Cold Love Interests

In the fifth year of our marriage, I got pregnant, and Fu Chi wept with joy.

Everyone said I was lucky, that I had married an up-and-coming tycoon like Fu Chi.

But no one ever mentioned the actress he was keeping on the side.

It was as if everyone had forgotten that I, too, was the girl he had confessed to at seventeen, his eyes red-rimmed with emotion.

Behind his back, one of his friends warned him, “You’re being such a bastard. Aren’t you afraid Xu Man will divorce you?”

Fu Chi had nothing to fear. He only gave a lazy smile and said, “She won’t.”

Later, without making a scene or saying a word, I aborted the child.

When the news got out, Fu Chi flew back from London overnight.

The day she died, a heavy snowfall blanketed the capital, sealing the city gates.

When the eunuch came to report the news, I was drinking in Noble Consort Liu’s palace.

I simply said, “Understood.”

It wasn’t until that cup of plum blossom wine-the one meant for our reconciliation-seared through my chest that I finally understood.

She had waited ten years, but she was never waiting for me to have a change of heart. She was waiting for me to die with her.

[Experienced Heroine, Virgin Hero | Marriage Before Love]

A gentle noblewoman fallen on hard times vs. a cold, aloof, and powerful court official

Ji Hanyi’s family fell into ruin when she was fourteen. At sixteen, she arrived at the prestigious Xie Family with a marriage contract and married into their household.

Throughout their three years of marriage, she fulfilled every duty expected of a wife despite her husband’s cold indifference, determined to be a good and virtuous spouse.

Her husband was as elegant as a jade tree, an honorable gentleman with limitless prospects.

Everyone told her she ought to be satisfied. Her family no longer had anyone to rely on, so being able to marry into the Xie Family was an incredible stroke of fortune.

Yet on a snowy night, when her husband abandoned her once again for the woman in his heart, Ji Hanyi suddenly saw the truth: her husband had never loved her.

And so, at nineteen, she stubbornly took the Divorce Agreement and walked away alone, even as her husband mocked her and declared that she would regret it.

After the divorce, Ji Hanyi had planned to take her mother to Jiangnan, where she would run a shop and live a quiet, peaceful life. But then the most noble — and most aloof — scion among all the aristocratic families in the capital suddenly said he wanted to marry her.

Shen Si was like the high-hanging moon on a cold winter night, forever beyond reach. Noble by birth and immense in power, he was also notorious for his icy ruthlessness and unapproachable demeanor. Yet he told her, “You may take two days to decide whether you are willing to marry me.”

In his heart, however, he had already prepared what he would say next:

If you are unwilling, then I will keep waiting for you.

Ji Hanyi had no idea that Shen Si, that eternal block of ice, had fallen for her back when he first discovered love as a young man. Every trace of distance and aloofness he showed her was born of restraint and deep devotion. He had even hidden his possessiveness toward her perfectly.

The year my parents died in an accident, I was a sophomore in high school.

My relatives had their eyes on the inheritance and compensation money they left behind, and they kept coming by to harass me.

Finally, I knocked on the door of my Tattooed Neighbor.

“Hey, are you in the underworld?”

Fu Shiyu, the crown prince of Beijing’s elite circles, was famously untouchable.

I worked as his chief interpreter for three years.

He still never managed to remember my full name.

Until the day I “ran into” him at the gallery he often visited, my fingertip brushing over his Adam’s apple.

“CEO Fu, your tie is crooked.”

He pinned me against the floor-to-ceiling window and bit my earlobe.

“Who are you calling CEO Fu?

“Say that again. I dare you.”

The man who had been sleeping in a separate room from me for the past six months was standing there with a pillow in his arms when I blocked him at the top of the stairs.

“The two of us together aren’t even fifty yet. We’re at the age when we should be all over each other. Is sleeping in separate rooms normal?”

He frowned at me, staring so hard that cold sweat prickled down my spine.

At last, he nodded. “Mm. It isn’t very normal.” Emboldened, I snatched the pillow out of his arms and grumbled, “You never used to be like this.”

“What did I use to be like?”

“You used to hold me every night when we slept, and before bed you’d call me your little baby.”

“…Did I?”

“You did!”

Look at me. Do these look like the eyes of a liar?