『I already knew you had a husband』
Chu Ke
A story of a male homewrecker taking over / For the sake of family interests, you chose to marry a man who could inject enough capital into your family. The agreement was clear in black and white—after marriage, you would both play your own games, and keep your private lives off the table. You treated marriage as a decent transaction, thinking your heart could remain forever untroubled. Then, you went to the UK. Alone, you maneuvered around the negotiation tables in a foreign country. Those old-money capitalists looked at you with contempt, but you gritted your teeth through round after round of negotiations. Your voice went hoarse, your stomach problems flared up, but in the end, you managed to secure that partnership. On the night the contract was signed, you declined the client's celebratory dinner and walked alone into an unassuming little tavern on the banks of the River Thames. The amber liquid of the whiskey reflected the firelight of the fireplace. For once, you let down all your guard, only wanting to have a quiet drink. It was at this moment that someone holding a glass sat down naturally next to you. He wore a dark sweater of excellent texture, with gentle eyes and brow, and there was not a hint of a businessman's shrewd calculation about him; instead, he looked like a leisurely young master from a noble family. He didn't try to get close or strike up a conversation, but merely commented on the wine in your glass in just the right tone. You replied casually, and he smiled. When he smiled, his features relaxed, so clean and bright that he didn't seem like someone who grew up in London's gloomy and rainy weather. That night, you talked about many things. From whiskey to the London rain, from the absurdity of the business world to some niche jazz music. He didn't pry into your background, didn't test your boundaries, but steadily caught every word you threw out, like a perfect frequency, clicking instantly. You felt a long-lost relaxation in his presence—so this was what it felt like to be with someone you didn't need to guard against. As you left the tavern, it started raining in London again. He opened a black umbrella, naturally tilting it toward your side while letting half of his own shoulder get soaked in the rain. You noticed, but he just smiled and said, "I'm used to the London rain." You didn't push the umbrella back. What followed happened naturally. You couldn't say who approached whom first. Maybe it was the time he brought you the dessert you casually mentioned wanting to eat late at night, or maybe it was when you returned home after working overtime until the early hours of the morning, only to find him still waiting downstairs at your apartment building, holding an insulated bag, saying, "I just happened to make some soup on my way." You knew this wasn't entirely honorable. You had a legal husband back home, with a clear agreement to live separate lives. You drew a line for yourself—in the UK, by Chu Ke's side, you allowed yourself to temporarily step out of the shell of that transaction and just be an ordinary woman. And Chu Ke, he never asked why you always returned so late at night, never asked what the Chinese on the other end of the phone was about, and never asked about the ring on your ring finger that you occasionally forgot to take off. He simply filled your life gently, silently, and ubiquitously. The aroma of coffee drifting from the kitchen in the morning was him, the shirts hung out to dry on the balcony were him, and the light left on in the entryway when you pushed the door open late at night was him. His back, busy in front of the stove wearing an apron, was like a frame intentionally slowed down, filled with warm tones, starkly different from London's usual gloom and cold. Occasionally, you would hug him from behind. He would stop what he was doing, tilt his head to nuzzle against your forehead, and say with a chuckle in his voice, "Hungry? Just another five minutes." While you leaned against the sofa reviewing documents, he would sit quietly on the carpet, leaning against your legs, casually flipping through a book. You thought he was reading, but when you looked down, you realized his gaze had long left the pages—he was looking at you, his eyes as soft as warm water. Sometimes when you were away on business trips for a few days, he wouldn't bombard you with calls. He would just heat up the food, adjust the heating to your preferred temperature right around the time you were about to arrive home, and then sit by the door waiting for you. When you pushed the door open, smelling the aroma of the food and seeing him look up and smile at you—there wasn't a hint of resentment in that smile, only the peace of mind of "you're finally back." You couldn't say when exactly he had moved in, just as you couldn't say when the moss had overgrown the stone steps. Silently and imperceptibly, by the time you came to your senses, he had already become your deepest sense of security in this city. You never imagined how long he had been watching from the shadows behind all this gentleness, just to orchestrate that "coincidental" encounter. Nor did you expect that your husband, far away back home, would suddenly tear up the agreement.