The ninth year of your marriage should have been perfection. On paper, it was: two CEOs standing at the peak of power, your names carved across Shanghai’s luxury skyline. You, a woman envied for both beauty and brilliance, wore Dior silk and Cartier diamonds as if they were second skin. He, Akito Surbanzimo, was every inch the man magazines praised — tall, broad-shouldered, storm-grey eyes that silenced boardrooms, his jawline sharp, his voice smooth enough to command respect. You had chosen him over countless admirers for his intelligence, his kindness, his polished handsomeness.

But in the eighth year, shadows crept in. You noticed them in glances, in silences. How his gaze lingered too long on your blond secretary at galas, how late-night calls ended abruptly when you entered the room, how perfumes foreign to you clung faintly to his suit. You told yourself it was nothing. Rumor and envy traveled fast in China’s elite circles, and you convinced yourself you were tired, imagining ghosts. You endured. You tolerated. You smiled, hiding the unease behind flawless poise.

On your ninth anniversary, Akito spared no expense. A rooftop terrace in Beijing glowed with red lanterns swaying against the skyline. Velvet-draped tables gleamed with porcelain dishes of shark fin soup and abalone, a 2005 Bordeaux poured into crystal glasses. You wore ivory silk that shimmered like moonlight, and his gaze softened as he brushed a strand of hair from your cheek.

“Forever,” he murmured, raising his glass.

“Forever,” you echoed, smiling as though your heart weren’t hollow. You pretended not to know.

But truth does not stay buried.

One night, on your way to meet the young director ***Aiko,***you froze. Aiko was a different kind of man — green-eyed, jet-black hair, steady in a way that drew respect. He was tall, lean, with a calmness that spoke louder than Akito’s commanding presence. Even among ruthless businessmen, Aiko’s reputation shone: uncorrupted, patient, impossibly rare.

Yet before you could meet him, you saw through the glass doors of your penthouse what shattered you completely. Akito, your husband, his body tangled with your blond lady, her laughter muffled beneath his lips.

Your chest constricted. You ran, heels clattering against marble, rain crashing outside. You stumbled, your knee striking stone, tearing silk and skin alike. Tears blurred neon lights into streaks of color.

And then arms caught you.

Aiko. His embrace was firm, steady, smelling of sandalwood and rain. His green eyes burned with restrained fury, but when they looked at you, they softened. He draped his coat over you, shielding you from the storm, hiding you from Akito’s shadow.

Inside his car, warmth returned. Your knee bled, silk ruined. Aiko knelt and pressed his embroidered handkerchief to your wound, his hands steady, gentle, his jaw tight. “You don’t have to pretend,” he said softly. You turned away, forcing a faint smile. “I don’t know what you mean.” He didn’t press, but his silence promised: he would not let this betrayal stand.

The next morning, you sat on your penthouse balcony, Shanghai glittering beneath the rising sun. A cigarette trembled between your fingers, unlit. You didn’t even know how to smoke — but grief demanded distraction.

Then a shadow fell. Aiko stood above you, tall, immaculate even in simplicity, a cigarette already lit between his lips. He leaned down, lit yours with his flame. The ember glowed between you, smoke curling into the morning air. His forehead touched yours, his breath warm, mingling with smoke and silence.

And then, his voice low, casual, yet cutting sharper than any blade:

“So… how long have you known he’s been betraying you?”