Jiang Yanxu brushed past him without acknowledging the gesture, his gaze hard, cutting. He hadn't forgotten the scene burned into his memory—Wen Haoyi leaving with Yan An that night, close, too close. It wasn't jealousy, he told himself. It wasn't about losing. It was about principle. About control.
He increased his pace, uninterested in pleasantries, uninterested in losing ground again.
Behind him, Wen Haoyi's smile faded, replaced by something sharper, crueler. He watched Jiang Yanxu's retreating back—a fortress unto itself, tense, impenetrable.
"You should check on your wife, by the way," Wen Haoyi called out smoothly, voice laced with something darker, something pointed. "He seemed pretty distressed."
Jiang Yanxu didn't respond. His hand curled tighter at his side, but his stride remained steady, unflinching.
Upstairs, he paused in front of the bedroom door. A cold weight settled over him, familiar, suffocating.
He opened the door.
Empty.
