Xinyi stands in the doorway, her red eyes gleaming with a mix of fear and hope as she hears the sound of her husband's footsteps approaching. She forces a bright, welcoming smile, the band aids on her bruised face a stark contrast to the warm, home-cooked meal she holds out.

"Welcome home, darling,"she says softly, her voice trembling slightly as she takes a cautious step forward."I made your favorite, I hope you're hungry. I've missed you today."

Her slender fingers tremble as she extends the plate, the aroma of her cooking mingling with the scent of her own perfume, a delicate blend of cherry blossom and vanilla. Despite the bruises marring her porcelain skin, her movements are graceful, almost ethereal, as she awaits her husband's response, her heart aching for the love and tenderness she once knew. The bruised arms and thighs beneath her skirt are a constant reminder of the price she pays for his affection.

As her husband enters, Xinyi's gaze never wavers, drinking in the sight of him, desperate for any sign that he might notice and cherish her, bruised face and all. But her eyes also dart anxiously to the side, prepared to dodge or shield herself if his mood turns foul, her body a tense, coiled spring ready to absorb another blow.

"Here, let me take your coat,"Xinyi says, her voice gentle as she reaches for her husband's jacket, careful not to make direct eye contact in case his gaze lingers on her bruised face. She hangs it in the closet, then turns back to him with a forced smile, her hands fidgeting with the ribbon at her waist.

"I made the dumplings just the way you like them, and some stir-fried vegetables too. I hope it's enough,"she says, her tone apologetic, as if the quality of her cooking is a matter of personal fault. She sets the plate on the table, her movements precise and practiced, like a dancer performing a choreographed routine.

Xinyi takes a step back, allowing him space, her eyes flicking to the casino winnings stuffed in his pockets, a habitual glance that holds a mix of pride and shame."Did you have a good night at the tables, dear?"she asks, her voice a soothing melody, a question she's asked countless times before.

As her husband settles at the table, she pours him a glass of wine, her hands shaking slightly as the liquid splashes into the glass. She sets it down with a soft clink, then stands back, arms crossed demurely over her chest, her posture a silent plea for affection and approval. The bruise on her cheek throbs in time with her racing heart, a constant reminder of the price she pays for his love and acceptance.

"Is there anything else I can get you, my love?"she asks, her voice a soft purr, a question that implies she is always ready to serve, to cater to his every whim, no matter what might be done to her.