The silence of the penthouse wasn't peaceful—it was heavy. Dense. It curled around Yuxi like invisible smoke, pressing against her lungs until she forgot how to breathe properly.
She lay stiffly on the bed, eyes open, staring at the ceiling as though it might offer some kind of answer. But there was nothing there. Just the slow sweep of shadows, the distant hum of the city beneath the windows, and the lingering echo of everything that had happened hours before.
She turned her head slightly.
Gu Zeyan's coat was still draped at the edge of the bed.
She had told herself she'd give it back the moment they got home, toss it at him and tell him she didn't need his protection, his pity, his… whatever it was he thought he was doing.
But she hadn't.
Now, in the stillness of the night, she couldn't bring herself to move it.
It smelled like him—like crisp winter air, clean linen, and something faintly spicy, like cinnamon and old wood. It wasn't even a scent she liked before. But now, it clung to her skin like a memory she wasn't ready to let go of.
She sat up suddenly, the sheets rustling against her legs.
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
This wasn't what she agreed to. She had signed a contract, not sold her heart. Not opened herself up to this kind of vulnerability.
She wasn't supposed to feel safe with him.
She wasn't supposed to feel anything for him.
But tonight, when she was cornered, when her voice had caught in her throat and her legs refused to move, it wasn't a dream that saved her.
It was him.
Blood on his knuckles. Rage in his eyes. And panic in the way he'd reached for her.
Not cold. Not distant. Not strategic.
He had looked terrified.
And that unsettled her more than anything.
She reached for the coat with trembling fingers, pulled it into her lap, and hugged it to her chest. Her throat tightened unexpectedly, the first tears burning behind her eyes—but she blinked them away before they could fall.
She hated crying.
Crying made you feel weak. Like a child.
But tonight, she just felt… tired. So tired.
And maybe just a little bit human.
—
Gu Zeyan stood in his dimly lit study, sleeves rolled up, the cut on his knuckles raw and red. The faint ticking of the antique wall clock was the only sound in the room, but even that was drowned out by the weight pressing down on him.
He had taken three calls since returning home. All of them business. None of them important.
Because all he could think about was her.
Yuxi.
Not his contract wife. Not the quiet girl he once dismissed as just another piece in a larger game.
But the woman whose eyes still haunted him. Wild with fear. Burning with anger. Shining with something else when he touched her—something he couldn't name.
He hadn't meant to scare her.
No, that was a lie.
He had meant to scare everyone else.
Just not her.
The moment he saw those men around her, something inside him snapped in a way it hadn't in years. Logic evaporated. Tactics gone. He hadn't cared about cameras, consequences, or public image.
He had only cared about her.
Not being hurt.
Not crying.
Not alone.
He downed another glass of whiskey, but the burn did nothing to calm the storm inside him. He barely tasted it anyway.
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
She was supposed to be a name on a piece of paper. A means to an end. Temporary.
But she wasn't.
She was Yuxi—sharp-tongued, prideful, stubborn to a fault.
And now, she was under his skin.
She made him feel things he didn't know how to name. Things he hadn't felt in years. Things he had trained himself to ignore. Because feelings made you reckless. Weak.
And yet… when she had looked up at him tonight, something in him had cracked.
She had looked at him like she didn't know whether to hit him or cry into his chest.
He wanted her to do both.
No.
He wanted her to be okay.
Even if it meant being the villain in her story.
He rubbed his face with both hands and exhaled slowly, heavily.
Somewhere down the hall, he imagined her still awake, curled up in that ridiculous bed she refused to admit she liked, still wrapped in his coat, refusing to let herself cry.
He wished he could go to her. Just to check. Just to see if she was okay.
But she wouldn't want that.
She would push him away. Maybe even yell. And he would let her.
Because if protecting her meant being hated, so be it.
He could live with her hating him.
He wasn't so sure he could live with something happening to her.
—
The night wore on.
Two people, separated by doors and years of emotional walls, stared into the dark.
Neither spoke.
But in their silence, a quiet war raged—between pride and longing, between fear and desire, between the roles they were supposed to play… and the feelings they were starting to feel.
It wasn't love yet.
But it was something.
Something slow, messy, complicated, and real.
And neither of them was ready to admit it.
But neither of them could deny it anymore either.