“Auntie, I need to resign a month early. There’s still work to hand over, but you can arrange the rest however you see fit. I’m fine with it—sorry for the trouble.”
“Oh, you child, why so polite?”
My aunt laughed lightly on the other end of the phone, her voice cheerful, betraying no hint of concern.
The moment I hung up, I sat at my desk in silence for three seconds.
The resignation form on the table was stained with coffee, leaving a faint brown ring.
I traced that ring with my fingertip. Somehow, it looked like an old ring rusted into the skin—neither removable nor wearable.
The computer screen was still glowing when a news alert popped up:
“Z Corporation’s Executive CEO Rory attends charity gala with two children—‘Perfect Father,’ warm and devoted.”
He was in a black suit, holding a child in each arm.
His smile was gentle—his most practiced expression.
My fingers curled inch by inch as I stared at the photo.
Those two children weren’t mine.
My child had died on the operating table.
Even now, I can still hear the doctor’s urgent voice echoing in my head:
“Severe hemorrhage! We need to terminate the pregnancy immediately!”
I had shaken my head with every last ounce of strength, my throat raw:
“No…”
Then came a deep, steady voice from outside the door:
“Sign it.”
It was his voice—calm, precise, and clear as a blade.
I thought it was the doctor asking for consent.
I didn’t realize it was him signing his name in the “family authorization” column.
The baby was gone.
When he entered the ward, the first thing he said wasn’t a word of comfort, but:
“Be more careful next time.”
And then:
“This wasn’t an accident—it was the rational choice.”
From that moment, I understood—reason was his only faith.
And I was merely the believer he sacrificed to prove it.
Three years have passed, and I still hear the buzz of that surgical lamp in my dreams.
It shone so bright, yet gave no warmth.
I closed my laptop and went to the kitchen to make coffee.
The hiss of steam filled the air. I took a sip—it was bitter enough to burn.
I looked at my reflection in the glass and smiled faintly.
“Wendy, you’ve finally learned to be rational.”
The wedding photo on the wall was spotless, polished until it gleamed.
In it, I was smiling softly, my eyes still holding the innocence of that year.
He stood beside me, elegant, his hand resting naturally on my shoulder.
When the photographer said, “A little closer,” he frowned slightly and replied,
“Can we hurry? I have a meeting this afternoon.”
I nodded and smiled.
That smile was captured forever—the image of “happiness” everyone believed in.
Back in the study, I pulled out a folder from the drawer:
Property transfer papers.
Insurance.
Trust documents.
Everything neatly arranged.
My life—just the way he liked it: orderly, quiet, obedient.
My phone buzzed. It was Yuanzi.
“Wendy, are you sure about this?”
Her voice trembled. “Faking your death? Are you insane?”
“I’m not insane,” I said softly. “I’m finally awake.”
“But if he finds out—”
“Then I’ll die a second time.”
I smiled. “I’ve already died once, remember?”
There was a long silence before she sighed.
“All right. I’ll set it up. The flight, the crash simulation—everything.
But you’re sure? You won’t tell him?”
I paused for a moment, my voice almost a whisper.
“He doesn’t need to know.
To him, whether I’m dead or alive—it makes no difference.”
Night had fallen.
