Chapter 102: Dinner

Mrs. Wen finds me in the study around four in the afternoon.

"Young Master," she says carefully, standing in the doorway. "Madam Wuchen has requested that dinner be taken together this evening. The family will gather at seven."

It’s not phrased as a question, not presented as an option I can decline, just a simple statement of fact: dinner will be taken together, and I am expected to be there.

I look up from my laptop, where I’ve been staring at the same circulation diagram for the past twenty minutes without actually seeing it.

"Understood," I say.

Mrs. Wen nods once and retreats, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

I lean back in my chair and close my eyes.

Of course.

Of course Grandmother would do this now, would enforce the routine of family dinners precisely when I’ve been avoiding them, when the idea of sitting across from Bael and pretending everything is normal feels impossible.

But there’s no practical way to refuse.

No excuse I can give that wouldn’t require explaining things I have absolutely no intention of explaining.

So I’ll go.

I’ll sit there and eat and answer whatever questions are asked and maintain the appearance of normalcy.

I can do that.

I’ve been doing it for days.

What’s one more performance?

***

By the time I arrive at the dining room at exactly seven o’clock, Bael is already there.

Seated in his usual place, laptop closed beside his plate, posture perfect as always.

He looks up when I enter.

Our eyes meet for half a second before I look away, moving to my seat without acknowledgment.

The room feels different tonight.

More formal somehow, even though nothing about the physical space has changed.

The table is set exactly as it always is, the lighting is the same, the arrangement of chairs unchanged.

But something between us has shifted, has broken, and the weight of it fills the room in a way I can’t ignore.

Grandmother is already seated at the head of the table, watching us both with that calm, knowing expression she always has.

Like she can see exactly what’s happening without needing it explained, like she’s been watching tensions build in this household for longer than I’ve been alive and knows precisely how these things unfold.

"Runze," she greets me warmly. "Come, sit."

I bow and take my seat.

Bael is three feet away.

Might as well be three miles.

Mrs. Wen begins serving, moving through the room with practiced efficiency, setting dishes in front of each of us with quiet precision.

The silence stretches. Not comfortable, not hostile, just heavy with everything none of us is saying.

"How are you feeling?" Grandmother asks me, breaking the quiet.

I look up, force a small smile. "I’m fine."

"And the baby?"

My hand moves automatically to my stomach. "Growing, everything is progressing normally."

"Good." She takes a sip of tea, sets the cup down with deliberate care. "You’ve been working very hard lately, I hope you’re taking time to rest as well."

"I am."

Bael hasn’t said anything, he sits there eating with controlled precision, attention apparently focused entirely on his food.

But I can feel him listening, can sense the way his presence has changed, become more tense, like he’s actively restraining himself from participating in this conversation.

Grandmother turns her attention to him. "And you, Bael? How is work?"

"Busy," he says. "The usual."

"Mmm." She studies him for a moment. "You’ve been keeping late hours."

"There’s been a lot to manage."

"There always is." She takes another sip of tea. "Still. It’s important to maintain balance."

Bael doesn’t respond to that, he just continues eating, expression neutral, giving away nothing.

The conversation moves on.

Grandmother asks about household matters, mentions something about an event she’s attending next week, makes small observations about the garden and the weather and other safe, neutral topics.

I answer when addressed, keep my voice steady, polite, and perfectly controlled.

Bael does the same.

We exist in parallel, responding to Grandmother but never to each other, carefully maintaining this performance of normalcy that fools absolutely no one.

At some point, maybe fifteen minutes into the meal, Grandmother shifts slightly in her seat.

"It has been quiet between you two lately," she remarks.

The words are casual, observational, like she’s commenting on the temperature rather than the obvious tension radiating from both sides of the table.

Neither of us responds immediately, the silence that follows feels heavier than the words themselves.

I keep my attention on my plate, cutting a piece of meat into smaller and smaller portions that I’m not actually eating.

From the corner of my eye, I see Bael’s gaze flicker toward me.

Brief.

Then away again.

"Everyone needs space sometimes," Grandmother continues, as if we’ve answered. "Marriage is long. There are periods of closeness and periods of... adjustment."

She doesn’t push further, doesn’t demand explanation or force confrontation, she just leaves that observation hanging in the air between us, calm and matter-of-fact, before returning to her meal.

The conversation moves on again.

Lighter topics.

Safe ground.

But the weight of what she said lingers, pressing down on both of us, making every subsequent silence feel deliberate.

I eat mechanically.

Force myself to consume enough that it looks normal, that it won’t raise questions or concern.

The food tastes like nothing, across from me, Bael is doing the same thing, going through the motions.

Maintaining appearances.

We’re both so good at pretending, at performing normalcy while everything underneath is falling apart.

When Grandmother finally sets down her napkin and rises, excusing herself with quiet finality, the room suddenly feels too large.

Too exposed.

Like something structural has been removed and now there’s nothing between us except empty space and things we’re not saying.

She leaves without ceremony, Mrs. Wen appearing to escort her, and then the door closes and it’s just us.

Just me and Bael in this too-formal dining room with half-finished meals and a silence that feels like a living thing.

I keep eating, or pretending to eat.

Moving food around my plate because stopping would mean acknowledging that dinner is over, that there’s no reason to stay here anymore, that I should leave.

Bael doesn’t move either.

Just sits there, and I can feel his attention on me even though I’m not looking at him, can feel the weight of whatever he’s thinking, whatever he’s trying to decide.

The silence stretches.

One minute.

Two.

Then:

"Runze."

My name said evenly, carefully, like he’s testing whether I’ll respond.

Like he’s attempting to reestablish something that was interrupted rather than completely shattered.

I pause.

Fork halfway to my mouth, half a second where I acknowledge that I heard him, that I’m choosing how to respond.

Then I set the fork down.

Stand up.

The chair scrapes against the floor, sharp in the quiet room.

I don’t look at him.

Because if I look at him, I might say something I can’t take back, might demand answers he’s already made clear he won’t give, might let him see exactly how much this is destroying me.

"I’m full," I say.

The words come out neutral.

Polite, even.

Like I’m simply excusing myself from a meal I’ve finished rather than walking away from a conversation I refuse to have.

There’s no space in those words for continuation, no invitation for him to elaborate, to explain, to try again, no emotional opening whatsoever.

Bael doesn’t respond or say my name again, doesn’t stand or follow or do anything except sit there.

I can feel his presence behind me as I walk to the door, can sense his attention tracking my movement, but he doesn’t try to stop me.

I walk through the hallway, up the stairs, back to my old room where everything is exactly as I left it this morning, and close the door.

Lock it behind me.

And stand there in the dark with my hand still on the lock, breathing.

Just breathing.

Trying to process what just happened, or more accurately, what didn’t happen.

Because Bael said my name.

One word, one attempt to start something.

And I shut it down immediately, walked away without giving him a chance to continue.

Part of me feels justified in that.

He has had about three days to explain, to clarify, to say anything at all about what happened that night, and he chose silence instead.

If he wanted to fix this, he would have already done it. If it mattered enough to him, he would have made it clear without needing me to drag it out of him.

But another part of me, the part I am trying very hard not to listen to, keeps circling the same thought anyway, that I should have stayed.

That I should have let him speak, not because I trust whatever he would have said, but because at least then there would have been an ending to react to instead of this suspended space where nothing moves forward.

Because at least then I would know what I am dealing with instead of this constant guessing, this feeling of standing in the middle of something unresolved where even anger has nowhere solid to land.

I move away from the door and sit on the edge of the bed.

My hand goes to my stomach automatically, pressing against the bump.

The baby moves under my palm, a small flutter, steady and real.

"Just us," I whisper. "It’s just us."

But even that doesn’t settle anything, because what hurts most is not the anger anymore, and not even the uncertainty about Xue Lian, but the way Bael treats distance like it is neutral.

Like silence is a valid answer.

Like me leaving the room is simply the end of a conversation rather than something he needs to interrupt if it actually matters.

He said my name and I walked away, and he did not stop me.

And that is what I cannot stop turning over in my mind.

Not whether he is guilty or not, not even what exactly happened that night, but whether I am something he lets go of when I choose to, or something he would actually hold onto if it started slipping.

Because right now, I cannot tell the difference between restraint and indifference, and that uncertainty is starting to feel heavier than anything else.