Fated love: the unwanted bride

Silence.

Another boundless silence.

No one spoke again.

Jasmine Yale felt as if all her strength had been drained away, unable to utter a single word, she just quietly looked at him, her expression dull and blank.

Sylvan Cheney finally stood up, tidied his suit jacket.

In the play of light and shadow, Sylvan Cheney was still impeccably dressed in his suit, looking dignified and elegant, but his refined face held a stern chill.

His shadow fell on the floor.

He lowered his head, staring at Jasmine Yale on the bed for a long time.

She sat like a little puppet, motionless, her gaze resting on the white wall in front of her.

Early autumn nights were deep and tranquil, like a bottomless black hole, drawing everything in, leaving only heavy darkness.

Sylvan’s gaze shifted from her face to her pants, and he said quietly, "You’ve got your period."

The words drew Jasmine Yale’s gaze back, her fists subtly clenched.

There was a faint pain in her abdomen as she had just fallen asleep.

"Insisting on drinking iced tea during the day, wearing a low-cut gown in the evening to cool off, drinking alcohol, Jasmine Yale, at this rate you won’t be able to bear children for anyone in the future."

After speaking, he left without looking back.

The tall figure vanished from the bedroom, heading towards the door.

"Bang" — the door closed.

Only lingering scents, darkness, and silence remained in the air.

In a daze, Jasmine Yale felt dizzy; even though silence and peace surrounded her, it seemed as if thousands of bees were buzzing in her ears.

Her heart felt as if it were gripped by a hand, squeezing until she could barely breathe.

In that moment, she slumped beside the bed, leaning against a soft pillow, raising her head, staring blankly at the ceiling.

A faint ache came from her lower abdomen, wave after wave, but she no longer had the strength to go to the bathroom.

All the energy in her body seemed to have been drained, leaving nothing behind, only a thread of breath keeping her hanging on... allowing her to struggle on.

After a long while, she closed her eyes.

The influence of alcohol began to spread and overflow in her heart, invading her heart and lungs, her intellect, her spirit... blurring the lines between dream and reality.

She leaned against the pillow like this, listening to the steady thumping of her heart in her chest.

The night was vast and unending.

She had initially thought she could sit like this until dawn, but the pain in her lower abdomen grew deeper, prompting her to prop herself up on the bed and walk to the bathroom.

Her period came, and her stomach hurt a bit.

She turned on the faucet, washing her face with her unhurt right hand.

After coming out of the bathroom, she sat back on the big bed in the bedroom, the scent of the man still lingering in the air, refusing to dissipate.

Nineteen years, not too short, not too long — half a lifetime.

From now on, there would never be a person named "Sylvan Cheney" in her life.

She sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at the gauze on her hand, realizing that many things, when seen clearly, didn’t matter much.

She picked up her phone, logged into the Weibo account she hadn’t used for a long time, and casually posted a message —

Little Orange: Never see again.

She casually scrolled through her old Weibo posts, one by one, reminiscing about past memories.

After scrolling for a bit, she lost interest, tossed aside her phone, and walked to the window.

She pulled open the curtains; outside was the quiet night view, only tall buildings and moving vehicles, no pedestrians in sight.

This silent night had swallowed the world’s joys and sorrows, as well as her heart.

Perhaps, another nineteen years from now, she wouldn’t even remember what he looked like...

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