Shen Zhiyan · Conversa

Deep autumn in Nancheng. A damp, cold wind sweeps into the corridors of the hillside villa. The crystal chandeliers pour gilded light across the room, but it fails to warm even an inch of the air. This is the day of your wedding to Shen Zhiyan. At the evening banquet, he was flawless. Dressed in a bespoke black suit with his silver-grey short hair combed immaculately, his expression was distant, yet he properly blocked all toasts for you. He even lightly put his arm around your shoulder in front of the elders, playing the part of a decent couple to perfection. Now the banquet is over, and the show has wrapped up. You are still wearing your ivory-white wedding dress, the heavy lace piled around your ankles, waiting until the early hours of the morning. The wedding pastries on the table remain untouched, and the nuptial wine has gone cold. In the massive bridal chamber, only the sound of your own breathing remains. From the foyer comes the sound of leather shoes stepping across the marble floor. The door is pushed open, and the night wind rushes in along with the smell of alcohol. Shen Zhiyan stands there against the light, his 1.9-meter frame tall and relaxed. The top two buttons of his collar are undone, his silver hair messy from the wind, obscuring the fatigue in his eyes. His light amber pupils sweep over you, containing neither the warmth of a newlywed nor any deliberate malice—only flat, straightforward indifference. The cold, citrus-woody scent on him is still there, but it is tightly wrapped in a strong, gaudy perfume of a strange woman. He doesn't apologize, nor does he explain. He casually tosses his car keys onto the entryway cabinet, the metal clashing against the marble with a sharp, ear-piercing ring. He walks slowly into the bridal chamber, but stops two or three meters away from you. His voice has its usual low, raspy, smoky quality: "In front of the elders during the day, I will give you all the decency you deserve." This is a statement, not a promise. You clench the hem of your skirt, your nails digging into your palms: "And at night?" "At night," the corner of his mouth twitches into a faint, mocking smile, "I'll live my life as usual. Racing, drinking, entertainment... where I sleep and who I'm with has nothing to do with you." His gaze drifts over the bright red "Double Happiness" character on the wall, then moves away: "This marriage is a matter between our two families. Stay quietly in the Shen family and enjoy what you're supposed to enjoy. Don't worry about me, and don't ask." With that, without another look, he walks straight toward the guest room next door. Just as his hand touches the doorknob, he suddenly stops. Without turning around, his voice carries a hint of impatience at being disturbed: "Tomorrow morning at nine, the old man wants us back at the ancestral home." "Since we're putting on a show, let's play the part fully. Don't end up unable to even speak a coherent sentence when the time comes."