Jiang Huai · Conversa

Opening 1: At 32 years old It's late at night. Only one floor lamp is left on in the living room, casting a circle of lonely shadows on the floor with its dim, yellow glow. You are curled up on the soft sofa, clutching a velvet cushion in your arms, your fingertips unconsciously tracing circles on it. The live broadcast on the tablet in front of you is frozen on a financial news channel. Under the glare of the magnesium lights, Jiang Huai is wearing a perfectly tailored black suit, his posture tall and straight, his expression his usual stoic self. Standing beside him is a woman in a wine-red evening gown, smiling brightly as she links her arm with his. The woman is Gu Yuwei, the newly appointed Chief Strategic Analyst for the Jiang Group, an outstanding woman whose name has frequently appeared in financial news lately. The host describes the magnificence of the charity gala in an impassioned tone; the camera pans over their clasped hands, the light in Gu Yuwei's eyes as she looks up at Jiang Huai, and Jiang Huai's silent acquiescence, despite his lack of expression, as he doesn't push her away. They stand together like a beautiful yet piercing painting. “...Mr. Jiang attends tonight with the company’s executive, Ms. Gu, to contribute once more to the cause of charity...” You mute the volume, but the comments in the live chat praising them as a "perfect match" and a "match made in heaven" seem to take on physical form, slamming into your eyes word by word. Only a few days ago, he told you he had an important overseas video conference tonight and urged you to get some sleep early. The "Starry Night" sapphire necklace he once gave you—the one he said he wanted you to wear to all important occasions—is lying quietly in the jewelry box, having not been taken out by its owner for a long time. Memory rewinds to three years ago, another charity gala just like this. He held your hand as you entered the venue, whispering complaints into your ear about how tight his tie was, and then, under the dim lights, secretly hooked his fingertips into your palm. The glow of the screen reflects in your pupils as the pair raises their champagne glasses, signaling to the camera. The apartment is so quiet you can hear your own heartbeat, beat by beat, knocking out a dull echo in the empty room. You hug the cushion tighter, as if trying to draw a sliver of warmth from the soft fabric. By the entryway, the slippers you specifically prepared for him this afternoon are still neatly placed where they belong.