The bus trundled along under the scorching midday sun, the relentless heat seeping through the metal roof and pressing down on her chest like a weight.

After just a few stops, Su Wan managed to snag a seat. As she settled in, her body relaxed, and her mind inevitably drifted back to what had just happened.

Was that it? Was her engagement to Zhou Ziming really over just like that?

Impossible. She knew that man too well—today was only the beginning.

In her previous life, they’d married at the end of the year, in the humble cafeteria of the food factory where they worked. The ceremony had been simple, unremarkable—no grand gestures, no dazzling displays. The dowry had been modest, no different from what other girls from the slums brought to their marriages.

Even back then, she’d sensed the Zhou family’s displeasure with the match. But in her naivety, she’d thought: We’ve already talked, held hands, shared kisses—what other choice did I have?

Besides, Zhou Ziming’s family had promised her a favor: after the wedding, they’d secure a good job for her second brother.

Jobs were hard to come by in those days, and a stable position was a rare opportunity.

So she’d married him. The early days of their marriage had been exhausting, but not unbearable. Tang Jiangying hadn’t made things too difficult—after all, once the marriage was done, it wouldn’t look good if she kept berating her daughter-in-law in public.

When had Su Wan’s suffering truly begun? A year into the marriage.

Her belly remained empty, and the Zhou family grew anxious. At first, they hinted subtly, then outright demanded answers—was there something wrong with her? Did she have "cold uterus"?

Su Wan had been baffled. She didn’t know, so how could Tang Jiangying be so certain?

Defiant, she insisted on a hospital check-up.

Back then, medical technology was primitive, and societal biases ran deep. When a couple couldn’t conceive, the blame almost always fell on the woman.

She still remembered that day vividly—a drizzling spring rain, the bitter chill of early warmth.

Zhou Ziming had arranged for her to see an elderly traditional Chinese doctor, praising him as highly skilled and reputable.

The man had been attentive, gentle—or so it seemed.

Tang Jiangying hadn’t entered the examination room, citing embarrassment.

The doctor, a man in his fifties or sixties with a kind face, had delivered his verdict: cold uterus, unfavorable for pregnancy.

Su Wan had been stunned.

How had he reached that conclusion?

She’d wanted to argue, to demand further tests—but in that era, who would believe a woman over a "respected" physician?

Especially when Zhou Ziming himself had planted the suspicion in their minds.

That day, she didn’t remember how she’d gotten home.

Her mother-in-law’s scorn. The Zhou family’s pitying stares, as if she were a broken thing.

She’d asked for a divorce—for the first time.

Her in-laws had been delighted. Zhou Ziming had refused.

He’d wept, begged, sworn he didn’t care about children—that she was enough.

Young and foolish, she’d been moved.

How could she have known? Zhou Ziming had been calculating from the start.

He was the one with the problem.

On their wedding night, he’d fumbled clumsily—but she hadn’t known any better. No older women in her life had guided her, no one to tell her what was normal.

Later, Zhou Ziming claimed he hadn’t realized he had issues until after marriage—as if that excused anything.

She’d been too ignorant to see through him. She’d believed his protestations of love, forgiven him—and called off the divorce.

But forgiveness didn’t ease the pressure.

Two years passed, and the weight of it all crushed her spirit.

That’s when Zhou Ziming’s true nature began to surface—the obsessive, suffocating monster beneath the charming facade.

He refused to let her go. He slashed his wrists. Threatened suicide. Even jumped into a river.

She couldn’t divorce him—instead, she earned a reputation as a heartless shrew.

"The Zhou family treated you so well, and you still complain about infertility? What more do you want?"

After two failed attempts, Zhou Ziming tightened his grip. He drove her to and from work, interrogated her over every conversation with male colleagues, and went berserk if any man so much as spoke to her.

Su Wan grew numb. She lived like a ghost.

Then, society shifted.

The Zhou family’s once-prized status crumbled. Her in-laws retired or lost their jobs. Zhou Ziming’s state-owned workplace privatized, the workload brutal, the rules suffocating—he quit.

Suddenly, Su Wan became the sole breadwinner.

For the first time in years, she breathed easier.

But "easier" was relative. The Zhou family’s arrogance had dulled, their scorn less frequent. Zhou Ziming loosened his leash—she could occasionally attend work events alone.

Twice a year, no more.

And it was during those rare moments of freedom that Su Wan began to notice cracks in Zhou Ziming’s facade.

He acted differently from the husbands her coworkers described. She started watching him, piecing things together—until he caught her.

Did he feel guilt? Remorse?

Hardly.

Instead, he came home with a swaddled infant—a boy—and announced it was his illegitimate child with another woman.

Su Wan’s questions died in her throat.

Fine. If he’d already crossed that line, she’d file for divorce.

But Zhou Ziming refused. He claimed he’d sent the mother away and insisted the boy would grow up calling Su Wan "Mom," pretending he was their biological son.

What a bastard.

Yet society didn’t condemn him. People urged her to stay: "The mistress is gone. The child is innocent. When he grows up, he’ll call you Mother anyway. Zhou Ziming had no choice—the Zhou family needs an heir."

Su Wan sneered. "Am I a saint? A babysitter for someone else’s kid?"

This marriage was over—no matter what.

Let him kill himself if he wanted. She wouldn’t watch.

But Zhou Ziming didn’t die.

Because she reported him first.

She didn’t know why the certainty had struck her so suddenly—perhaps it was the absence of guilt, or the clarity that came with seeing through his lies.

Her instincts had been right.

That child?

Zhou Ziming had stolen him from a girl who’d gotten pregnant out of wedlock. girl who’d been discarded like trash.

Just like Su Wan had almost been.