I remember the tile—the cold, smooth porcelain against my cheek as I crawled toward the phone. Blood soaked through my nightgown, warm at first, then chilling fast. I dialed him three times. He answered on the fourth ring, voice calm, saying he was handling things. Handling what? Me? Or her?

When the ambulance finally came, they told me I’d lost the baby hours ago. No emergency surgery could have saved it. But I didn’t care about that. I cared that he stood in the doorway, eyes hollow, holding Lin Xinyi’s hand while I bled out on the floor.

Now, two weeks later, I sit in the garden pavilion, sketching in secret. The charcoal smudges like tears. A single text lights up my hidden phone: 'They’re watching your studio.'

I never had a studio here. At least, not one they know about.