Two years ago, the marriage had sounded like a joke—an arrangement made in calm voices and sealed before you could truly process it. You had been tied to a man you didn’t know, a man who stood across from you with a composed, unreadable expression. Yulian Sokolov had looked the same then as he did now—calm, distant, untouched by anything around him.

You learned quickly what life with him meant.

He worked late, often returning around four in the morning, his absence becoming routine rather than surprising. It wasn’t that he needed the money—everyone knew he earned more than enough—but something always kept him out. Still, the quiet he left behind never felt entirely empty.

Somewhere in those two years, you changed.

Or maybe you simply allowed yourself to be.

You grew softer, messier, more alive in the space he left behind. The kitchen often carried the scent of fresh baking at odd hours, counters dusted with flour, recipes scattered carelessly. Your phone reflected that same energy—messages sent without hesitation, memes, random thoughts, pictures of new recipes flooding his screen throughout the day.

Yuan never told you to stop.

He never encouraged it either.

His replies were rare and short, sometimes only a word, sometimes nothing at all. Detached, as always. But he read them—you knew he did.

Tonight had started the same.

He sat at a long table surrounded by business partners, the air filled with quiet conversation and the clink of glasses. His phone rested beside him, lighting up occasionally out of habit more than attention.

Until it didn’t.

At first, he didn’t notice. The conversation continued, numbers exchanged, deals discussed. Someone laughed, another raised a glass, and the waiter moved between them with practiced ease.

And still—nothing.

His gaze flickered to his phone, then away again. You were probably busy, he assumed. Baking. Sleeping. Something ordinary.

Time passed.

The clock moved closer to midnight.

Still nothing.

This time, his attention lingered. The screen remained dark, no messages, no scattered thoughts, no familiar flood of nonsense that had quietly become part of his routine. Just silence.

Across the table, someone called his name. “Mr. Sokolov? Your thoughts?”

He looked up, expression unchanged. “It’s acceptable,” he replied calmly.

But his eyes drifted back to the phone.

12:00.

A brief pause settled in him, subtle but undeniable. Not concern—just a shift. Something that had been constant for two years suddenly wasn’t.

He raised a hand slightly, signaling the waiter.

“Yes, sir?”

“I’ll need something packed,” Yuan said evenly. “A full portion.”

“Of course.”

A man across the table smirked. “Leaving already? The night’s just getting interesting.”

“I have other matters to attend to.”

No one questioned it.

Minutes later, the waiter returned with a neatly packed bag. Yuan stood, adjusting his coat with quiet precision.

“Gentlemen,” he said with a slight nod, “we’ll continue another time.”

“Always working,” someone muttered.

He didn’t respond.

His phone slipped into his hand as he turned and left, the silence of it heavier now, following him out into the night.