Chapter 5

Chapter 5

“I mean, when she came here, she was in so much pain she couldn't stand upright. She signed the forms herself, paid the bill herself, and walked into the operating room alone. When we asked where her family was, she said she'd just divorced.”

Gu Huai stood motionless, as though something had lodged in his throat.

“I was on duty on September 17, three years ago, too,” the nurse continued. “When she miscarried.”

He abruptly raised his head.

“She called you seven times. You answered only on the last call. After she hung up, she sat alone outside emergency. She was sweating so badly from the pain that her clothes were soaked, and she still told us she was fine.”

His hand slowly fell to his side.

“She's been here many times. So often, she came alone.”

The nurse wasn't speaking loudly, but every word drove into him like a nail.

“Mr. Gu, she didn't suddenly stop needing you. You failed to come, time after time.”

That evening, he messaged me.

“Why didn't you tell me you were having surgery?”

I looked at the words. It took me a long time to reply.

“I did.”

His answer came at once. “When?”

I typed it out.

“September 17, three years ago. 8:23 p.m. The seventh call.”

He was silent for a long time. Then he sent a short reply.

“I'm sorry.”

I felt none of the satisfaction I'd imagined.

Too late.

Some apologies are like expired medicine. You know they might once have worked. Take them now, and all they do is make you sick.

Gu Huai began investigating Shen Qinghe. I hadn't forced him to. He'd finally noticed how suspiciously precise those “coincidences” had been.

My birthday: her exhibition opening. My gastric hemorrhage: her stomachache. My surgery: her low blood sugar. My miscarriage: her emotional collapse.

Nothing of hers had ever been all that serious. Each time, it had been just enough to draw him away from me.

First, he looked into September 17, three years earlier. That day, Shen Qinghe had said she'd just returned from the airport and was suffering a stomachache alone. But her location records showed she'd spent the afternoon at the gallery. The “airport” was an old photo she'd saved in advance.

She'd scheduled her exhibition opening on my birthday a month beforehand. She'd known the date: she'd seen my birthday-party invitation at his mother's house.

On the day of my gastric hemorrhage, she'd claimed to be at a hotel with stomach pain. Later, when he checked the hospital appointment history, he discovered that she'd booked a gastric endoscopy at a private hospital that morning, then canceled it in the afternoon.

Three minutes after canceling, she'd messaged him.

“Huai, I think it hurts so much I can't stand up.”

On the day I miscarried, she'd written, “I don't want to bother you two, but I really can't cope today.”

Then, beneath it:

“Will your wife blame me? Perhaps you shouldn't come.”

Of course he had gone.

Shen Qinghe's cleverest trick was never openly asking to compete with me. She always said, “I'm fine.” “I can manage on my own.” “Don't argue with your wife because of me.”

She made him choose, then pretended she didn't need him. He chose her every time.

The last piece of evidence was the conversation history on his mother's phone.

“Auntie, if Su Wen really leaves, Huai will finally know who suits him better,” Shen Qinghe had written.

His mother replied, “You're much more sensible than she is.”

“She's not in good health. Losing the baby may have been fate. Sooner or later, the Gu family will need someone to look after Huai.”

That night, he smashed his phone. The screen shattered. Broken glass cut his fingers, and blood dripped onto the black screen, which reflected his distorted face.

At last, he understood. No misunderstanding, no coincidence, no cruel turn of fate. A carefully laid trap.

And he'd been its most willing accomplice.

The following day, Shen Qinghe came to see me. She wore a pale-blue dress, her hair loose over her shoulders, her eyes red. Still that fragile, innocent look, as though she was always the one who'd been hurt.

We met at a café. Her first words were, “Mrs. Gu.”

I looked up.

“Call me Ms. Su.”

She went pale for a moment.

“I'm sorry. I'm still not used to calling you that.”

I said nothing.