When Yichen dropped me off, his words echoed like a soft thunder in my ears.
"I'll be back tonight. Eight o'clock sharp."
I froze halfway out of the car. "Wait, really? Do you real—"
But the window was already sliding up, his calm eyes meeting mine one last time before the car rolled away, leaving me standing in the morning light, completely panicked.
Dinner. With him. And my mother.
That combination alone felt like a curse waiting to happen.
When I pushed open the apartment door, the familiar scent of alcohol and cheap perfume welcomed me. My mother was passed out on the sofa, half-buried under a blanket and a bunch of empty bottles, as if they were her only armor against the world. Her head lolled to one side, strands of hair clinging to her cheek. She looked fragile in her sleep, but I knew better.
She was the kind of woman who built her world from broken glass and dared people to touch it.
Quietly, I looked at her, making sure she's breathing. For a brief second, I wished I could remember a version of her before all this — before the bitterness, before the loneliness. But that version probably died around the same time she became my mother.
I slipped into my room, changed, and sat on the edge of my bed.
How do you tell someone like her that you're about to marry a stranger — and not just any stranger, but the kind that could buy the entire building she lives in without blinking?
You don't. That's the problem.
By the time she stirred, the sun had climbed high enough to burn through the curtains. I heard the clinking of bottles before her voice, raspy and impatient.
She made her way to the fridge, each step heavy like she was dragging a lifetime behind her. When she finally sat at the table across from me, she exhaled through her nose, annoyed by the mere sight of me.
"You look terrible," she said, reaching for a glass.
"Good morning to you too," I muttered, forcing a smile that didn't reach my eyes.
I was used to her barbs — they were her love language, sharp and lazy. But something inside me snapped that day. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was fear. Or maybe it was the absurdity of everything happening around me.
So before I could stop myself, I said flatly,
"I'm getting married."
The glass froze halfway to her lips. "What?"
I lifted my hand and showed her the simple ring glinting on my finger. "See?"
She squinted, leaned closer, then scoffed. "With that ring? No way."
"What do you mean, no way?" I said, trying to sound calm.
"I mean I'm not letting my daughter get married to a man who can't even afford a proper ring."
Her tone was cruelly practical, like she was rejecting a job offer.
I laughed — sharp and humorless. "You don't even know him."
"I don't need to," she shot back, tilting her chin. "I can already tell."
Of course. Money before everything.
Even after years of seeing her disappointments, part of me still hoped she'd changed. But she hadn't. She never would.
"Anyway," I said, swallowing my irritation, "we'll have dinner with him tonight. Be ready by eight."
Her brows lifted in mock surprise. "Oh? Then let's offer him some food while we're at it! We wouldn't want your poor fiancé to think we're struggling."
The sarcasm dripped like acid before she stormed off to her room, slamming the door behind her.
I sat there for a while, silent. Then I looked around our apartment — the peeling wallpaper, the crooked shelves overflowing with second-hand books, the fridge humming weakly in the corner. When I opened it, there was more alcohol than food.
It made me angry. Angry at her. Angry at myself. Angry at how small my life felt.
So I grabbed my wallet and went grocery shopping.
I was halfway through picking vegetables when I heard a voice I hadn't heard in years.
"Hua? Lin Hua? Is that you?"
My heart sank before I turned around.
Fei. Of course.
She looked just like I remembered — perfect hair, designer bag, the smug smile of someone who'd never known hunger. She was married now, to a CEO who made headlines for his success and scandals alike. And she made sure everyone knew.
"It's been ages!" she said, her tone sugary. "How are you? I heard about… you know."
Her voice dipped just enough to sound sympathetic. It wasn't.
"I'm fine," I said shortly.
"I mean," she continued, flipping her hair, "it must've been hard, right? Being left for someone of his own rank. But don't take it personally! That's just how the world works, Hua. We all need to find our… category."
Her words hit like a slap. I bit my tongue, forcing a nod.
"Right. Categories."
By the time she left, her perfume still clinging to my sleeve, I felt hollow. Because somewhere deep down, I knew she wasn't wrong.
Men like Yichen — they didn't belong to people like me.
Even if he said we were married, even if he smiled or pretended to care, it would never be real. I was a temporary convenience. The woman in between his life and his family's expectations.
Still, I bought the groceries and went home.
Cooking was the only thing that calmed me down. The scent of soy sauce and garlic filled the air, mixing with the faint sweetness of the dumplings sizzling in the pan. I made chahan and dumplings — simple, ordinary dishes, but somehow comforting.
For a fake dinner, it was enough.
As eight approached, I heard movement from my mother's room. The door creaked open, and there she was — in pajamas, her hair a chaotic halo, bright red lipstick smeared slightly off her lips. She looked like she'd lost a fight with her reflection.
"Seriously?" I asked.
She twirled once in mock confidence. "What? I'm fabulous."
I sighed, choosing not to engage. She always changed her mind at the last second anyway.
I set the plates on the table, straightened the napkins, lit the cheap candle I'd found at the bottom of a drawer.
Then the doorbell rang.
Eight o'clock sharp.
Before I could even move, my mother rushed to the door.
When she opened it, she froze.
And I swear I saw the exact moment her brain short-circuited.
Because standing there was Yichen — tall, calm, his suit perfectly tailored, his expression unreadable. He looked like he'd stepped out of a magazine. His presence alone filled the tiny hallway, making our apartment look smaller, older, cheaper.
My mother blinked once. Then twice. Then her eyes darted down to his shoes, his watch, the bottle of wine in his hand. She recognized the brand instantly — French, expensive, probably older than me. Her nose twitched like a bloodhound who'd just caught the scent of money.
"Oh my God," she whispered under her breath, then screamed — calmly — and ran back to her room.
Yichen looked at me, bewildered.
I threw him a pair of slippers, the plastic kind we bought at the discount store. "Here. Don't mind her. She's… going through a heartbreak. For about ten years now."
He nodded without comment, slipping them on like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I led him inside, feeling the heat of shame crawl up my neck as he took in our small apartment. The cramped living room, the old sofa, the flickering light. Everything screamed poor, and I hated how exposed that made me feel.
"You can sit here," I said, gesturing to the table.
He handed me the bottle of wine, polite as ever.
"Thank you," I murmured, setting it down carefully as if it might explode.
We sat in silence for a few seconds before my mother made her grand reappearance.
And I almost didn't recognize her.
Gone were the pajamas — now she wore her fanciest dress, hair brushed into submission, makeup perfectly redone. She smelled like expensive perfume she couldn't afford.
"Oh! Welcome, welcome!" she beamed, sliding into the seat next to Yichen like she'd been waiting her whole life for this moment.
"Mom," I said, forcing a smile, "this is Yichen. Liang Yichen. And Yichen, this is my mom — Lin Min."
"Nice to meet you," he said with a polite nod.
"Nice to meet you too," she replied, voice sweet and dangerously sharp. Then her eyes narrowed slightly. "Wait — Liang Yichen? As in… Jiang Corporation? Mr. Jiang's son?"
I swallowed. "Yeah. One of them."
Her jaw nearly dropped. "One of them? So there are others? Any around my age?" she joked, laughing too loudly.
I wanted the ground to swallow me.
I blinked at her, deadpan.
--
Right… she didn't know much about the Jiang family.
And of course, she had no idea that I'd been dating one of the sons before — because Yiran always wanted us to stay a secret.
She'd seen him before, though. Once or twice, from afar — when he'd drive me home or on my old phone wallpaper. But she never talked to him, not properly.
Not that it was all his fault.
I never wanted them to meet.
Because Yiran didn't like shallow people.
And my mom?
Well… she's basically the queen of shallow.
--
So Yichen looked at me, confused. I gave him a quick look — just go along with it.
So he did.
He laughed. Loudly. And so awkwardly that I almost burst out laughing myself. It was the kind of laugh that said, I've never done this before, but I'm trying.
"Alright!" I said, clapping my hands together. "Time to eat!"
I rushed to the kitchen, grabbed the dishes, and brought them to the table like a lifeline. When I came back, Yichen's face was a shade of red I'd never seen before, and my mother had that mischievous smile that told me she'd said something outrageous again.
Good. He deserved it.
Dinner started quietly. Chopsticks clinking, the faint sound of the fridge humming in the background. My mother complimented the food — then, of course, added,
"It would taste even better with some wine."
I reached for the bottle just as Yichen did, our hands brushing for a second. We both froze.
For a split second, the air felt charged. He cleared his throat, awkward, and stood up to open it.
"I'll get the corkscrew," I said quickly, trying not to look at either of them.
He opened the bottle with surprising grace — every movement precise, elegant, practiced. Even the way he poured the wine looked expensive.
Watching him, I realized how far apart our worlds were. Even his silence was refined.
My mother sipped her glass, clearly impressed. "Delicious," she said. Then, with a cunning smile, "By the way… why such a humble ring? Not that I care about money, of course. I just want to make sure my daughter is cherished."
I almost choked on my drink. Not about money? Right.
But Yichen didn't flinch. Instead, he set his glass down and said smoothly,
"The real ring isn't finished yet. A French artisan is working on it. There was a small delay, but I didn't want to postpone my plans."
His tone was flawless.
Even I was impressed. The robot could lie. Beautifully.
My mother's eyes gleamed. "A French artisan? How sophisticated," she said, utterly charmed.
I looked away, trying not to roll my eyes. At least one of us was happy tonight.
Then she asked, "And where will you live after the wedding?"
The question hit me like ice water. Live? Together?
That was never part of the deal. My chest tightened as I looked at him, silently begging him not to say something insane.
But he did.
"I have an apartment in the city. It's big enough for both of us. Don't worry, Mrs. Lin — I'll take good care of your daughter."
My mom practically lit up like a lantern.
"Oh please, don't call me Mrs. Lin! Just call me Auntie, no need to be so formal — we're family now!"
But my heart skipped.
Take care of me? A family? No. No, no, no.
It wasn't supposed to sound that real.
And yet, as his calm voice filled the tiny apartment, as my mother smiled like she'd already won the lottery, I couldn't stop the small, traitorous thought that slipped through the cracks of my chest:
What if he actually meant it?