At 6:45 p.m. on the third day, Su Jinxiu arrived at the luxury riverfront apartment carrying two bags of groceries.
She had walked through this door for twenty years.
The tiny scratch on the handle had been made by Zhao Zixuan when he was twelve, absentmindedly scraping it with his key. The patch of repaired paint on the upper corner of the doorframe came from when they had moved furniture in years ago. She could have found every mark with her eyes closed.
But today, she had to ring the doorbell.
Ding-dong—
Ten seconds later, the door opened.
Zhao Mingyuan stood in the doorway wearing a gray cashmere cardigan, his gold-rimmed glasses perfectly positioned, his hair neatly combed. At sixty-eight, he looked remarkably well preserved.
Of course he did.
She had been the one carrying all the burdens these past decades.
His eyes drifted to the groceries in her hands, and he froze for a moment.
“I came to cook you one last meal,” Su Jinxiu said softly. There was exhaustion in her voice, along with a hint of acceptance. “Let’s… treat it as a final goodbye.”
Her eyes reddened slightly as she spoke, her lips pressed together as if she were struggling to suppress her emotions.
An Academy Award-worthy performance.
Zhao Mingyuan remained silent for three seconds before stepping aside.
Su Jinxiu changed into the slippers by the entrance and walked into the living room.
Nothing had changed.
The cream-colored leather sofa—she had picked it.
The monstera plant by the floor-to-ceiling window—she had nurtured it herself.
The Qi Baishi shrimp painting on the wall—she had spent 120,000 yuan at auction to bring it home.
Only one thing was different.
A framed photograph now sat on the coffee table.
In it, Liu Wanqing wore a burgundy cheongsam, smiling gracefully like the true mistress of the house.
Su Jinxiu’s gaze lingered on the photo for only half a second before she calmly turned away and headed for the kitchen.
The kitchen was unchanged as well.
The stove, the range hood, the spice rack—every detail had been chosen by her years ago.
Even the floral apron she had worn for over a decade still hung on its hook.
She tied it around her waist and began washing vegetables, slicing meat, heating oil.
Her movements flowed effortlessly. Forty years of cooking experience hadn’t been wasted.
First came braised pork ribs—Zhao Mingyuan’s favorite.
She caramelized the sugar until it turned deep amber, browned the ribs until golden, added water to cover them, brought everything to a boil, then let it simmer slowly.
Next came sweet-and-sour pork tenderloin—his second favorite.
The pork was cut into strips, coated with egg, dusted with starch, then fried until crisp in hot oil.
She also prepared steamed sea bass, broccoli with garlic, and old hen soup.
The soup had been simmering since the afternoon. She had brought it in a thermos and now poured it into a clay pot to reheat. The rich aroma immediately filled the kitchen.
Before entering, she had already taken the sleeping pills out of her storage space.
Six tablets.
She crushed them into a fine white powder that was almost indistinguishable from starch.
She divided it into two portions.
One was stirred thoroughly into the braised ribs’ sauce.
The other was mixed into the sweet-and-sour glaze before being poured over the pork.
Colorless.
Odorless.
Impossible to detect.
“Jinxiu.”
At some point, Zhao Mingyuan had leaned against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, quietly watching her busy figure.
Without looking back, Su Jinxiu continued stir-frying the broccoli.
“…I’ve treated you unfairly all these years.”
His voice carried just the right amount of guilt—not too much, not too little. Enough to make him sound like a decent man trapped by circumstances.
She sprinkled a pinch of salt into the pan.
“What’s the point of saying that now?”
He was silent for a while before speaking again.
“Wanqing… actually wanted me to have a proper talk with you. She said she hated seeing you suffer.”
Su Jinxiu tightened her grip on the spatula until her knuckles turned white.
She almost laughed.
Was Liu Wanqing trying to show off her “kindness”… or simply confirming that Su Jinxiu had truly given up?
“The food’s ready.”
She turned off the stove, carried the dishes to the dining table, and even managed a faint smile as she passed Zhao Mingyuan.
“Let’s eat.”
The dining table was covered with steaming dishes, each one fragrant and freshly made.
As Zhao Mingyuan sat down, a complicated look flashed across his face at the sight of all his favorite foods.
But only for a moment.
He picked up his chopsticks.
His first bite was the braised pork ribs.
“Mmm…”
He chewed twice before nodding sincerely.
“No one cooks this better than you. Wanqing’s cooking is always missing something.”
Sitting across from him, Su Jinxiu quietly picked up a piece of steamed fish.
She never touched the ribs.
Nor the sweet-and-sour pork.
Zhao Mingyuan ate heartily.
Two large servings of ribs.
An entire plate of sweet-and-sour pork.
Most of the chicken soup.
Even after forty years, he still ate exactly the same way—wolfing down his food without caring about appearances.
Su Jinxiu simply watched.
Occasionally she picked up a piece of broccoli or another bite of fish.
Nothing more.
“Jinxiu.”
After finishing, Zhao Mingyuan set down his chopsticks and let out a satisfied belch.
“So… have you made up your mind about signing the waiver?”
There it was.
Accepting a meal from someone had never softened Zhao Mingyuan.
Su Jinxiu lowered her head.
“I’ll sign.”
“…Have your lawyer prepare the documents tomorrow.”
“I’ll sign them.”
A flicker of triumph flashed through Zhao Mingyuan’s eyes before he quickly replaced it with an expression of concern.
“Don’t worry. I won’t leave you destitute in your old age. I’ll transfer ten thousand yuan to you every month for living expenses. That should be eno—”
He suddenly yawned.
“…Why am I… so sleepy today…”
He rubbed his eyes.
Another larger yawn followed.
His head began drooping uncontrollably.
“Jinxiu… I…”
Thud.
His forehead hit the dining table.
Three seconds later, steady snores echoed through the room.
Su Jinxiu slowly laid down her chopsticks.
She sat motionless for two full minutes, watching Zhao Mingyuan sleeping soundly across the table.
Only after confirming he was completely unconscious did she rise.
The exhaustion.
The vulnerability.
The restraint.
Every trace of it vanished.
What remained were eyes as cold as ice.
“Ten thousand yuan a month for living expenses?”
She repeated his words quietly, a mocking smile curling her lips.
“Zhao Mingyuan… how generous of you.”
She walked over, lifted his right hand, and pressed his index finger against his phone’s fingerprint scanner.
Click.
Unlocked.
She opened his mobile banking apps.
Industrial and Commercial Bank of China: ¥9,847,231.56
China Construction Bank: ¥6,120,000.00
Agricultural Bank of China: ¥4,503,688.41
China Merchants Bank: ¥3,000,000.00
Four accounts.
A total of ¥23,470,919.97.
Su Jinxiu’s pupils contracted slightly.
Over twenty-three million yuan.
The fortune she had spent a lifetime building had been quietly hidden away by this man.
Meanwhile, when she had been thrown out of her own home…
She had only eighteen thousand yuan left.
She refused to let anger interfere with efficiency.
She began transferring the money.
ICBC allowed transfers of one million yuan per transaction.
One million.
Another million.
And another.
Ten transfers.
Then she switched to the Construction Bank app, limited to five hundred thousand yuan per transfer.
Next came the Agricultural Bank.
Then China Merchants Bank.
One by one.
Forty minutes later…
Every account balance had been reduced to zero.
She wasn’t finished.
Alipay.
Balance: ¥183,200.
Transferred.
WeChat Wallet.
Balance: ¥61,500.
Transferred.
Investment products.
¥1.2 million.
She initiated redemption. The funds would settle the following day before automatically transferring into her account.
Only then did she lean back and release a long breath.
She glanced at Zhao Mingyuan’s phone.
After a brief hesitation, she opened WeChat.
Pinned at the very top was a contact whose nickname was nothing but a pink heart emoji.
She tapped it.
The latest message had been sent by Liu Wanqing at 4:17 that afternoon.
“Hubby, I’m doing inventory at the store tomorrow. I’ll make your favorite pickled fish for dinner when I get home~”
Hubby.
Su Jinxiu’s finger froze.
She scrolled upward.
There was a fifty-nine-second voice message.
She lowered the volume to its minimum and pressed play.
Liu Wanqing’s sweet, coquettish voice floated from the speaker.
“Hubby~ Shiyu called me ‘Mom’ so sweetly today. Zixuan even said from now on he’ll only recognize me as his mother. Don’t you think I’m better than her? All she ever knew was making money, making money. She never cared about the kids. She deserved everything that happened…”
Before the recording could continue, Su Jinxiu paused it.
Her hand trembled around the phone.
Not from anger.
But from a bone-deep chill that seeped into her very soul.
She closed her eyes.
One second.
Two.
Three.
A slow, steady breath.
Another.
When she opened them again…
Her hand was perfectly still.
She exited the chat and opened Liu Wanqing’s profile.
There, plainly displayed, was her identification number.
ID Number: 310105196503XXXXXXXX
Su Jinxiu took out her own phone, photographed the screen, and stored the image inside her dimensional space.
Then she set Zhao Mingyuan’s phone back on the table.
Standing over the sleeping man, she looked down at him without a trace of emotion.
“Liu Wanqing…”
Her voice was barely louder than a whisper.
Yet the coldness within it could have frozen steel.
“So…”
“You wanted to become the mother of my children.”
“You wanted to become the mistress of this home.”
She turned toward the front door.
As she passed the coffee table, she paused.
Picking up the framed photograph, she studied Liu Wanqing’s gentle smile for two silent seconds before placing it back exactly where it had been.
“Then your money…”
“Your credit…”
“Everything you own…”
She opened the door.
The night breeze rushed in, lifting strands of her silver hair.
“…belongs to me now.”