Unspoken words
A morning breeze swept across the balcony, causing the curtains to flutter slightly. My phone vibrated twice on the bedside table; it was a message from my mother: "Come home today."
He replied "Afternoon," put his phone on silent, and sat on the edge of the bed for a few seconds. The sound of water next door stopped, and Hu Li, having simply tied his hair up, poked half his head out of the bathroom: "You're awake?" His voice was still damp.
"Hmm." He got up and went over, first taking the bath towel, then casually tucking the stray hairs that had fallen across her forehead back. His fingertips touched her ear, and she shivered, grabbing the back of his hand: "Are your hands so cold?" Then she put his hand to her neck, "Let me warm them up."
He chuckled softly, pressing his fingertips twice on the crook of her neck, as if to reassure her that everything was alright, or perhaps to ask for a little more strength: "I'm going to the old house at noon, I might be back late."
She looked up at him and blinked. "Do you want to take an umbrella? I'll put your coat by the door for you."
"Okay." He tightened her hair tie, lowered his head and tapped her forehead, then quickly pulled it back, his tone still restrained. "Don't wait for me. If you're tired, go to sleep."
She hummed in agreement, then took a step forward and gently bumped his forehead against his, like a mischievous little fox: "Then when you come back, you'll get a reward."
He didn't respond to her joke, only looking at her, his gaze momentarily darkening, as if he had something to say. The words caught in his throat, but he swallowed them back, replacing them with a softer, more understated: "Leave the light on."
"Okay." She smiled, and wrote twice in his palm, "Come back." "Got it."
He lowered his eyes, grasped her fingers, as if clenching those two words together: "Wait for me."
——
In the afternoon, his mother waited in the living room, a steaming teacup in front of her. She glanced at him and asked first, "Are you alright?"
"The company is closing down operations." He sat down. "You wanted to see me?"
"There's been a lot of talk about it lately." Her mother paused, then lowered her voice, "Your father's overseas project has been stalled, he..." She stopped abruptly, changing her words, "Right now, the easiest project to land is the Jiang family's. You know that."
He hummed in agreement. His mother stared at him and slowly asked, "Is what they're saying true? They've proposed a marriage alliance?"
He lifted the lid of the cup and then put it back on, tapping the porcelain surface with his fingertip, his tone very calm: "They were the ones who said that. I didn't answer, and I won't bring it up."
His mother looked at him for a while, her eyes showing a hint of weariness and heartache. Her voice softened, "I won't ask about the details. Remember—I'm on your side, I won't pressure you." She picked up her teacup and put it down again, her fingertips tracing the rim of the cup before her gaze fell on the veins on the back of his hand. She sighed softly, "You've lost weight." She paused, then asked casually, "What about that girl? What kind of girl do you like?" After a half-second pause, she added, "Is it the one who paints?"
He paused for a moment, then said briefly without further explanation, "Clean, stubborn, soft-hearted, and good at making me laugh."
The mother's eyes softened, and she nodded. "She sounds like a good child. When you have time—when you're less busy—bring her back for a meal. Not now, I understand."
"I know." He pushed the cup forward. "I'll handle things cleanly."
Her mother nodded and didn't press her further. Before leaving, she only said, "If the company needs my intervention, just say so."
——
In the evening, he returned to the company, where meetings came one after another. Some people reported figures, others demanded explanations; he simply nodded, gave instructions, and signed. Folders were moved from one stack to another, and the water in his cup went from lukewarm to cold, but he didn't have time to drink it. When he finally emerged from the last meeting room, the only sound in the corridor was the cleaning truck, and night had fallen outside the window.
As night deepened, Mu Tianlang sat alone in his office. The lights outside the window shone like scattered silver, but they could not dispel the heaviness between his brows.
"Mr. Mu, this is the financial analysis report you requested." Xiao Zhou put down a thick folder, speaking cautiously, "The finance department's data has been cross-referenced... It also includes a recent assessment report on potential cooperation with the Jiang family."
He nodded, and only after Xiao Zhou left did he slowly open the document.
As he turned the pages, his brow furrowed deeper with each passing page.
Cash flow pressures are nearing a critical point, and expansion into several overseas markets has stalled due to a lack of key resources. Partners are increasingly hesitant, and any wavering in confidence could have far-reaching consequences.
The last page contains the analysis department's recommendation: if they could re-establish a strategic alliance with the Chiang family, they could not only solve the current funding crisis, but also potentially gain control over the next round of market consolidation.
He closed the document, clasped his hands to his lips. His expression was calm, but his breathing became heavier.
He knew this was neither intimidation nor coercion—it was a "final ultimatum" delivered by reality.
He closed his eyes, as if he could hear approaching footsteps: from his family, the board of directors, and the entire business world.
As the heir of the Mu family, he knew very well that if he did not compromise, what awaited him might not be losing Hu Li, but losing everything.
Midway through the meeting, his phone lit up—Hu Li: [The soup at home is ready.] He only replied: [Later, I'll call you when I get there.]
Night fell, and the rain began to fall. He pushed open the door and entered the house; a warm, yellow light shone in the living room. She peeked out from the kitchen: "Perfect."
He hung up his coat, went to wash his hands, and when he turned back, she had already placed the soup on the table. The clear soup was hot, with scallions floating on top. He took a sip, and the tightness in his throat seemed to be eased a little by the soup.
She looked at him: "Was today at the old house alright?"
He nodded. "Yes." He paused, then added, "She told me not to be stubborn."
Hu Li listened without pressing further. She pushed the spoon towards him: "Then don't be stubborn."
He hummed in agreement. Neither of them mentioned the company or the "marriage alliance."
After she finished eating, she leaned back in her chair and watched him clear the table. Suddenly, she said, "You didn't say what you wanted to say."
He paused, looking up: "Which sentence?"
"It doesn't matter." She smiled, stood up, hugged him from behind, and rested her forehead against his back. "I'll wait for you to speak."
He turned his head and lowered his voice: "Come here." She obediently came to him. He reached out and untied her hair tie, pressing his fingertips against the back of her neck, as if to comfort her, or perhaps to press himself down: "Go to sleep first. I have to run another round tomorrow."
She looked up and whispered, "I'll stay with you." The two words were very soft, but they meant—don't lock me out.
He paused for half a second, took her hand and put it in his pocket, his grip tightening and then loosening. "No need. Just leave the light on." He lowered his voice again, "I'll be back."
——
The next day, Jiang called on time, his voice polite: "We've reviewed your framework. A and B are negotiable; however, the market is very sensitive and requires a sufficiently stable signal."
He stated, "The board seats and long-term contracts are still available, and we are willing to disclose the key terms to both sides. We won't discuss anything else. We will provide an equivalent alternative within 48 hours."
The other party paused for two seconds: "We understand. Let's proceed with the substantive terms. We will also submit our recommendations to the board of directors, but we hope you can provide a narrative that reassures the market."
As soon as the call ended, the company secretary forwarded the minutes of the emergency meeting: several directors explicitly wanted to "give the market a stabilizing signal," and two independent directors mentioned that "there must be a strong external commitment"; the investment bank also relayed a message—Jiang hoped to finalize a "stabilization narrative" as soon as possible. The pressure seemed to be piling up, from emails, meeting reminders, and phone memos, pressing down on him.
Mr. Mu summoned him to the chairman's office. As soon as the door closed, his voice turned serious: "The Mu family business is a legacy left by your grandfather spanning three generations. We cannot let it be ruined in our hands. Tianlang, we must weigh the pros and cons and make a decision. We cannot delay any longer."
He tapped his knuckles on the armrest of the chair and replied with only one sentence: "I will present the plan, but I will not use marriage as a condition."
Mr. Mu frowned: "The market doesn't care about sentiment, it only cares about results. It's not about making you sacrifice yourself, it's about making you take responsibility."
He looked up at her, his voice even lower: "I'll take responsibility. But she won't."
There was a two-second silence. Mu's father looked away, picked up his teacup, and put it down again: "Go do what you're supposed to do."
He didn't argue further. Back at his workstation, he opened his emails: the legal department had highlighted the performance-based compensation threshold, information disclosure deadlines, and exit mechanisms; finance had added a cash flow trend chart, drawing the red line up to T+30. His mouse hovered over the chart, his fingertips didn't move, but his palms were sweating. Outside the window, the clouds were heavy. He closed his laptop, leaned back in his chair, and briefly closed his eyes.
He knew this battle was far from over, and that the next step would be even more difficult. But he also knew that some things he had to keep silent about were to avoid handing her the knife; and some things he had to shield her from.
He reached out and silenced his work phone, picked up his cell phone at home, and typed: "I'm home tonight."
After sending it, he stared at the screen for a second, then added four more words: Get some rest.
The cursor was still jumping. He typed: "May be late," "Don't wait for me," "Sorry"—and then deleted them one by one. After thinking for a moment, he went back to the top of the chat box and scrolled to her previous message, "Leave the light on"; his fingertip paused on the screen for a moment, as if he were taking a breath from that line of text.
He flipped his phone over and pressed it onto the table, then opened and closed the drawer. The notepad lay open beside him, and he wrote two lines: "[Tonight: Tell the truth] [Choose to leave it to her]"—and then heavily emphasized the word "leave."
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