The penthouse was too quiet.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet, but the kind that made the air feel heavy — like the whole place was holding its breath.
Jiang Weiwei stood barefoot on the marble floor, one hand wrapped around the stem of a wine glass. The red liquid inside caught the dim city lights spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows, making it glow like blood.
She hadn't turned on the lamps. She prefers the darkness, it suited her tonight.
Across from her, on the wall above the sleek console table, hung the wedding portrait. It was the largest frame in the room — Zhao Mingfeng in his tailored black tuxedo, one arm firm around her waist, both of them smiling at the camera.
She stared at it until the smile on her own face started to feel foreign, wrong.
That smile belonged to someone soft, someone foolish enough to believe the man beside her would protect her from the world.
The soft hum of the refrigerator came and went. Somewhere in the distance, the city traffic murmured under the glass. But beneath it all, she thought she heard… something else.
The faint click of heels on marble.
Weiwei set her wine glass on the console without looking away from the photo. The crystal made a soft chime against the wood.
There — the sound again, closer now. And then… a breath of perfume in the air.
Not her own. Something cloying, over-sweet. The kind Lin Xinya always wore when she wanted to be noticed.
Weiwei didn't move, but a single, cold thought slid through her mind:
So. It's tonight.
The front door opened with a soft electronic click, followed by the low murmur of a man's voice.
"Careful," Zhao Mingfeng said, tone warm in that way he used when he was performing for someone. "The marble's slippery."
A lighter voice laughed — breathy, self-assured. "I've been in this apartment enough times, Mingfeng. I know the way to your bedroom."
Weiwei didn't move from her place in the shadows, but her eyes narrowed. She stood just beyond the edge of the living room, half-hidden by the tall glass display case of wine bottles.
The faint swish of silk brushed the air. Lin Xinya stepped into view, her arm hooked casually through Zhao Mingfeng's. She was dressed for a night out — a black slip dress that shimmered in the city light, hair perfectly swept to one side.
Around her neck hung a diamond pendant — small, familiar, and painfully recognizable. Weiwei had given it to her three years ago for her birthday.
Lin Xinya caught her reflection in the window and touched the necklace as if it were hers by birthright.
"You really should tell her soon," Lin Xinya murmured, her tone soft but laced with amusement. "She still thinks you're hers."
Zhao Mingfeng chuckled, slipping his hand down to the small of her back. "I'll tell her tonight. We'll finish this once and for all."
They passed through the hallway toward the master bedroom, their voices lowering but still carrying in the open space.
"She's so easy to manage," Lin Xinya said. "So docile. It's almost boring. I don't know how you stand it."
"I won't for much longer." Zhao Mingfeng's voice had the smooth edge of someone delivering a promise — not to a wife, but to a mistress.
Weiwei's fingers curled against the cool wood of the console. The rage was there — a low, controlled burn — but it didn't reach her face.
Instead, she slipped quietly into the guest room, closing the door behind her without a sound. She already knew how this night would end.