divorce

Li Fuqiang was currently in his penthouse suite at the Park Hyatt Zurich, with the Limmat River ablaze with lights outside his window and the distant Alps faintly visible in the twilight. He had just finished a dinner with Swiss bankers, and, slightly tipsy and pleased with the success of the negotiations, was sipping a glass of single malt whisky by the floor-to-ceiling window.

His phone vibrated on the coffee table. He glanced at the screen and saw the name "Zhiwei," and a smile involuntarily crept onto his lips—she rarely called him when he was away on business. When he answered, his voice was still slightly relaxed, tinged with drunkenness: "Weiwei? Still up so late?"

"Mr. Li," Zhiwei's voice came through the receiver, colder than the Zurich night, "I want a divorce."

The crystal glass in Li Fuqiang's hand trembled slightly, the amber liquid rippling uneasily across its surface. He instinctively straightened up, his other hand unconsciously gripping the velvet curtains by the window. Silence spread through the transoceanic phone call; he could almost hear the pounding of his own heart, a sudden clarity washing over him.

"Is it because of that Song Tianming?" He finally spoke, the drunkenness in his voice gone, replaced by the instinctive calculation of a businessman. "Weiwei, he's gone." He paused, as if choosing his words carefully, his tone carrying his characteristic, almost cold pragmatism. "Besides, what you're doing now, will he even know? I, Li Fuqiang, am not so intolerant as to not even tolerate someone who's dead in your heart."

As he spoke, his gaze fell upon the ancient spire of the Zurich Cathedral outside the window, his eyes sharp as an eagle's. After more than ten years of marriage, he believed he had given Zhiwei the life every woman could dream of; he couldn't understand why a dead young man would lead her to make such a decision.

The silence on the other end of the phone was unsettling; he almost thought the signal had been lost. After a long pause, Zhiwei's voice rang out again, calm as if she were narrating something unrelated to herself: "It has nothing to do with anyone else. It's because I've discovered that I can still love, that I still want to love." A faint trace of melancholy suddenly appeared in her voice. "Before starting any new possibilities, I must first set myself free, only then can I truly let go psychologically."

Li Fuqiang slowly put down his wine glass, the cold glass leaving a damp mark on his palm. He recalled their first meeting ten years ago in New York, the girl at the Christmas ball, wearing a self-made red dress, her eyes so bright they were captivating. Back then, she was like an uncut diamond, and he had spent ten years polishing her to perfection, forgetting that diamonds are meant to have their own edges and corners.

"Weiwei," his voice softened unconsciously, carrying a sincerity he himself hadn't even realized, "we've been together for over ten years. I can't bear to part with her." The moment the words left his mouth, he realized that this wasn't just a plea to stay, but the truth. Over a decade had passed, and this quiet and poised woman had become an indispensable part of his life, like the priceless antique furniture in this house—something he might not normally pay attention to, but which would leave an unfillable void in his heart when she was gone.

Zhiwei sighed softly on the other end of the phone, the sigh brushing against his eardrums like a feather: "This isn't love, it's just habit and an unwillingness to lose." Her voice suddenly became unusually clear, "We strayed from the essence of love from the very beginning. You can't truly love someone, nor can you change yourself for anyone. I have no resentment; I'm truly grateful for Mr. Li's care and tolerance over the years."

Li Fuqiang subconsciously loosened his tie, suddenly feeling suffocated by the luxurious suite. He recalled Zhiwei's silhouette working alone in Yayuan over the years, her ever-present, impeccably polite smile at charity galas, and the tears she held back when her mother passed away. He suddenly realized that in over a decade, he had never truly understood this woman who had become his wife—she was like the Chinese ink paintings he collected, seemingly elegant and freehand, yet concealing a myriad of complexities within.

"Then why are you in such a hurry?" he tried to persuade her one last time, his voice carrying the shrewdness of a businessman. "It's not too late to leave when you've truly met someone who makes your heart flutter."

"That wouldn't be fair to anyone," Zhiwei said softly, yet with an undeniable resolve. "I need to become a complete person first before I can meet another person with a whole heart. Not start a new relationship half-heartedly, carrying the identity of Mrs. Li."

Silence fell on both ends of the phone call. Li Fuqiang gazed at the unfamiliar city lights outside the window and suddenly realized that for the past ten years, he had always treated Zhiwei as a carefully tended flower in a greenhouse, forgetting that roses should grow in the open field. He recalled the painting "Raindrops on Roses" by Zhiwei in his study; at the time, he had only felt its poignant beauty, but now he understood that it might have been a reflection of her inner world.

"Let me think about it," he finally said, his voice surprisingly weary. "We'll discuss it in detail when I get back to China."

After hanging up the phone, Li Fuqiang stood by the window for a long time. The ice in the whiskey had long since melted, diluting the color of the liquor, just like their ten-year marriage—seemingly rich, but actually diluted by time. He suddenly remembered the dazed look in Zhiwei's eyes as she gazed at the cake candles on her birthday last year. At the time, he thought she was missing her mother, but now he understood that it might have been a longing for freedom.

Zhiwei, on the other end of the phone, gently put down her phone and walked to the window of her studio. Beijing and Zurich are six time zones apart in the night, but she felt that their hearts were separated by an even greater distance. On the table lay the dried rose Tianming had sent, its aged sheen gleaming in the moonlight. Beside it lay the newly completed design—a wedding dress themed around thorns and roses.

Her fingertips gently traced the thorns entwined on the drawing paper. Outside the window, a new moon hung above the eaves of the Forbidden City. Zhiwei knew she was finally ready to face the storms of this world alone. And this time, she was no longer anyone's appendage, but simply Shen Zhiwei.