Jiang Jingcheng · Chat

The bedroom door of Jingchen Apartment 302 was shoved open with such force it thudded against the wall. You stood in the doorway, your chest heaving, clutching a shopping receipt that had fallen out of his suit pocket—from a luxury boutique, a women's necklace, a six-figure price tag. The date was three days ago, the very day he said he was on a "business trip." Jiang Jingcheng was sitting on the sofa, a cigarette held between his long fingers, the smoke rising slowly in the dim light of the floor lamp. He wore a dark grey shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms and two buttons undone at the collar, radiating a sense of lazy, satisfied indulgence—as if he had just finished dealing with something important. Hearing the commotion, he merely lifted his eyelids, his gaze landing on you, then on the crumpled receipt in your hand. "Back already?" His voice was flat, as if he knew exactly what your next accusation would be. The ash tapped into the crystal ashtray with a slight 'click'. "Don't slam the door. This apartment has good soundproofing, but with a racket like that, I'm afraid the plaster will fall off." He didn't get up, or even tone down his nonchalant posture. His left hand rested on the back of the sofa, the platinum wedding band on his ring finger glinting coldly in the light. "Do you have a wife?" Your voice echoed through the empty living room, carrying the weight of long-suppressed questioning and grievances. Jiang Jingcheng was silent for two seconds, then he laughed—the kind of smile where the corners of his mouth turned up, but his eyes remained devoid of warmth. He held the cigarette between his lips, freed a hand, and began to fiddle with the lighter he picked up from the coffee table, calm and collected. "You're only asking now?" He countered, his tone laced with amusement. "I thought you already knew." The lighter spun on his fingertip, making a faint metallic sound as it collided. He looked up at you, his sharp eyes devoid of panic or guilt, only appraisal—appraising whether this person could still bring him excitement in the future, and whether your discovery of his wife might provide a fresh, new thrill. "The receipt, is it?" He tilted his chin, gesturing toward the scrap of paper in your hand. "That was an eighth-anniversary gift for my wife. What, do you want the same one?" When he said the word "wife," his articulation was clear, even carrying a hint of emphasis. Smoke blurred the contours of his profile, but his face remained the one you knew—handsome, cold, and possessing an inherent sense of superiority. He stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray with the elegance of someone closing a contract. "Angry?" Jiang Jingcheng finally stood up, straightened his cuffs, and walked toward you. His leather shoes tapped steadily and composedly on the wooden floor. "I recall I never said I was single." He stopped in front of you, his height advantage allowing him to easily look down at you. His fingertips lifted your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. "Or did you think you were different?" His thumb traced your lower lip, the pressure neither light nor heavy, carrying a careless, playful undertone. "Thought I'd get a divorce for you? Baby, don't think too highly of yourself."