Chapter 4

Laura Nie POV

Then Cecilia Xiang appeared at the company reception desk.

The first time I saw her at the anniversary gala, I froze.

Cecilia's slightly downturned doe eyes, along with that tiny habit of curling her lip downward when speaking, looked just like me in my early twenties.

He was looking for twenty-year-old Laura Nie in Cecilia.

As for the wife in front of him, whose rough edges had been ground down by life, the one who suffered through the lean years with him—he was thoroughly tired of looking at her.

Late into the night after I regained consciousness in the emergency room.

That overseas call came in for the first time.

The person on the other end spoke French, saying they had been searching for me for nearly thirty years, and that all biological markers matched.

Back then, I thought it was a telemarketing scam and hung up without thinking.

The next morning, I went downstairs to buy breakfast.

I happened to catch Frank's car parked at the intersection. He was reaching out, gently tucking a stray strand of Cecilia's hair behind her ear as the morning breeze ruffled it.

Standing behind the doorway, I backed away, step by step, and headed upstairs.

It took me three full days to sort through decades of memories.

Over those three days, Frank didn't send a single text.

It was as if he had completely forgotten there was an injured patient with a torn ligament at home.

On the evening of the third day, Frank suddenly pushed the door open right at dinner time.

I ladled a bowl of creamy mushroom soup and set it at the head of the table, just like usual.

Tossing his briefcase aside, Frank scrolled through spreadsheets on his tablet, barely touching his silverware.

Sitting beside him, I spoke up as if in passing, "The company's early founder shares were funded through our joint account back then. Now that the business has scaled up, it's time we sorted that out."

I paused, keeping my tone level. "I hate to bring up bad omens."

Frank didn't even look up. "What is it?"

"I've been dealing with insomnia lately," I said, plating a piece of duck liver for him.

"Neither of us had any family to fall back on growing up. If something ever happens to one of us out of the blue, and the survivor doesn't have an agreement in hand, the board will probably descend into chaos."

Frank let out a vague hum, his gaze still glued to the financial graphs.

"Stop scaring yourself," he scoffed dismissively. "I'm in great shape. With me holding the fort, nothing's going to happen to you."

I pulled open the sideboard drawer, drew out a drafted A4 document, and slid it beside his elbow.

"Just sign," I said, handing him an uncapped Montblanc fountain pen. "Once you sign this, I'll finally be able to get a decent night's sleep."

Frank glanced carelessly at the heading—Postnuptial Property Division and No-Fault Addendum Agreement—presumably assuming it was routine household property notarization, without bothering to flip through the detailed clauses below.

"Since when did you get so petty?" Smirking, he put pen to paper and scribbled his signature across the grantee confirmation line.

I watched that familiar flourish settle onto the page.

For the first time in my life, I had used my wits to protect myself against him.

Without a word, I pulled the document back, folded it neatly, slipped it into a manila folder, and zipped up my purse.

Frank devoured that meal in a rush. After a couple of bites, he answered a business call, grabbed his jacket, and headed out the door—never once asking about the brace wrapped around my wrist.

Over the next two weeks, he rarely came home at night.

After packing up my remaining belongings from the villa, I remembered that old shared studio apartment in Boston.

We had bought the property years ago and kept it listed for rent through an agency.

The agent had texted yesterday, saying a client working with redevelopment planning liked the location and scheduled a reinspection for this morning.

With the manila folder carrying the agreement tucked into my bag, I followed the agent and buyer up the concrete stairs to the third floor.

Old, abandoned bicycles and coal ash from neighbors piled up in the stairwell landings, while the damp, blistered whitewash flaked off the walls whenever a draft blew through.

Reaching the door of Room 302, I froze in my tracks.

The battered green security gate wasn't locked; it was left ajar by a couple of inches.

Voices drifted out from inside, laced with a woman's cooing laughter.

I knew both voices all too well.

One was Frank.

The other was Cecilia.

Cecilia spoke with a nasal whine, "Mr. Zhuang, this place is such a dump. Why did you bring me all the way out here?"

Frank's voice filtered through the rusted wire mesh: "This is where Laura and I stayed when the business was just starting out. Cecilia, I wanted to show you my past."

I stood frozen in the hallway, as if my feet were nailed to the floor.

Over the years, all of his care and concern had been generously given away to others.

What I had been desperately clinging to was nothing more than an old ledger of the hardships we once shared.

It was the very last shred of dignity and leverage I had left in this marriage that existed in name only.

And now, he had stripped away even this final piece of dignity, turning it into cheap foreplay to flaunt before his mistress.

My hands were completely empty.

Beside me, the agent urged impatiently, "You have the key, don't you? Why don't we unlock it and take a look inside?"

I raised my left hand, but just as my fingers were about to brush the doorknob, I pulled back.

Through the crack in the door, Cecilia was still giggling.

Frank's low chuckle pierced through the thin door panel, sending a dull, throbbing ache straight through my head.

Instinctively, I pulled the shoulder bag holding the agreement behind my back.

I looked down at the slightly yellowed brace on my right wrist, then glanced once more at the ajar door.

Today was not the time for a showdown.