After My Fiancée Failed to Pretend to Be an Alpha - Chapter 19

What had driven Lu Xinxue to lose control like that? When had Tang Cheng become her burden? Catch up to her? Bo Long’s question from earlier echoed in her mind, planting doubt.

Two hours had passed since their quarrel. The sting of Lu Xinxue’s words still lingered, but Tang Cheng sifted through them carefully, dissecting each phrase in the silence of night.

Six years apart, wasn’t it simply six years less of loving her? It wasn’t death. Tang Cheng believed she could make up for what was lost.

The real issue was Lu Xinxue’s attitude.

She was avoiding her. Their first fight, after leaving the hospital, Lu Xinxue had pushed her away, repeating “It doesn’t matter” and “Break off the engagement.” Tang Cheng had thought she no longer loved her. Yet in the end, Lu Xinxue softened, let her into her home, signed the agreement.

Later, in the hotel, when she kissed her—alone in the night, the longing in her eyes was unmistakable. That was love, rekindled after years apart.

Tang Cheng knew Lu Xinxue too well. The tender care she had shown last night wasn’t an illusion. What was she afraid of?

Love whispered only in the dark, instinctively rejecting closeness, keeping a safe distance to feel secure.

Tang Cheng had thought she didn’t trust her, yet she insisted on bringing her into the Lu Corporation, keeping her close.

So, the answer lay with herself.

Was her presence hurting Lu Xinxue?

She remembered the bruises on Lu Xinxue’s neck before she woke. Had she caused them?

Not important? Two years ago? Trouble?

Tang Cheng replayed every conversation, uncovering hidden meanings. Lu Xinxue was concealing something—something tied to her.

If she found the truth, she could erase the barrier between them.

Since Lu Xinxue wanted her to stay put, she would. She would prepare for the Lu Corporation interview, remain by her side day and night, and in doing so, uncover the truth.

Tang Cheng lay curled on the sofa, overwhelmed by the day’s events. The mechanical arm on the table remained broken, the new chip unopened in its box.

Moonlight couldn’t reach inside. The potted plant she had brought was yellowing from neglect. Tomorrow, she would water it.

Footsteps descended the stairs. Tang Cheng shut her eyes, feigning sleep.

The hallway lamp clicked on. A faint glow fell across her, fragile.

Lu Xinxue, draped in a light robe, stepped down the last stair.

She stood there for a long time, silent.

Then she moved closer. Tang Cheng lay still.

Lu Xinxue sat beside her on the sofa. Her weight sank into the cushion, and Tang Cheng’s body instinctively leaned toward her, brushing against her hip. Even through thin fabric, the contact burned.

Saliva pooled in Tang Cheng’s throat. If she swallowed, Lu Xinxue would notice. She held still, her throat itching.

Lu Xinxue placed something gently on the table. The summer blanket Tang Cheng had kicked to the floor lay at her feet, her short-sleeved nightshirt twisted up around her waist.

She heard Lu Xinxue sigh, tugging at the hem of her clothes.

Seizing the moment, Tang Cheng rolled closer, one arm slipping around her waist, swallowing at last.

She remembered pretending to sleep in kindergarten. Lu Xinxue had never caught her.

Later, in grade school and middle school, Lu Xinxue was the diligent monitor with a red armband. Whenever she checked on Tang Cheng, she always found her “asleep,” the tools already fixed, the bed small but sufficient. Lu Xinxue had never seen through her act.

Lu Xinxue was slender; her waist could be spanned with one hand.

She pulled away, tugging the blanket over Tang Cheng.

The hand that had clung to her waist was tucked under the covers, palm chilled. Close enough, Tang Cheng caught the faint scent of smoke. Had she been smoking upstairs?

Lu Xinxue sat in silence for a long time before rising, turning off the light, and going back upstairs.

Only when the final click of the switch echoed did Tang Cheng dare open her eyes. The spot where Lu Xinxue had touched still carried the warmth of thyme. What is it that she cannot face with me?

Tang Cheng turned her head, bitterness rising in her chest.

Moonlight spilled across the table. A candy wrapped in rainbow foil gleamed under the silver glow.

She drew a deep breath, her throat tight, vision blurring. She turned away, trying to stifle the sound, but tears fell anyway—one by one, soaking the blanket.

Her gaze locked on the candy. Her lower lip trembled. She wiped her tears, reached out, and grasped it tightly.

Her face twisted into a smile, then laughter spilled out, unstoppable.

Tang Cheng had first met Lu Xinxue at six years old.

Children that age forget many things, but they remember who is kind, who gives them candy.

Lu Xinxue was the first person in her memory to give her candy.

A piece of candy cost only a few coins, scattered across banquet tables. Yet Tang Cheng had never tasted one.

She had just moved into the Tang household, relegated to a storage room on the first floor. The family barely acknowledged her. Even her clothes were hand-me-downs from Tang Qinggu.

Then a pretty little girl had held out a piece of candy. No disdain, no mockery, only curiosity and she gave it freely.

Tang Cheng had checked again and again. It was truly hers.

She didn’t know if it was because of Lu Xinxue, or because it was her first taste of sweetness. But that candy, wrapped in rainbow paper, was the sweetest thing she had ever known.

Every candy since had paled in comparison.

And so, whenever she went to Lu Xinxue’s home, she always kept candy ready.

Whenever Tang Cheng fell ill, she was given a candy.

Whenever she was unhappy, she was given a candy.

Whenever she helped Lu Xinxue deceive Grandmother and felt wronged, she was given a candy.

All the bitterness tangled in her chest finally spilled out in a sigh. She rubbed her reddened eyes—why had she been crying so often lately? If Lu Xinxue saw, she would scold her again.

She unwrapped the rainbow foil. A crystal-clear orange candy gleamed in the light.

Tang Cheng’s favorite flavor.

She remembered.

But the taste was sour.

She didn’t understand, yet she ate it anyway.

Eating candy meant forgiveness.

It was their secret, their unspoken bond since childhood. No words were needed.

She couldn’t fathom why Lu Xinxue always spoke such cutting words, only to secretly soothe her afterward—two faces, one for day, one for night.

Her cheeks ached with sourness, brows furrowed, until the sweetness spread across her tongue, filling her mouth.

Sleeplessness finally eased. Tang Cheng lay back on the sofa, waiting for the fingertip-sized candy to melt, closing her eyes in peace.

By morning, the house was empty.

Lu Xinxue had left early for work. Tang Cheng went upstairs, the study and her old room were locked tight.

Still shut out.

She turned into Lu Xinxue’s bedroom. As expected, the ashtray on the balcony overflowed with cigarette butts.

She picked it up, emptied it into the trash, and tidied the room.

In the wardrobe, she spotted a pale blue scarf.

The same one Lu Xinxue had worn around her neck that first night.

Tang Cheng lifted it. It looked familiar.

Her palm brushed against a rough patch of embroidery. She turned it over. A crude yellow star stitched into the fabric.

Ugly against the blue silk. And with it came a memory not worth boasting of.

Back then, she had just arrived at the Lu household. Grandmother’s room was filled with handmade embroidery. Tang Cheng and Lu Xinxue loved to play there, pretending to be elegant maidens of old, waving handkerchiefs.

Lu Xinxue’s favorite had been a small star embroidery, said to be a token of love between Grandmother and her wife. After her passing, it was kept locked in a brocade box.

Grandmother had shown it only once. But it had sparked Lu Xinxue’s ambition.

She deliberately broke Grandmother’s treasured Tang tri-colored pottery, sending Tang Cheng to steal the embroidery.

They got it, but the box was locked, the key left in the room.

Little Lu Xinxue had been furious, puffed up like a child. Later, Tang Cheng secretly returned the box, and with her own needle and thread, stitched a star for her.

Lu Xinxue had been delighted, even rewarded her with a candy.

Tang Cheng sighed. Really, she kept even this.

She folded the scarf neatly and placed it back in the wardrobe.

Lu Xinxue’s obsession with cleanliness meant no one else was allowed in her room. As a child, Grandmother had handled the chores. Later, it fell to Tang Cheng.

There had never been barriers between them. Tang Cheng opened the wardrobe—simple clothes, nothing extravagant. Two or three suits, the rest everyday dresses. A few hung on the rack. She tidied them one by one.

She pulled open a drawer.

Should I clean this too?

Inside lay clothes tossed carelessly, no order at all.

If she catches me, will she think I’m a pervert?

Still, her hands moved. She had done it as a child, why not now?

A white one, a black one, a deep blue. She folded them neatly. Her fingertips carried the faint scent of thyme from Lu Xinxue’s body. Her ears burned.

She closed the drawer.

After finishing the room, she refreshed the tulips she had brought, loosened the soil of the little green plant, watered it, then turned to repair her mechanical arm.

A few parts had fallen loose. She rummaged through the toolbox, and within moments, the arm was fixed.

Tang Cheng lowered her head. Was the notebook left open to this page when I walked away last time?