Chapter 1
The golden evening sunlight poured over the Wang mansion like molten honey, bathing the ancient stone walls in a warm, amber glow. The traditional curved eaves cast long, dancing shadows across the meticulously manicured lawns, where every blade of grass seemed to have been placed by an artist's hand. Somewhere in the distance, the faint sound of firecrackers still echoed—remnants of a village celebration that had followed the newlyweds all the way from the airstrip.
The private jet had landed twenty minutes ago at the Chongqing regional airport, a sleek white needle against the vast canvas of the setting sun. For Xiao Zhan and Wang Yibo, the journey from their ancestral village had been mercifully short—just enough time for champagne and whispered promises, not nearly enough to dull the exhilaration still thrumming through their veins.
Now, the black Maybach glided through the wrought iron gates of the Wang estate, its tires whispering against the gravel drive. The mansion rose before them, a fusion of traditional Chinese architecture and modern luxury—soaring pillars painted vermilion red, windows of frosted glass, and a grand entrance flanked by stone guardian lions whose weathered faces seemed to smile at the approaching couple.
Before the car had fully stopped, Kris burst through the front doors. He was the groom's best friend, a stocky man with kind eyes and a perpetually disheveled look that belied his position as a corporate lawyer. He had been waiting since the airport pickup, pacing the marble foyer and checking his phone every thirty seconds.
He jogged down the front steps, his polished shoes skidding slightly on the gravel. His face split into a grin so wide it seemed to consume his features.
"The lovebirds have arrived!" he called out, his voice carrying across the courtyard.
The chauffeur, an elderly man with silver temples and steady hands, had barely set foot on the ground when Kris waved him off. "I'll handle it, Uncle. Go warm up your tea."
The chauffeur nodded gratefully and retreated to the front of the vehicle.
Kris pulled open the rear door with a flourish. Wang Yibo emerged first, stepping into the golden light like a figure from a classical painting. He was tall and lean, dressed in a dark blue traditional changshan embroidered with silver thread—dragons twisting through clouds, symbols of strength and prosperity. His hair was swept back from his forehead, revealing a sharp jawline and eyes that held the quiet confidence of a man who had never known failure.
But those eyes softened the moment they found his friend.
"Kris." Yibo's voice was warm, almost vulnerable.
They embraced without hesitation—a tight, back-slapping hug that spoke of years of friendship, of late-night conversations and shared secrets. When they pulled apart, Yibo held out his hand, and Kris shook it firmly, pumping it twice for emphasis.
"Congratulations, man." Kris's voice had dropped, suddenly earnest. "I mean it. I am so happy for you." He glanced toward the car, where the silhouette of the bride remained visible through the tinted window. "You finally got married to your beautiful Zhan. Tell me you're happy now. Tell me this is everything you wanted."
Yibo broke the handshake and turned back to the vehicle, extending his hand toward the open door. A delicate, long-fingered hand emerged first—nails painted a deep crimson, each one tapered to a perfect point. Then Xiao Zhan stepped out, and the evening light seemed to catch its breath.
He was stunning. There was no other word for it.
His traditional qun gua—the ceremonial wedding dress worn by brides—was a masterpiece of craftsmanship: crimson silk embroidered with gold phoenixes and peonies, the symbols of fidelity and prosperity. A traditional veil still covered his head, cascading down his back in a waterfall of red gauze, but his face was visible through the sheer fabric—flawless skin, full lips curved in a satisfied smile, and eyes that sparkled with the knowledge of his own beauty.
Yibo helped him to his feet, then turned back to Kris. His voice was steady, certain. "This beautiful man here is what I wouldn't trade for anything in this world. He is my life, my soulmate, my future." He slipped an arm around Xiao Zhan's waist, drawing him close. "I am so happy I finally married him—traditionally, properly, in the eyes of our ancestors. Now, we can put our heads together and plan our white wedding. Together."
He smirked, that familiar mischievous glint returning to his eyes, and beamed at his blushing bride. "Right, honey? We can plan our white wedding together now."
Xiao Zhan's smile was radiant, practiced, perfect. "Yes, honey." His voice was soft but carried an undertone of excitement. "Because I have so many plans already listed out. I can't wait for us to start making them a reality."
He gestured as he spoke, his long-nailed fingers tracing shapes in the air—the arc of an archway, the sweep of a train, the glitter of imagined chandeliers. His other hand tugged absently at the elaborate gold necklace resting at his collarbone, adjusting it so it caught the light just so. "I've been making notes for months. Months, Kris. I have notebooks. I have Pinterest boards. I have a vision board in the guest bedroom that takes up an entire wall."
He laughed, a light, tinkling sound, and Kris found himself staring—not at the bride's face, but at those nails. All ten of them, long and painted and immaculate. It wasn't unusual for men to grow their nails, of course, but this was something else entirely. They were like tiny daggers, each one a statement.
Kris swallowed and forced his attention back to the conversation. He clapped his hands together. "Congratulations to the newlywed couple! Welcome to the Wang family." He paused, as if savoring the words. "Mrs. Wang Zhan."
Xiao Zhan's entire posture shifted. His spine straightened, his chin lifted, and his smile widened into something almost regal. He looked, for a moment, like a queen accepting her crown.
"Thank you so much, Kris." He stepped forward and touched Kris's arm lightly, leaving no room for doubt that this was a performance, a calculated display of warmth. "We love you. And don't you dare take off those celebration ribbons yet. We're still in the mood for festivity."
Kris glanced down at the red silk ribbon still tied around his wrist—a wedding favor, given to all the guests. He nodded. "I won't. Congratulations again."
He turned and walked toward his own car, a modest Audi parked near the gates. As he drove away, he caught a glimpse in his rearview mirror of Xiao Zhan turning to embrace his husband, of Yibo's arms wrapping around that tiny waist, and he felt a strange twist in his gut—something between affection and foreboding.
---
The moment Kris's taillights disappeared beyond the gates, Xiao Zhan melted into his husband's arms, pressing his cheek against Yibo's chest. Through the silk of his changshan, he could feel the steady thrum of Yibo's heartbeat.
"Now we're finally home," he murmured, and there was something in his voice—relief, perhaps, or the satisfaction of a goal achieved.
He pulled away and started toward the mansion's grand entrance, his embroidered slippers silent on the stone pathway. But Yibo's hand caught his wrist, gently turning him back.
"No." Yibo's voice was soft but firm. "You don't walk like that."
Xiao Zhan blinked. "Like what?"
"Like you're heading to a business meeting." Yibo stepped closer, tucking a strand of hair behind his wife's ear, letting his fingers linger on the delicate shell of it. "You need to walk elegantly. Like a newlywed. Like someone who just promised forever."
He intertwined their fingers—his own broad and warm, Xiao Zhan's slender and cool—and winked. That wink, that small gesture, still had the power to make Xiao Zhan's heart skip.
Xiao Zhan chuckled, a genuine sound this time, less performative than before. "Okay, okay. The newlywed bride, coming through." He lifted his chin, adjusted his posture, and they walked hand in hand into the mansion, their steps perfectly synchronized.
---
The interior of the Wang mansion was a study in contrasts. Ancient wooden beams, carved by craftsmen who had died centuries ago, supported ceilings of modern glass. Family portraits in ornate gold frames lined the walls alongside abstract paintings purchased at Sotheby's. The floor was polished black marble, so reflective that Xiao Zhan could see his own veiled silhouette floating beneath his feet.
The living room opened before them—a vast space dominated by a sectional sofa upholstered in cream-colored velvet, handwoven silk rugs in shades of burgundy and gold, and a coffee table made from a single slab of petrified wood. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked a koi pond where orange and white fish drifted like living jewels.
Yibo guided them to the sofa and sat down first, pulling Xiao Zhan onto his lap in one fluid motion. Xiao Zhan settled against him with practiced ease, arranging his skirts so they fell in artful folds around them. Then, slowly, deliberately, he began to move.
He rocked his hips, grinding down against his husband's lap, feeling the heat of Yibo's body through the layers of silk and cotton. He could feel Yibo's breath catch, could feel the growing hardness beneath him, and he smirked.
"Darling."
Yibo's hands found his waist, gripping tightly, almost desperately. He nuzzled into the curve of Xiao Zhan's neck, breathing in the scent of jasmine and sandalwood that clung to his wife's skin. He left a trail of soft bites—not hard enough to bruise, but enough to mark, to claim.
"Yeah, babe." His voice was rough, strained.
Xiao Zhan pulled back just enough to look into his husband's eyes. "So, why are we not somewhere else? Why are we here?" He gestured vaguely at the living room, at the mansion, at everything that wasn't a beach or a villa or a five-star resort. "This is supposed to be our traditional honeymoon. We shouldn't be home. We should be... away. Somewhere special."
Yibo's hands stilled on his waist. He looked down, avoiding his wife's gaze, and Xiao Zhan's instincts prickled with suspicion.
The truth—the truth Yibo would never admit aloud—was that he hated crowds. Hated the noise of airports, the crush of strangers, the relentless performance of being "on" in public spaces. He could afford anything, anywhere in the world. But the thought of a honeymoon in some overrun tourist destination, of smiling for cameras and pretending to enjoy crowded beaches, made his skin crawl.
He had been hoping, perhaps naively, that Xiao Zhan would understand. That they could have something quiet, something private, something that belonged only to them.
But looking at his wife's expectant face, he knew better.
"It's a surprise," he said finally, forcing a smile. "A top surprise. Don't worry about it. After our white wedding, I'll take you to the place I've been preparing for us."
Xiao Zhan's eyes widened. "Really?" He fanned himself with one hand, a gesture so theatrical it might have been lifted from an old film. "So, where exactly are we going? Because I have my bikinis ready. All my makeup. My shorts." He began ticking items off on his fingers. "And I'll need to buy different sunglasses. I just can't wait." He leaned closer, pouting, his lower lip jutting out in a way he knew was irresistible. "Please tell me. Our wedding is around the corner. I don't want to forget anything. I want to be ever ready." His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "For my selfies. For all of it. Tell me where."
In his mind, Xiao Zhan was already calculating. He had five phones—five—and every single one of them was nearly full. His camera roll was a museum of his own face: Xiao Zhan at sunrise, Xiao Zhan in the rain, Xiao Zhan in sunglasses, Xiao Zhan without. He catalogued his photos by location, by lighting, by the precise angle that made his jaw look sharpest. He needed to know the destination so he could plan his wardrobe, his poses, even his hair color.
He couldn't afford to be caught off guard.
Yibo kissed his pout, soft and quick, then pinched the tip of his nose. "That would spoil the surprise, baby. Don't make me do that."
Xiao Zhan's pout transformed into a genuine smile—bright, almost childlike. "Wow. I like surprises. I love them, actually." He bounced slightly on Yibo's lap. "But don't keep me waiting too long. I need to prepare. I need to be ready."
"I won't." Yibo's voice dropped, and his eyes darkened with the familiar heat that Xiao Zhan had learned to recognize—and exploit. "Now, can we go upstairs? So we can start the honeymoon here?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He began trailing kisses from Xiao Zhan's lips down to the curve of his jaw, then lower, to the column of his throat. His lips brushed against the pulse point, feeling it flutter like a trapped bird.
"I want to lick you," he murmured against his wife's skin, "from here..." His tongue traced a path down to Xiao Zhan's collarbone, "...all the way down here."
His hand roamed downward, sliding over Xiao Zhan's chest, over his stomach, until it reached the growing heat between his legs. He squeezed gently, just enough to draw a gasp.
"Urh! Fuck, baby." Xiao Zhan's eyes fluttered shut, then snapped open with determination. "Don't be naughty."
He pushed Yibo back against the sofa cushions, reversing their positions with a surge of strength that always surprised his husband. He hovered over Yibo, looking down at him with hooded eyes.
"Why not, baby?" He palmed Yibo through his trousers, feeling the length of him, the heat of him. He squeezed, fondled, teased, until Yibo was groaning beneath him. "Why don't we start from here?"
And then he attacked.
His lips crashed against Yibo's, aggressive and demanding, all pretense of delicacy abandoned. His tongue pushed past Yibo's teeth, exploring, claiming. His fingers fumbled with the buttons of Yibo's changshan, pulling them open one by one, revealing the smooth, toned chest beneath.
They fought for dominance, mouths clashing, teeth scraping, breath mingling. But Xiao Zhan had the advantage of position—he was on top, he was in control, and he wasn't about to surrender it. He sucked at Yibo's lower lip, then soothed it with his tongue. He licked into every corner of Yibo's mouth, memorizing the taste of him—coffee and something sweeter, something uniquely his.
But Yibo's patience was not infinite.
With a growl that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest, he flipped them over. Xiao Zhan found himself pinned against the cushions, his husband's weight pressing him down, and he gasped—not in surprise, but in anticipation.
Yibo didn't give him time to recover. He attacked those lips again, harder this time, more desperate. His hands roamed over Xiao Zhan's body, pushing aside the heavy layers of his wedding dress, searching for skin. He found it at the waist, at the neck, at the gap between his trousers and his shirt.
He kicked away anything that got in his way—pillows, robes, the remnants of their self-control.
He leaned down and took one of Xiao Zhan's nipples into his mouth, sucking hard while his fingers worked the other, pinching and rolling until Xiao Zhan was arching off the couch. His other hand found its way between Xiao Zhan's legs, stroking him through the silk of his undergarments, feeling him harden and swell.
"Yibo—" Xiao Zhan's voice cracked.
"Shh." Yibo released his nipple and looked up, his eyes almost black with desire. "Let me take care of you."
He guided Xiao Zhan's fingers to his own mouth, and Xiao Zhan understood. He sucked on his own fingers—two, three of them—wetting them thoroughly while Yibo watched, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts.
Then Yibo took those wet fingers and guided them downward, circling the tight entrance that waited for him. He pushed one finger inside, then two, stretching and preparing, while Xiao Zhan moaned beneath him.
"Urhh... baby..."
Yibo crooked his fingers, searching, and when he found that spot—the one that made Xiao Zhan see stars—he pressed against it deliberately. Again. Again.
"Please—" Xiao Zhan's voice was barely a whisper. "Please, can you put it in? Fuck, this is so good. I love your fingers. You're getting it. You're—"
His words dissolved into a moan as Yibo added a third finger, stretching him further. Saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth, trailing down his chin, and he didn't care. His legs curled upward, his body opening, begging to be filled.
Yibo couldn't wait any longer.
He withdrew his fingers and positioned himself, his cock springing free from his trousers—thick and hard and dripping with anticipation. He spread Xiao Zhan's cheeks with both hands, exposing the tight, glistening hole, and circled the entrance with the head of his cock, teasing, tormenting.
"Please—"
He pushed inside.
Xiao Zhan cried out, his back arching, his nails digging into Yibo's shoulders. Yibo buried himself to the hilt in one motion, feeling the heat clench around him, and then he stopped. He waited, trembling with the effort of restraint, until Xiao Zhan's nod came—a small, frantic movement of his head.
Then he began to move.
Slow at first. Sloppy. Each thrust deliberate, measured, almost gentle. He wanted to savor this, wanted to draw it out, wanted to make it last.
But then Xiao Zhan moaned his name—"Yibo"—and something inside him snapped.
He thrust deeper. Harder. Faster. The sound of their bodies meeting filled the room—wet, rhythmic, obscene. He angled his hips, searching for that spot again, and when he found it, he pounded against it mercilessly, driving Xiao Zhan higher and higher.
"Fuck! Baby... so sweet... mmmm."
He lifted Xiao Zhan's legs, hooking them over his shoulders, and thrust even deeper. His hand found Xiao Zhan's cock, still trapped beneath layers of silk, and he pumped it in time with his thrusts—one, two, three—until Xiao Zhan was sobbing with pleasure.
"Fuck!"
They came together, a symphony of gasps and groans and whispered names. Yibo spilled inside his wife, feeling the heat flood through him, while Xiao Zhan's release painted their stomachs in hot, pulsing stripes.
Yibo collapsed against him, still buried deep, and kissed him—soft this time, almost tender. He stayed inside until the last tremor passed, until his body had given everything it had, and then he withdrew, earning a hiss of mingled pain and pleasure from his wife.
"Why not continue this upstairs?" Yibo's voice was hoarse, barely recognizable.
He scooped Xiao Zhan into his arms—bridal style, appropriate for a wedding night—and carried him up the grand staircase. They didn't make it to the bedroom before his mouth found Xiao Zhan's skin again, tasting, sucking, licking. He paused on the landing to tease a nipple, on the hallway to bite at a hipbone.
By the time they reached their shared bedroom, Xiao Zhan was already hard again.
They continued their sinful dance until the moon was high and their bodies were spent, tangled together in sheets that would need to be washed come morning. And when Yibo finally fell asleep—his breathing evening out, his arm still wrapped possessively around his wife's waist—Xiao Zhan waited.
He counted to five hundred. Then to a thousand.
---
When he was certain Yibo wouldn't wake, Xiao Zhan slipped out of bed as silently as a shadow. His feet made no sound on the plush carpet. His hands, steady and practiced, found his overnight bag in the corner of the room—a Louis Vuitton duffel that had cost more than most people's rent.
He carried it into the en-suite bathroom and locked the door behind him.
The bathroom was a cathedral of white marble and gold fixtures, with a soaking tub large enough for four and a shower that sprayed from seven different angles. A mirror the size of a door reflected Xiao Zhan's image back at him—flushed skin, swollen lips, the fading marks of his husband's passion.
He sat down on the toilet, not because he needed to relieve himself, but because he needed to push.
He bore down, muscles clenching, expelling the evidence of what they had done. He watched as Yibo's seed trickled out of him, pale against the white porcelain, and he felt nothing but relief.
When he was certain he had emptied himself, he reached into his bag and pulled out a small, unmarked bottle. Pregnancy prevention pills. He had been taking them since he was seventeen, long before he met Yibo, long before he understood the risks.
He swallowed two, dry, without water.
I can't get pregnant.
He stared at his reflection, at the perfect face and flawless body that had bought him everything he'd ever wanted. He thought of his mother, who had taught him that his beauty was a currency. He thought of his father, who had tried to warn him about the cost.
Not now. Not ever.
Who would take care of them? Me? Never.
He made a face—a theatrical grimace of disgust—and inserted a finger inside himself, scraping against his walls to ensure that every last trace of Yibo's seed was gone. He flushed the toilet, washed his hands, and stepped into the shower.
The water was scalding, almost too hot, but he welcomed the burn. It reminded him that he was still in control.
I will enjoy my husband's wealth to the fullest before I even think about ruining my body with pregnancy. My shape is my power. I won't give it up for anyone.
When he finally emerged, wrapped in a plush white robe, he felt clean. Empty. Safe.
He returned to bed and arranged himself beside Yibo, positioning his husband's arm back around his waist, and closed his eyes. Within minutes, he was asleep.
---
Two days passed.
They passed in a haze of delivered food—Xiao Zhan had yet to locate the kitchen, had yet to express any interest in locating it—and lazy afternoons spent tangled in sheets. Yibo, who had always preferred solitude to servants, managed the household himself. He cooked simple meals when he could be bothered, ordered takeout when he couldn't, and never once complained.
Xiao Zhan, meanwhile, complained constantly.
The food was too salty. The room was too cold. The pillows were too firm. The Wi-Fi was too slow for uploading photos. He spent hours on his phones—all five of them—scrolling through Instagram, posting selfies, monitoring his engagement metrics. He had followers in the hundreds of thousands, people who hung on his every post, and he cultivated them with the dedication of a gardener tending prize roses.
But beneath the surface of his curated contentment, a question was building.
On the afternoon of the second day, over a spread of half-eaten dumplings and cold noodles, Xiao Zhan set down his chopsticks with a decisive click.
"Baby." His voice was sweet, almost cloying. "I want to talk about something."
Yibo looked up from his own plate, wary. He had learned, in the short time they had been married, that Xiao Zhan's sweetness was often a prelude to something demanding.
"Of course, babe. What is it?"
Xiao Zhan tucked his legs beneath him and leaned forward, his eyes wide and earnest. "You keep saying our honeymoon destination is a surprise. And I love surprises, I really do. But I need to plan." He gestured vaguely at himself, at his body, at his face. "I have so many pictures in my head. Selfies on a yacht. Selfies on a cruise. Selfies in beautiful places with beautiful lighting and beautiful backgrounds." He clasped his hands beneath his chin. "Please. Just tell me. Where are we going?"
He flashed his bunny smile—the one that had melted Yibo's heart on their first date, the one that had convinced him to propose after only six months.
Yibo sighed. He had been hoping to avoid this conversation, hoping that Xiao Zhan's need for surprises would outweigh his need for control. But he could see now that hope had been foolish.
"Okay." He set down his own chopsticks. "I'll tell you."
Xiao Zhan's entire face transformed. His eyes sparkled. His lips parted in a gasp of delight. He actually clapped his hands together, like a child on Christmas morning.
"Oh my gosh! Really? Break the news, please. I can't wait anymore. I'm dying here, Yibo. Actually dying."
Yibo smiled despite himself. Seeing his bunny so happy, so unguarded, reminded him why he had fallen in love in the first place.
He reached across the table and took Xiao Zhan's hand. "You know, I've been thinking. There's this hotel in Hong Kong—it was built by one of my colleagues from university. He's an architect, really brilliant, and he designed every room himself. The infinity pool overlooks the harbor. The restaurant has three Michelin stars." He squeezed his wife's fingers. "You're going to love it there."
Xiao Zhan's happy expression didn't just falter. It shattered.
His eyes narrowed. His lips pressed together in a thin, bloodless line. His entire body seemed to stiffen, as if someone had poured ice water down his back.
"Sorry," he said, and his voice was suddenly cold, flat, dangerous. "Did I hear you say Hong Kong?"
Yibo felt his own smile begin to fade. "Y-yes. Hong Kong."
"Wait." Xiao Zhan pulled his hand away. "Wait, wait, wait. Jesus Christ." He laughed—a brittle, disbelieving sound that held no humor. "I cannot believe this. Hong Kong?"
Yibo's brow furrowed. "Yes, baby. Hong Kong. You'll love it. It's a beautiful city, and the hotel is—"
"What do you mean, Hong Kong?" Xiao Zhan interrupted, his voice rising. "Hong Kong is a forty-five-minute flight. Forty-five minutes, Yibo. I'm not talking about you going to a conference. I'm talking about our honeymoon. Our honeymoon. After our wedding. The most romantic trip of our lives."
"I know that—"
"So why would you pick Hong Kong?" Xiao Zhan's hands flew up in exasperation. "Why not somewhere overseas? It's not like you can't afford it. You're a billionaire, for God's sake. You own half of Chongqing. You could buy a private island if you wanted to." His voice dripped with scorn. "So why are we going to Hong Kong? What happened to overseas?"
Yibo took a slow breath, steadying himself. "Come on, honey. This hotel is amazing. It has expertises—"
"Oh, shut up!" Xiao Zhan slapped the table, rattling the dishes. "Shut up, shut up, shut up. I don't want to hear it. Don't even repeat it." He stood up so abruptly that his chair nearly toppled backward. "What do you mean, Hong Kong? What am I supposed to do there? Eat dim sum and take photos of skyscrapers?"
"But—"
"Excuse me!" Xiao Zhan held up a hand, silencing him. "I don't want to hear you say another word. It's either overseas or no honeymoon. I am talking about beautiful places—Bahamas, Maldives, Bora Bora—and you're sitting here talking about your friend's hotel." He sneered the last two words as if they were an insult. "Who is this friend, anyway? Is that the name of some animal? 'Hong Kong Hotel'? What is that?"
Yibo stood up too, moving closer, reaching for his wife's arm. "Listen, baby. You don't have to be angry for no reason—"
"And why shouldn't I be angry?" Xiao Zhan yanked his arm away. "Why shouldn't I be? You've been keeping this from me for days. Days. I've been imagining yachts and private beaches, and you've been planning a trip to a city I can drive to in an afternoon." His voice cracked with genuine hurt—or a very convincing imitation of it. "In fact, I'm not going to stand here and listen to this bullshit."
He turned on his heel and stalked toward the stairs.
Yibo followed, his own temper beginning to fray. "Baby... come on. Hong Kong is nice. It's more than nice. It's—"
"Of all the places in the world," Xiao Zhan threw over his shoulder, "why Hong Kong? Why not Paris? Why not Dubai? Why not literally anywhere else?"
"Because I didn't plan for those places—"
"Then plan for them now!" Xiao Zhan whirled around at the base of the stairs, his face flushed with anger. "You're a billionaire, Yibo. You can charter a plane tomorrow. You can book any hotel in the world. So why are you so determined to ruin my happiness?"
Yibo's jaw tightened. "I'm not trying to ruin anything. I'm trying to—"
"Don't." Xiao Zhan's voice was ice. "Don't give me your excuses."
He turned and climbed the stairs, each step deliberate, each step a statement. Yibo caught up to him on the landing, grabbing his arm more firmly this time.
"Did you just walk out on me?"
Xiao Zhan looked at him as if he were something unpleasant stuck to the bottom of his shoe. "No. I just got here." He paused, letting the sarcasm land. "Stupid."
Yibo felt a flash of genuine anger—hot and sharp and unfamiliar. He had been called many things in his life, but never stupid. Not by someone he loved.
But he swallowed it down. He forced a smile. He reached for Xiao Zhan's hand again, and when his wife didn't pull away, he counted it as a small victory.
"Okay, fine." His voice was gentle, conciliatory. "We'll go to London. We'll fly first class, stay at the Shard, watch the Chelsea match that's happening that weekend. It'll be fun, I promise."
Xiao Zhan stared at him. Then he laughed—a sharp, mocking sound that echoed off the marble walls.
"Oh, please." He pulled his hand free. "Stop with that joke. What's in London? What's happening there? Rain and bad food and bridges?" He shook his head, disgusted. "What happened to places like the Bahamas? Or Paris? Or Dubai? I mean beautiful places, Yibo. Places with beaches and sunshine and five-star resorts. And you're here talking about London." He drew out the word, stretching it into an insult. "Am I supposed to count bridges? Am I in kindergarten? London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down?" He sang the nursery rhyme in a mocking falsetto. "Is that it? Is that what you want me to do?"
Yibo's hands curled into fists at his sides. "That's not—"
"I'm not going." Xiao Zhan crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm not going to London, and I'm not going to Hong Kong. So unless you come up with a real destination—somewhere worth going—just stop talking about a honeymoon altogether."
Yibo's voice was tight. "Well, we're not going to the Bahamas. Not right now."
"Oh!"
"No. Because I didn't plan for that. I didn't book anything. I didn't arrange anything. London is possible. London is fun. We could—"
"Fine." Xiao Zhan's voice dropped, and suddenly all the heat was gone, replaced by something cold and final. "If we can't go to any of the places I mentioned—if you're going to be so difficult about this—then don't talk about a honeymoon to me again."
"Xiao Zhan—"
"You heard me." His eyes were flat, emotionless. "You're beginning to irritate me."
The words hung in the air between them, sharp as broken glass.
"What?" Yibo's voice was barely a whisper.
Xiao Zhan didn't repeat himself. He didn't need to. He just held his husband's gaze for a long moment, letting the silence do the work, and then he turned away.
"Excuse me."
He descended the stairs slowly, deliberately, each step a small act of defiance. As he walked, he murmured to himself—not quite under his breath, loud enough for Yibo to hear fragments.
"...can't believe this... wasting my time... should have married that guy from Shanghai..."
The front door didn't slam. It closed with a soft, final click.
Yibo stood alone on the landing, staring at the empty space where his wife had been. The evening light streamed through the windows, golden and beautiful and utterly indifferent to his pain.
He thought about the man he had married. The way Xiao Zhan's face had crumpled when he heard "Hong Kong." The way his voice had turned to ice when he said irritate. The way his long, painted nails had flashed in the light, like tiny warnings he had been too blind to see.
He thought about his mother, who had warned him not to marry for beauty alone while he was still alive. He thought about his father, who had asked, "Does he love you, or does he love what you can give him?"
He had assured them both. He had been so certain.
Now, standing in the fading light, he wasn't certain of anything.
"Really?" He spoke to the empty hallway, to the silence of his beautiful home, to the ghost of the man he thought he'd married. "What did I get myself into?"
