For the next three days, Sophia Qiao remained in Alexander Shang's villa—not because she wished to, but because she had nowhere else to go, and no argument strong enough to refuse him.
Alexander Shang had severed every path of retreat she might have had. That small red marriage booklet was the final seal upon her fate, binding them together as tightly as a coffin lid.
"Madam, lunch is ready," came the cautious voice of the maid, Chen Xiang, behind her, breaking Sophia's reverie. In these few days, everyone in the villa had come to know her, yet the title Madam still sounded to her ears like mockery.
"The young master said he's been delayed at the company," Chen Xiang added when Sophia didn't move. "He should return by the time you finish your meal."
Sophia gave a faint, indifferent "mm." Only then did the maid retreat, leaving the room silent once more.
The television flickered noiselessly, its sound muted. On the screen, a bold red headline scrolled across the bottom—news of a wedding that had become the talk of half of New York.
Sophia glanced at the screen, then turned her gaze to the window again.
The sunlight was dazzling. Yet she felt no warmth at all.
She sat motionless by the window, bathed in the golden light that crowned her in a delicate halo—serene, distant, almost ethereal. She seemed like a spirit who might vanish at any careless breath.
When Alexander Shang saw her like that, something inside him twisted sharply, as though an unseen hand were tearing his heart apart.
He was supposed to be presiding over an annual board meeting at this very moment. But just before it began, he had caught sight of the invitation from the Yang family.
Ryan Yang and Angela You—wedding today.
At once, he abandoned everything and drove straight home, only to find this scene before him: the quiet girl by the window, the muted television, the sunlight spilling over both.
A dull ache spread through his chest.
But it lasted only an instant. His expression shifted, and the familiar, careless smile returned to his lips. In a few easy strides, he reached the couch, leaned down, and without a word, swept Sophia into his arms. Before her startled cry could escape, his lips captured hers—deep, claiming, relentless.
When the kiss finally broke, her cheeks were flushed a tender crimson, whether from breathlessness or shame, she could not tell.
Alexander's smile deepened. His voice, husky and low, brushed against her ear along with his warm breath.
"I knew it—if I'm not around, my Jojo can't eat properly."
Jojo. The absurd nickname he'd given her these past days—sickly sweet and unbearably vulgar.
"Jojo, I love the way you blush. You're exquisite."
To prove his point, he nipped playfully at the soft curve of her earlobe. Feeling her tremble in his arms, watching the nervous flutter of her lashes, Alexander felt the weight pressing on his chest finally lift, his breath coming easier.
Sophia, knowing she could never outmatch him in words or temper, simply fell silent, letting him carry her to the dining room like a stubborn, unresisting doll.
The servants had already laid out the meal, anticipating his return. From afar, the aroma alone made Sophia's stomach stir.
Once seated, freed from his hold, she picked up her utensils and began to eat.
To her credit—or perhaps her folly—Sophia had one peculiar trait: a heart too simple to hold grudges for long. It was that same thoughtless nature that had let her best friend marry her boyfriend without her tearing the world apart, and that same heedlessness that had led her, on one impulsive trip to England, to marry a man like Alexander Shang.
She shook her head inwardly at herself but kept eating, spoon after spoon. Nothing, it seemed, could dull her appetite. Or perhaps the deeper her sorrow, the more she needed to fill the emptiness with food. To eat away one's grief, as the saying went—how fitting.
Alexander watched her eat with quiet intensity. Her satisfaction stirred no joy in him; instead, a faint crease appeared between his brows.
When she reached for a second bowl of rice, his hand came down, stopping her.
"That's enough. Any more, and you'll make yourself sick."
He waved a hand, and the servants moved forward at once, clearing the dishes with practiced efficiency.
Sophia pursed her lips, unsure whether in disappointment or protest, but said nothing. Only when Alexander made another subtle gesture and everyone else left the room did the faint smile on her face finally fade.
She looked at him, her eyes soft, almost vulnerable.
"I'm not happy, Alexander Shang."
The words were plain, unguarded—a small confession that escaped her before she could think.
Perhaps it was because they were now, at least on paper, husband and wife. Perhaps it was because, despite everything, she no longer felt the need to defend herself from him.
She thought of the past three nights—the only relief she could find in them was that Alexander had not once crossed the final line. Though he insisted on sharing the same bed, holding her close, even stealing a fierce, possessive kiss before sleep, he had gone no further.
"You want something to eat?" he asked at last, remembering the advice she'd once teasingly given him—to win a woman's heart, know what she loves. And she, undeniably, loved food.
Sophia blinked in mild surprise, then smiled faintly and shook her head.
"Alexander Shang," she said softly, "take me to Brother Lingyu's wedding. Please?"