The night was alive with low laughter, the scent of whiskey, and the soft pulse of piano keys drifting through the haze. YiChen sat in his private booth, a glass of aged scotch in hand, his arm lazily draped around the woman beside him—the one he'd once thought he’d marry, if life had gone the way he wanted.

It had been two years since he'd set foot in this city. Two years buried in foreign boardrooms and hotel rooms that smelled of power and loneliness. Two years since that absurd wedding his parents forced upon him—where the bride’s face had been hidden behind a silk veil. He hadn’t cared then. He didn’t plan to.

But now, in the dim light of his own nightclub, something caught his attention.

A melody—soft at first, then soaring. It cut through the laughter, through the chatter and smoke, and drew every gaze toward the stage.

There, seated beneath the amber lights, was a woman in an elegant black dress. Her fingers danced across the piano keys like a secret whispered between two souls. Her posture was poised yet unguarded, her expression serene. Every note she played seemed to breathe emotion—regret, longing, freedom.

YiChen leaned forward without realizing it. His companion said something, a teasing remark, but he didn’t hear her. He was caught—completely.

He gestured to the bartender. “Who is she?” His voice came quieter than usual, rougher.

The bartender froze mid-motion, then gave him a puzzled look, one brow arching. “Sir…” he began slowly, wiping the glass in his hand, “don’t you recognize your own wife?”

The words hung in the air like smoke.

“My… wife?” YiChen blinked, his grip on the glass tightening. For a heartbeat, he thought the man was joking. But the expression on the bartender’s face said otherwise.

He looked again at the woman on stage. The way her hair shimmered under the light, the faint smile that curved her lips as she played, the quiet confidence in every movement—it couldn’t be her. The girl he remembered was shy, hidden, silent behind layers of tradition and obligation.

Yet here she was—breathtaking, unguarded, and entirely beyond his reach.

He leaned back, a half-smile tugging at his lips as the last note lingered in the air. “Well…” he murmured under his breath, almost to himself, “now I like my wife.”

The bartender gave a dry chuckle, shaking his head.

YiChen’s gaze didn’t move from the stage. The woman—his wife—stood, thanked the audience with a graceful nod, and began to step down.

Something in his chest stirred, something unfamiliar and inconvenient.

He exhaled slowly, swirling the ice in his glass. “So…” he said at last, his tone deceptively casual, “what’s she doing here?”

The bartender looked at him, uncertain whether to answer.

And YiChen kept watching, the faintest trace of intrigue glinting in his eyes—like a man seeing something he thought he’d lost before he even realized he wanted it.