It was an early autumn morning. The sky had only just begun to brighten, and a faint chill drifted through the gaps between the city’s high-rise buildings. Fu Sinian’s internal clock was precise—by exactly six o’clock, he had already finished washing up and changed into a perfectly tailored handmade suit.
Standing before the mirror in the walk-in closet, he adjusted his cuffs. His gaze, however, drifted unintentionally toward the dressing table beside him.
It was empty.
Once, it had been cluttered with all kinds of skincare products and jewelry he had bought for Su Wanning. Now, it looked strangely bare.
The subtle change made his brows knit slightly, but the expression faded almost instantly. Just like every workday over the past five years, he drove to Old Chen’s breakfast stall, two intersections away from the Moon Lake Bay villa.
A small line had already formed at the entrance. Steam rose in soft clouds from the bamboo baskets, thickening in the cool air.
When Old Chen saw him, he skillfully packed two portions of red bean buns and two cups of unsweetened soy milk, then handed them over across the counter.
“Mr. Fu, same as always today.”
Fu Sinian took the breakfast and was about to turn away when Old Chen suddenly seemed to remember something and added, “Oh right, Mr. Fu, no need to reserve a portion for your wife anymore.”
His hand froze midair.
Old Chen didn’t notice the sudden stiffness in his expression and continued casually, “She came by yesterday to let me know. Said she’s switching to imported oatmeal cups now, wants to lose fat. You young people are always thinking about dieting. If you ask me, health is what really matters…”
Fu Sinian didn’t hear another word.
His eyes were fixed on the portion of red bean buns that had originally been meant for Su Wanning. The warmth seeped through the paper bag into his palm, yet it couldn’t dispel the sudden cold spreading through his chest.
Su Wanning hated oatmeal.
That was something he had known from the very day he met her.
Three years ago, when they had just gotten married, he had even hired a nutritionist to prepare balanced breakfasts for her picky eating habits, including oatmeal. Back then, she had wrinkled her nose, pushed the bowl far away, and leaned into his arms, acting spoiled as she complained, “Sinian, that stuff is all sticky, I can’t swallow it. In this lifetime, I’ll only eat the red bean buns you buy. I don’t want anything else.”
But now, she had taken the initiative to switch to oatmeal?
Fu Sinian suppressed the unease rising in his chest and maintained a calm exterior as he nodded to Old Chen, “Got it, thank you.”
After returning to the car, he didn’t start the engine immediately. Instead, he placed the breakfast on the passenger seat. The sweet, cloying aroma of the red bean buns slowly filled the enclosed space, yet it only made him feel inexplicably irritated.
Over the past two months, Su Wanning’s unusual behavior had been more than just this.
She had started working overtime frequently. She set a new password on her phone and no longer let him glance at it as casually as before. Sometimes, when she returned home late at night, there was a faint, unfamiliar scent of perfume lingering on her. When he asked, she would simply say it came from a colleague’s gathering. Even in the most intimate moments between husband and wife, she would often refuse him with the excuse that she was too tired.
It wasn’t that Fu Sinian hadn’t noticed.
He simply refused to think in the worst direction.
He told himself that perhaps, after three years of marriage, this was just the natural calm phase after passion had faded. He still remembered the way she had tearfully agreed to his proposal. He still remembered her saying that he was the best husband in the world.
He took a deep breath, forcing down the turbulent emotions within him, and prepared to start the car and head to the company.
At that moment, his gaze swept across the passenger seat.
That was where Su Wanning usually sat.
The angle of the seatback seemed to have been adjusted slightly, different from her usual preference. Acting on instinct, he leaned over, intending to adjust it back.
His fingertips paused briefly on the adjustment button at the side of the seat, but then slowly shifted toward the narrow gap between the seat and the center console.
That was a place where she often dropped hairpins or lipstick by accident, and he would usually retrieve them for her.
But this time, what his fingers touched wasn’t the smooth texture of a woman’s belonging.
It was something cold, hard… and unmistakably belonging to a man.
Fu Sinian’s movements stopped.
Slowly, he pulled the small object out from the gap and spread it open in his palm.
It was a man’s cufflink.
Cheap material. Flashy design. Completely different from the minimalist style he usually wore.
On the back of the cufflink, two English letters were clearly engraved: JC.
This was not his.
The temperature inside the car was perfectly comfortable, yet a chill surged up from the soles of his feet, spreading instantly through his entire body.
JC.
The two letters were like poisoned needles, stabbing straight into his eyes.
He suddenly recalled how, last week, he had accidentally seen Su Wanning’s phone screen light up. The caller ID had seemed to read “Jingchen.” At the time, she had quickly hung up and explained that it was just a troublesome client.
Now that he thought about it, the hurried way she had concealed it, the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes—everything had been suspicious.
And Old Chen’s words this morning. And all the strange changes over the past two months…
Every clue connected at this moment, pointing toward a possibility he didn’t dare dwell on.
Fu Sinian clenched the cufflink tightly in his hand. The sharp edges of the metal bit into his palm, sending a sting of pain through him. Leaning back against the driver’s seat, he closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them again, the last trace of warmth in his gaze had vanished completely, replaced by a bone-chilling coldness.
Outside the car window, the sunlight gradually grew brighter, spilling through the windshield onto his sharply defined profile.
But it couldn’t reach his eyes.
He sat there in silence for a long time, until the ringing of his phone broke the stillness inside the car—it was his secretary, reminding him of an important meeting that morning.
Fu Sinian answered the call, his voice calm and devoid of emotion, “I know. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
After hanging up, he gave the cufflink one last look, then carefully placed it into the inner pocket of his suit.
He started the engine. The black Bentley moved steadily out of the underground garage, merging into the morning rush-hour traffic.
Outside the window, the city’s familiar streets passed by.
Inside the car, the man’s gaze was as cold as frost.
The portion of red bean buns that had originally been bought for Su Wanning lay forgotten on the passenger seat, gradually turning cold.