At 4:17 that afternoon, Zhou Jue’an returned to the villa.

Everything happened almost exactly as I had imagined.

The black car stopped outside.

He stepped out wearing the same dark coat he’d worn when leaving for Paris.

In one hand was his suitcase.

In the other, champagne roses.

Aunt Wang opened the door.

“Sir…”

Zhou Jue’an handed her his coat.

“Where’s Tong Zi?”

Aunt Wang froze.

“And the baby?”

Silence.

His eyebrows tightened.

“Are they sleeping?”

“Madam left.”

His hand stopped.

“What?”

“Thirteen days ago.”

The bouquet slipped slightly between his fingers.

Aunt Wang lowered her head.

“Madam took the young lady and moved out.”

For several seconds, Zhou Jue’an didn’t react.

Then he laughed.

Not because it was funny.

Because he didn’t believe her.

“Where did she go?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did she return to her parents?”

“No.”

“Hotel?”

“I don’t know.”

His expression finally changed.

He dropped the flowers onto the table and went upstairs.

The bedroom.

Half-empty wardrobe.

Missing toiletries.

No suitcase.

No photographs belonging to me.

Then the nursery.

Zhou Jue’an stopped at the doorway.

Empty.

The crib was gone.

The small changing table was gone.

Even the stuffed rabbit beside the window had disappeared.

Only then did panic truly reach him.

“Tong Zi!”

He called my phone.

Disconnected.

He opened our chat.

His last message to me had been sent fourteen days earlier.

Landing in Paris. Busy tonight.

I hadn’t replied.

Apparently, he had never noticed.

He returned to the bedroom.

And saw the papers.

Divorce agreement.

My signature.

A pen beside it.

Underneath was a letter.

Zhou Jue’an opened it.

There were only several lines.

Jue’an,

I used to think the opposite of love was hatred.

Now I know it’s exhaustion.

I don’t hate you.

I simply don’t want to wait anymore.

The things you bought me are still in the safe.

The things belonging to our daughter are with me.

Please sign the divorce papers.

From now on, you can go wherever you want with whomever you want.

You no longer need to explain.

Tong Zi.

He read it twice.

Then a third time.

Afterward, he called his assistant.

“Find my wife.”

The assistant hesitated.

“President Zhou—”

“Now.”

Within two hours, he received an answer.

I had purchased a small house six months earlier.

With my own money.

Zhou Jue’an stared at the purchase date.

Six months.

That meant I hadn’t decided to leave because of Paris.

Paris had merely been the final push.

I had been preparing my exit while still cooking his dinner.

While still attending family events beside him.

While still smiling when people praised our marriage.

That realization frightened him more than anger would have.

At eight that evening, my doorbell rang.

I already knew who it was.

Through the screen, I saw Zhou Jue’an standing outside.

No assistant.

No driver.

No flowers.

I didn’t open the door.

He called.

I answered.

“Tong Zi.”

His voice was lower than usual.

“Open the door.”

“No.”

“We need to talk.”

“Talk.”

A pause.

“Through the phone?”

“Yes.”

He looked directly at the camera.

“Why did you leave without telling me?”

I almost laughed.

“I left you a letter.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

“Then what do you mean?”

“You should have waited until I came back.”

There it was.

Wait.

Again.

I had spent years waiting.

Waiting for dinners that became cold.

Waiting through business trips.

Waiting while Su Wan called him.

Waiting after our daughter was born.

Even during the first difficult weeks of motherhood, I’d waited.

“Why?”

I asked.

“So you could explain Paris?”

His face changed.

“Su Wan was there because—”

“I don’t care.”

He stopped.

Those three words finally silenced him.

I continued.

“Whether she went for work, vacation, illness or because you invited her personally doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Nothing happened between us.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Tong Zi.”

His voice became tense.

“You’re misunderstanding.”

“No.”

I looked down at my sleeping daughter.

“For the first time, I understand perfectly.”

The problem had never been whether Zhou Jue’an physically betrayed me.

The problem was that whenever Su Wan needed him, he went.

Whenever I needed him, I was expected to understand.

That was our marriage.

She asked.

He responded.

I waited.

“I just gave birth,” I said quietly.

“You left for half a month.”

His expression froze.

“The Paris project couldn’t—”

“Could nobody else handle it?”

Silence.

“Could Su Wan not go without you?”

More silence.

“Could your wife and newborn daughter really afford to?”

He had no answer.

I smiled faintly.

“That is why I’m divorcing you.”

The next morning, his lawyer contacted mine.

Zhou Jue’an refused to sign.

For eleven days.

On the twelfth, he appeared outside my house again.

This time I opened the door.

But I didn’t invite him inside.

He looked exhausted.

“Can I see my daughter?”

I stepped aside.

That was the only reason.

He washed his hands before approaching her.

Then stood beside the crib for a long time.

Our daughter opened her eyes.

Zhou Jue’an reached toward her.

Then hesitated.

“Can I?”

I nodded.

He lifted her carefully.

She stared at him for several seconds.

Then began fussing.

Zhou Jue’an panicked.

“What happened?”

“She’s tired.”

“What do I do?”

I almost answered automatically.

Then stopped.

“You’re her father.”

He looked at me.

“I don’t know how.”

“That isn’t something to be proud of.”

His face tightened.

But he didn’t argue.

That afternoon he stayed for three hours.

For perhaps the first time since our daughter was born, Zhou Jue’an actually learned her routine.

He discovered which lullaby calmed her.

How warm she liked her milk.

How she hated being wrapped too tightly.

Small things.

Things he’d never known because he’d always assumed I would handle them.

Before leaving, he placed the signed divorce agreement on the table.

I looked at him.

“You signed?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

His smile was bitter.

“Because keeping you legally married to me won’t make you my wife again.”

That was the first truly respectful thing he’d done for me in a long time.

The divorce became final months later.

Su Wan contacted me once.

She expected anger.

Instead, I surprised her.

“I didn’t divorce him because of you.”

She remained silent.

“You were simply the person who showed me what my position in his life really was.”

“What position?”

“Second.”

I ended the call.

I never spoke to her again.

Zhou Jue’an and Su Wan did not end up together.

That surprised everyone except me.

Because once I stopped standing between them, the great unfinished romance everyone had whispered about became ordinary.

Su Wan liked being the person he would always choose.

Zhou Jue’an liked being needed.

Neither of those things was the same as building a life together.

Meanwhile, mine continued.

I returned to work.

My daughter grew.

My small house became crowded with toys.

There were fingerprints on the windows.

Baby clothes drying beside the fireplace.

Half-finished coffee on the table.

Nothing matched.

Nothing looked like the perfect villa I’d left.

Yet it was the first home I’d ever had that felt truly warm.

Zhou Jue’an became a better father slowly.

Not through grand gestures.

Through repetition.

He arrived when he promised.

Changed diapers.

Went to appointments.

Stayed awake when our daughter was sick.

Learned that parenting couldn’t be delegated to an assistant.

Two years later, he came to pick her up for the weekend.

Our daughter ran toward him.

“Daddy!”

He crouched and caught her.

Then looked at me.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

“You look happy,” he finally said.

“I am.”

He nodded.

“I used to think that villa gave you everything.”

“It gave me many things.”

“Except what you needed.”

I smiled.

He had finally understood.

Too late for our marriage.

But perhaps not too late for himself.

Before leaving, he asked:

“Tong Zi.”

“Yes?”

“If I hadn’t gone to Paris, would you still have left?”

I looked at him.

That question had probably haunted him for two years.

“Yes.”

His face fell slightly.

“I bought this house six months before Paris.”

“I know.”

“Then why wait?”

I thought about it.

“Because part of me was still hoping you’d notice I had stopped waiting for you.”

He lowered his eyes.

“But I didn’t.”

“No.”

Our daughter called him from the car.

Zhou Jue’an turned.

Then looked back once more.

“I’m sorry.”

This time there was no excuse after it.

No explanation.

Just those words.

I nodded.

“I know.”

Then he left.

That evening, I sat beside the fireplace while my house was unusually quiet.

For years, I’d believed leaving would mean losing.

The villa.

The marriage.

The status.

The future I’d planned.

Instead, leaving had returned something I’d almost forgotten belonged to me.

Myself.

Thirteen days before Zhou Jue’an returned from Paris, I’d carried my newborn daughter through the gates of that villa believing I was ending a marriage.

Only much later did I understand what I’d actually done.

I had stopped teaching my daughter that love meant waiting forever for someone to choose you.

And I had finally begun teaching myself the same lesson.