The Weight of Love

1

You only found out about our divorce when it made the news—headlines blazing, gossip spreading like wildfire—right after you wrapped up a meeting. Still in your tailored suit, you rushed home. You never wear suits at home. You used to, until I told you how stiff and lifeless it made the place feel. After that, you had a wardrobe installed in your office just to store casual clothes.

I knew what you wanted to ask, so I cut you off before you could start:
"You're home early. Why didn’t you call? I didn’t have the housekeeper make dinner for you."

You looked flustered but took a deep breath and replied patiently,
"I spoke to the journalist who broke the story. He told me it was you who leaked the news of our divorce. I didn’t miss your birthday on purpose yesterday—something urgent came up, and I truly couldn’t get away. I sent my assistant with your gift. I promise, it won’t happen again."

You sounded so sincere, I almost felt sorry for you. After all these years together, you never once missed my birthday. Even yesterday, you had no choice—there was a major deal on the line, one that could shape the company’s future. Honestly, even if you’d shown up, I’d have sent you right back to the office.

And it’s not like you forgot. You weren’t there in person, but your gift was thoughtful and timely: a ruby necklace I’d casually mentioned during an auction not long ago. I said it had beautiful color, but the design felt dated—hardly worth the price. It was just an offhand remark. But you remembered. You tracked it down, bought it, hired a designer to rework it into something I’d like, and made sure it arrived on my birthday.

Mrs. Bennett was admiring it with envy, praising how lucky I was. I smiled with her. Then, suddenly, I couldn’t smile anymore. The ruby shimmered in the velvet box with a soft glow. I reached out to touch it. It felt cold.

The dinner ended early when I decided to leave. I sat at home for a long time. Every time I looked up, I saw our wedding photo on the wall. Your smile in the photo was easy and bright. Mine was more of a pose—stiff and uncertain.

I remember well—it wasn’t a wedding people celebrated. My father had just passed away. The company was on the verge of collapse. Our marriage carried a weight of tragedy from the start. But you took over the company shares I inherited and pulled it back from the brink. In three years, you didn’t just save it—you revived it.

You became a success. And despite it all, you never treated me as a stepping stone. You always put my wishes first, in everything. People admired how devoted you were. And how could I not be moved, standing in the middle of it all?

But I still called that reporter. Not because you treated me badly—but because you treated me too well. Like that ruby necklace: so beautiful, so warm in appearance—but cold to the touch. That kind of beauty can make you forget the truth.

You noticed my silence and softened your tone:
"Suìsuì, please don’t be angry anymore, okay?"

"I'm not angry," I said. I felt calm. But as soon as I spoke, tears betrayed me. You reached out to wipe them, and I pushed your hand away. I reached for the chain around your neck and pulled out the locket.

I opened the cover, revealing an old photo. The woman inside wore a warm smile—timeless, radiant.
“That’s my mother,” you said.

“I know. Adrian Langley.”

I stared at you, my smile hollow. “My father used to say, ‘After Chi Zhao, there was no more Peach Blossom Fan.’ He was obsessed with her acting, not just because she was brilliant, but because they loved each other. But the family forced him to marry my mother instead. I know my father wasn’t the type to break a promise. He only ever had one wife. But all his affection went elsewhere—and my mother saw it. It killed her, slowly, from the inside.

You’re Chi Zhao’s son. You took over our failing company out of gratitude to my father. But paper can’t cover fire. We were never meant to end well.”

You looked shaken, like you hadn’t expected me to uncover something you’d hidden so carefully. You wanted to say something, to comfort me—but couldn’t find the words. After a long pause, you finally said, voice hoarse:

"I’ll have the divorce papers drawn up right away. You can have everything—the company, the assets. I won’t take a cent."

In the living room hangs a custom clock I ordered from overseas. It only chimes once a day—at 6 PM. You were always too busy to be home by then, so you never heard it.

You never knew this: the chime isn’t sharp and cheerful. Each strike is slow, heavy, and low. Only after the sixth tone does it release a soft, melodic sound—like water bubbling over stone.

You never knew: I hung it there three years ago because it sounded exactly like the old clock tower behind you the day I first met you.

2

The first time I met you, I was in my second year of high school. It was a Friday, and classes ended early, so a few friends and I decided to check out a movie at the newly opened cinema. Everyone had gone home by the time I remembered—our driver was on leave for a few days due to a family emergency. I called my father to send someone to pick me up.

I had considered calling a cab, but our villa was halfway up a mountain, tucked away and difficult to reach. No drivers were willing to take the trip. So I leaned against the wall and waited.

Winter was near. The days were already growing short, and the sun had sunk below the horizon, leaving a pale smudge of light in its wake. I don’t know how long I waited. But just as the old clock tower behind me began to chime, your car pulled up.

You looked busy—even getting out of the car, your phone was buzzing nonstop. You tapped out a few messages quickly, then shut the phone off and walked toward me with a polite smile.
"I'm Mr. Hart’s assistant. I’ll be in charge of driving you for the next couple of days."

I nodded. As I took a step forward, my legs gave out from standing too long. I dropped to my knees with an ungraceful thud. Startled, you rushed to help me up. My face burned with embarrassment.
"The ground’s just really slippery," I muttered.

But the pavement was dry, not a trace of rain. I saw the corners of your mouth twitch upward. You gave a quick cough to mask your amusement, then nodded solemnly.
"Of course. Very slippery."

My ankle was fine, but my knee had gotten a little scraped. You took me to a nearby clinic to get bandaged up before driving me home.

We were nearly there when I couldn’t help asking,
"What’s your name?"

"Adrian Langley."
You reached into your pocket and handed me your business card.

I already knew your name. I’d seen it just hours earlier at the cinema. The film was forgettable—I dozed off halfway through—until a friend nudged me, marveling over a character on screen. I opened my eyes and saw you.

You only had a few minutes of screen time, but it was enough. You were striking. So striking that even a fleeting glimpse left a lasting impression.

After the movie ended, I lingered by the cast list, scanning it line by line until I spotted your name in a small, tucked-away corner: Adrian Langley. Fate is funny like that. A few hours later, we were face to face.

The drive from school to home wasn’t short, especially with the winding road up the hill. I used to complain about it to my friends all the time. But with you at the wheel—calm, smooth, efficient—I found myself wishing the trip were longer.

When we arrived, you opened the door and asked if I could walk on my own. My knee had mostly stopped hurting, but I still shook my head, letting you help me out.

You noticed the frown on my face and asked if something was bothering me. I thought for a second, then said firmly,
"My dad’s always busy. He rarely spends time with me. Of course I’m upset. My birthday’s coming up in a few days—I doubt he even remembers."

You didn’t miss a beat.
"I’m still new on the job, and Mr. Hart hasn’t mentioned anything to me. But he has asked me to book a hotel for a private event. I’d guess he’s planning something for your birthday."

I could tell you were bluffing, but I was young—and I wanted to believe you. Just like that, I lit up and let the subject drop.

The birthday party happened as planned. I invited a bunch of friends. The host went over the speech three or four times, but my father never showed up. I stared at the cake, candles flickering, and felt suddenly indifferent. I didn’t even make a wish. I just blew them out, cut the first slice for good luck, and slipped away to the balcony.

The wind was fierce. I rested my chin in my palm, watching the moon tremble in the breeze. Then I heard someone call out:
"Miss Hart."

I knew it was you right away. I turned around and saw you approaching with a gift. You’d clearly rushed over—your hair was tousled by the wind—but you still looked good.
"Sorry I’m late," you said, offering the box. "Mr. Hart sends his best wishes. Happy birthday."

It was a cliché, really. My father never gave me gifts—he was always unsure what I’d like, so he usually just wired me money. This time, though, you’d stepped in for him. Borrowed his name. Tried to fill the gap.

I accepted the gift and thanked you. Then I suddenly remembered that someone had given me a Polaroid camera earlier. I dove into the pile of presents to find it. You looked puzzled, but helped me search. Once I found it, I quickly snapped a photo of you.

You let out a small laugh, bemused.
"Miss Hart, what are you doing?"

I waved the photo in the air to help it develop, then asked,
"Got a pen?"

You pulled a fountain pen from your jacket pocket, just as I held the photo up to you.
"Can I get your autograph?"

You signed it, still looking slightly confused. I nearly told you I wanted to keep it as a birthday gift from you—but at the last second, I changed my mind and said,
"I saw that movie you were in. You were really good. I figured I should get your autograph before you get famous."

Everyone loves a compliment, but you just went quiet. Your smile hung there, stiff and detached, like a mask that didn’t fit your face.
"That was a favor for a film student I went to college with—back when I was studying directing. It won’t happen again. I’ll be downstairs. Just call me whenever you’re ready to leave."

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