. Yufan let out a dry, incredulous laugh, stepping further into the room. “What did you say?”

“I’ve already prepared the divorce agreement,” she said, her voice disturbingly steady. “Sign it, and we’ll part ways cleanly. No alimony, no fuss. Just your freedom.”

Yufan’s expression hardened into a mask of pure contempt. He didn’t even look at the paper. “You’ve gotten used to this comfortable life and now you’re starting to throw tantrums out of sheer boredom, aren’t you? You dare threaten me with a divorce? You’re being utterly unreasonable.”

“I’m not causing trouble,” Xie Yan whispered, slipping her platinum wedding band off her finger and placing it squarely on top of the document. It sat there like a small, accusing circle of gold. “I’m leaving Beijing tonight. Take care of yourself, Yufan.”

She turned toward the door, her overnight bag packed and waiting.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. He didn’t chase her. He didn’t even raise his voice. To him, this was just another childish performance.

Downstairs, the young butler cast a worried glance toward the foyer as the front door clicked shut. “Young Master… Madam is leaving with her luggage. Aren’t you going to stop her?”

Yufan strolled down the stairs, swirling his scotch, a condescending smirk playing on his lips. “I don’t need to play her games, Xiao Li. She’ll obediently crawl back in three seconds. Watch. Come on—three, two, one.”

The silence in the grand foyer stretched. One second. Two. Three.

The heavy oak doors remained shut.

Xiao Li swallowed hard. “Young Master… it seems Madam hasn’t returned. Is she… is she really leaving?”

“Let her get out!” Yufan snapped, his jaw tightening as a flicker of annoyance flared in his chest. “I don’t believe she’d ever be willing to give up her position as the young mistress of the Han family. She’s just trying to scare me.”

Part 2

By morning, the master suite felt unnervingly hollow.

Yufan sat at the dining table, glaring at the bowl of steaming rice porridge set before him. He took a spoonful, frowned, and slammed the ceramic spoon down against the porcelain. “Why does this taste different? Tell the cook to redo it.”

Xiao Li hesitated, standing by the sideboard with a folded newspaper. “Sir… this porridge tastes exactly like the one the kitchen always makes. It’s just that… the porridge you used to drink every morning was made by Madam herself.”

Yufan froze, the spoon halfway back to his bowl. “What did you say?”

“Madam always woke up at five in the morning, spending three hours slow-cooking it for you,” Xiao Li murmured, his voice dropping. “In the five years since you married, she didn’t just cook your breakfast. She cleaned your study by hand at two in the morning while you slept so she wouldn’t disturb your work, and laid out your custom suits for the next day.”

Yufan stared at the porridge, a sudden, inexplicable knot forming in his throat. “We have an army of servants. Why would she do all of that herself?”

“Sir, have you forgotten?” Xiao Li looked down, remembering. “When Madam first married into the family, she wasn’t used to the heavy-handed household staff. You were furious when you found out the servants had misplaced files in your study. You told her… you told her that you didn’t marry a trophy wife to sit around doing nothing, that a woman from a prestigious scholarly background should at least manage a home properly.”

Yufan’s chest tightened. The memory clawed its way to the surface—him, standing in the doorway of his study years ago, cold and harsh, telling her that her family’s reputation meant nothing if she couldn’t even keep his workspace in order. From that day on, Xie Yan had taken over every microscopic detail of his comfort, never uttering a single complaint.

His phone buzzed on the table, shattering the heavy silence. It was an old college friend, calling from a noisy restaurant downtown.

“Hey, Han! Where are you? We’ve got the whole crew together!”

Yufan pinched the bridge of his nose, pushing the bowl away. “I’m not in the mood tonight. Keep it down.”

“Oh, come on! Bring Xie Yan along. Remember that time we got you blackout drunk and she drank two whole bottles of liquor just to keep you from alcohol poisoning and ended up in the ER? Good times, man. Where is she anyway? Still locked in her room throwing a rich-girl tantrum?”

Yufan frowned, gripping the phone tighter. “She’s… visiting her family in the south.”

A dead silence fell over the other end of the line. Then, the friend let out a harsh, confused laugh. “What kind of sick joke are you playing, Han? Xie Yan hasn’t had a family for three years. Her parents died in that horrific car crash, and her distant relatives stripped her clean of every penny, even selling off her childhood home while you were busy launching your company. You didn’t know that?”

The room seemed to tilt on its axis. Yufan stood up so fast his chair scraped violently against the hardwood. “What are you talking about?”

“She tried to tell you back then!” the friend yelled over the restaurant noise. “Right when your company was going public! But you told her you didn’t have time for petty family drama and hung up on her! Man, everyone in our circle knew she was living like an orphan in a gilded cage while you built your empire. You’re telling me you had no idea?”

The phone slipped from Yufan’s hand, clattering against the floor.

His breath hitched. He had spent the last five years believing she was cold, calculating, and entirely self-absorbed. The reality crashed down on him like a tidal wave—she had lost everything, endured everything, and he had been the one locking her out in the cold.

His hands shook as he scooped the phone off the floor and dialed her number.

It rang. Once. Twice.

Click.

“Xie Yan?” His voice cracked, stripped of all its usual arrogance. “Yan, where are you? I… I know about your parents. I’m sorry. Let me send a car—”

“Mr. Han?”

Yufan froze. It wasn’t Xie Yan’s voice. It was a sharp, unfamiliar woman’s voice—crisp and dripping with bitter resentment.

“Who is this?” Yufan demanded, panic spiking in his chest. “Put Xie Yan on the phone.”

“I’m Xie Ting, her older sister,” the voice spat back. “And you’ve got some nerve calling now. My sister is lying in a hospital bed, barely holding onto her last breath, and you’re asking where she is? She wanted one hundred thousand yuan from you to cover basic comforts in her final days—just a fraction of the millions you throw away on your mistresses—and you refused her!”

“What… what are you talking about?” Yufan’s knees felt weak. “Terminal… what terminal illness?”

“She has stomach cancer, you arrogant bastard!” Xie Ting sobbed, the sound raw and agonizing. “She didn’t run away because of a tantrum! She ran away because she wanted to die in peace without being a burden to a monster who never loved her! Don’t you dare call this number again!”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The line went dead.

Yufan stood paralyzed in the center of the grand, empty hallway. The echoes of his own voice from the previous night—Solve it yourself—played over and over in his mind like a death sentence.

Part 3

Driven by a desperate, frantic panic, Yufan tore through the master suite, throwing open closet doors and drawers, searching for any proof that this was a nightmare.

His eyes landed on her walk-in closet.

He pulled the doors open. Neatly hung inside were every single piece of luxury jewelry, designer bags, and high-end watches he had gifted her over the years. Not a single box had been opened. The original price tags still dangled delicately from the silk straps of her dresses. She hadn’t taken a single luxury item with her when she walked out the door. She hadn’t wanted his money, his status, or his pity.

She had wanted him, and he had given her nothing.

“Sir!” Xiao Li rushed up the stairs, holding an old, dusty leather-bound journal and a cracked smartphone. “We… we found this in Madam’s nightstand while clearing out her things. There are videos… and notes.”

Yufan snatched the phone with trembling fingers. He pressed play on the oldest video file.

May 20, 2019.

The screen flickered to life. Xie Yan’s face filled the frame, illuminated by the soft glow of candlelight, a radiant, blinding smile on her face.

“Yu Fan, we got married today! I’m the happiest woman in the world! I know he doesn’t love me yet, but I know my persistence will pay off one day!”

Yufan choked out a sob, his vision blurring. He swiped to the next video, dated a year later.

“January 1, 2020. Yu Fan has been away on business for six months. I miss him so much, but I’ll be right here waiting when he comes home.”

Then another.

“Autumn 2021. He’s rarely home. I watched him work in his study tonight through the crack in the door. In that light, he looked more like a piece of art than a man. Even if he never looks back at me, just being near him is enough.”

And finally, a frantic, shaky note written in the digital journal from just a few weeks ago:

“December 18. The pain in my stomach won’t stop. The doctor says it’s too late. I’m so tired. If I die… will he even shed a single tear? Or will he just be annoyed that his breakfast isn’t ready?”

Yufan dropped to his knees on the plush carpet, clutching the phone to his chest as if it could somehow pull her back into his arms. The tears he had suppressed for a lifetime broke through, tearing through his throat in ragged, animalistic cries.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into the empty room, pressing his forehead against the cold floorboards. “Yan… please, come back. Just come back…”

Part 4

The rain had stopped by the time Yufan’s black Maybach screeched to a halt outside the secluded private villa in Dongdan Road. He didn’t wait for the driver; he flung the door open and bolted toward the front gates.

His heart hammered against his ribs. She’s alive. She has to be alive. It’s just a cruel trick to make me suffer.

He slammed his fists against the wrought-iron gate. “Xie Yan! Open the door! I know you’re in there!”

The heavy oak door of the villa creaked open, but it wasn’t Xie Yan who stepped out. It was her sister, Xie Ting, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen with tears, dressed entirely in deep, unforgiving black. Behind her, a group of solemn relatives stood in heavy silence, surrounding a polished mahogany casket draped in white chrysanthemums.

Yufan froze, the breath completely leaving his lungs. “No… no, what is this?”

“Are you here for the funeral, Mr. Han?” Xie Ting’s voice was venomous, stripped of all humanity. “Or did you just come to make sure she’s actually gone so you can bring your precious mistress home?”

“You’re lying!” Yufan lunged forward, shoving past the mourners like a madman. “She’s playing a game! She wants me to beg! Xie Yan! Get out here right now!”

“Stop screaming!” Xie Ting shrieked, striking him across the face with a force that echoed off the stone walls. “Look at her, you piece of trash! Look at what you did to her!”

With trembling, clawing hands, Yufan stumbled toward the casket. He looked down.

There she lay. Xie Yan’s face was painfully thin, her skin translucent like old porcelain, her lips drained of all color. But even in death, her expression was serene, peaceful—completely detached from the man who had tormented her soul for half a decade.

“No…” Yufan collapsed against the side of the casket, his fingers gripping the polished wood until his knuckles turned white. “A-Yan… wake up. Please. I bought the paintings you liked. I stopped seeing everyone. I signed the divorce papers, see? You’re free! Just open your eyes!”

He reached down, trying to lift her icy hand, but Xie Ting violently slapped his arm away.

“Don’t touch her with your filthy hands!” Xie Ting wept openly, her voice breaking. “You never deserved her in life, and you don’t get to touch her in death! The day she was diagnosed, she tried to call you while she was terrified out of her mind, and you told her you were too busy at the company! Do you know what she said before she closed her eyes for the last time?”

Yufan looked up, his face soaked in tears, completely shattered. “What… what did she say?”

“She said she hoped in her next life, she would never, ever cross paths with a man named Han Yufan.”

The words struck him like physical blows. Yufan let out a primal scream of pure agony, burying his face in his hands as the dark, crushing weight of his sins finally buried him alive. He had spent years waiting for her to break, only to realize too late that she had broken quietly, beautifully, and entirely alone—leaving him behind in a world that suddenly had no light left in it at all.