My Weekend Lover Turned Out To Be My Boss - Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Love and Sorrow – “For the Rest of My Life”

“You’re an attempted murderer with a criminal record, do you know what that means? A dog never changes its way of eating shit.”

I knew she was deliberately provoking me. Paired with that raised eyebrow and sarcastically sneering smile, it was nauseating and unbearable. Such a few words easily stoked the fire of my rage. The patience I had cultivated over the years instantly broke and erupted.

The sharp edge easily sliced across the woman’s cheek. Her collar was tightly grasped in my left hand, the beautiful designer shirt crumpled and out of shape. My right hand, clutching the knife, trembled slightly. A trickle of crimson blood, still warm, flowed down the cut, slowly seeping into my palm. It was as if every cell touched by the stain was mocking me, ridiculing a life scarred by indelible blemishes.

My nerves were taut with anger. I tried hard to suppress myself; I couldn’t make another mistake. Another mistake, and it would truly be for life. In my moment of silence, the sound of violent banging on the glass door came from behind me. Each knock was an invisible, forceful strike, shattering my heart onto the floor.

I lowered my head and surveyed the messy chaos in the kitchen. Just over half an hour ago, I was humming a cheerful tune, preparing a lavish dinner. Now, this scene of fragmented dishes seemed to mock me, laughing at my shameful failure in love.

I hadn’t intended to let the woman in front of me go. When a person is delirious, the blood boils. A feeling of numbness slowly surges from the soles of the feet to the whole body. Fingers become stiff, the scalp tingles, until every strand of hair feels afloat. I stared wide-eyed, the wetness in my eyes born of resentment, which finally turned into uncontrollable laughter—a harsh, ugly laugh, like a mournful wail.

Throwing the knife aside, I grabbed her ankles and dragged her into the living room, ignoring her. I returned to the kitchen. This vast space was finally quiet. There was no roaring, screeching, or quarreling, and even the person leaning against the glass door had stopped moving. Her eyes held sorrow and fear. I moved closer; separated by a door, we felt divided by an ocean trench. I tilted my head, staring straight at her, and the glass, reflecting the light, allowed me to clearly see my own appearance.

Such a hideous face. I thought… the way I crawled out of the overturned car, gasping for breath, and smashed Zhao Taian’s head to a bloody pulp with a stone, must have looked just like this demonic visage. I gave a tragic smile and breathed on the glass door. I raised my bloody finger and drew a distorted heart.

I started singing to myself: “For the rest of my life, the wind and snow will be you, the ordinary will be you, poverty will be you, glory will be you, the tenderness in my heart will be you, and everything I look upon will be you…”

The difficulty, like a lump in my throat. The feeling of being moved to tears was wonderful. The salty, warm liquid represented my love for her—a love that was plain yet soul-shattering, yet never deviated from its original intention. Turning around, as if it were a day without wind or waves, I picked up the broom and swept up the broken dishes. I washed a rag and knelt on the floor, wiping away the filth again and again. I don’t know how long it took me to tidy up the mess, until the entire kitchen was sparkling clean. Only after putting everything back in its place did I open the glass door.

Phoebe must have been tired. She was curled up, knees drawn, face buried. Hearing the sound, she slowly raised her head, then stood up and walked toward me. Her eyes were indifferent, just like the first time we met at the ‘Then’ coffee shop, distant and aloof. The heavy atmosphere was shattered by the sharp sound of a slap. I was pushed away, and she left the kitchen without looking back. I slowly followed her steps back to the living room.

She was sprawled on the floor in distress, her face full of tenderness, but directed at someone else. She was subtly nervous, betrayed by her tightly knit brows. The name she called out was no longer You Feifan, but a woman named Guan Shuyun. Observing the scene as an outsider, I looked exactly like a villain guilty of every conceivable crime. But no one knew that this intimacy stung more than just my eyes; it pierced a heart that was already shattered.

I calmly lit a cigarette. Through the wisps of smoke, I wanted to admire Phoebe’s beautiful profile one last time. With self-mocking courage, I slowly began: “It’s been almost ten years. I’ve loved you wholeheartedly, loved everything here because of loving you, through life and death, day in and day out, watching our child grow up, countless times anticipating how wonderful the future would be. I dodged so many people and so many things, but I couldn’t dodge time and your changing heart. In the end, all you give me is this turning back.”

The woman I deeply loved remained unmoved. She wouldn’t even say another word to me, not even a command to ‘get lost’. At this moment, I finally understood that Lan Feiyi no longer loved You Feifan. Therefore, my existence had become a joke, embarrassing even to myself. Time had stripped me of a certain thick-skinned ignorance, but it taught me what it meant to know when to leave. When she stopped responding, my only choice was to walk toward the door, casually slinging my bag onto my shoulder.

Perhaps this departure would also be for life. All the reluctance was sheer helplessness. I turned around, gazing at everything in the house. From now on, this would no longer be my home. It was a pity, I wouldn’t get to see Qingfan since she was at school. Leaving in a hurry felt especially hollow.

I choked up, very wronged as I whispered: “You must have forgotten, today is my birthday.”

Having said that, I gently closed the door. The dim streetlights outside the villa failed to illuminate the seemingly endless tree-lined road. I walked alone, accompanied by my shadow. It was another bleak early autumn. Like a cycle, I was still wearing a thin plaid shirt, helpless and solitary. I cried inconsolably, wiping my face with the back of my hand, but unable to stop. The home I called my own was gone so easily. Where should I go now?

Most people who are heartbroken tend to drown their sorrows in alcohol. Alcohol is a good thing; it doesn’t solve problems, but it can numb the nerves. But for me, I had drunk enough these past few days and no longer needed it. So, I deeply understood that drinking until I was blackout drunk and heartbroken only numbed the pain for a while, not forever. Sorrow came repeatedly like a flood. In the absolute end, I felt an incredible sense of relief.

I walked all night, and the deserted streets calmed my emotions significantly. By the time I returned to my old place, it was already early morning. Still the same, I habitually walked barefoot, the wooden floor creaking under my weight. I walked out onto the balcony and collapsed into the rocking chair, unsure of what to do. Lighting a cigarette, I rested my chin on my hand and began to reflect, thinking back over the years, wondering what exactly had led Phoebe and me to this point…

Perhaps the cracks in our ordinary life began one day six months ago…