Chapter 2

Mornings at the Locke estate usually began with a silence that felt near-religious.

When I woke up on the rock-hard single bed in the guest room, the morning light was kissing the perfectly pruned English roses. I rubbed my stiff neck. Over these five years, four hours of sleep a night and this uncomfortable mattress had taught my body how to maintain a facade of high-energy alertness under extreme pressure.

I walked into the closet and put on my suit. The process was flawless, even down to the angle of the tie knot matching Serena's aesthetic preferences. Five years ago, on the eve of our wedding, she told me clearly: "Jack, I don't like superfluous personal items in the house, especially... cheap things with personal imprints."

The meaning was clear: she had hired a husband, not a partner who needed accommodation. So, for the next ten years, I emptied my luggage. My life was compressed into a half-square-meter closet, while Serena’s "purity" and "personal boundaries" occupied every inch of air in this estate.

Downstairs, the chef waited nervously for my inspection.

"Miss Serena hates over-roasted coffee beans. Lower the roast level by two steps," I whispered, opening the temperature-controlled cabinet. It was a detail she’d mentioned seven years ago—drinking coffee with floral acidity at a small shop in Florence. She probably forgot, but I remembered. I even changed all the coffee bean suppliers and adjusted the estate’s water softening system, just to recreate a drink she might not even finish.

She came downstairs lightly. The sound of expensive cashmere slippers on walnut floors—almost no frequency of vibration.

I checked the time: 7:50. She wore a casual knit cardigan, her hair pulled up loosely. That unadorned coldness always left newcomers breathless. She walked to the dining table, didn't look at me at all—like a natural phenomenon bypassing me—and sat at the head of the table.

"The coffee tastes wrong today." She took a sip, her brow furrowing—the typical dissatisfaction with an external flaw.

"The beans are from a new batch. If you feel it lacks acidity, I can add a touch of lemon zest," I stood behind her, my voice steady, like responding to a rigid command.

She put down the cup, her long, pale fingers tapping the edge of the porcelain plate. "Forget it. 3:00 PM, I’m attending that charity lecture on 'Women's Rights.' Is the script ready?"

"It is." I pulled out a chair and handed over the tablet.

She glanced at it casually. It was the core arguments I’d refined from over three hundred pages of sociology data five minutes ago. "Good. Also, Uncle sent me an email saying he wants to talk about the factory relocation again."

"I’ve already refused."

She paused and looked up at me. It was the only time she looked directly at me all day. There was no temperature in those light-gray eyes, as if carved from the smoothest ice. "You refused him? He is my family, after all, Jack. Sometimes your approach is too rigid."

My fingers tightened around the cutlery, but I maintained a respectful posture: "He’s trying to touch your next quarter’s cash flow. This is for your benefit."

"Benefit." She repeated the word contemptuously, as if the word were dirty coming from my mouth. "Jack, you’re still as obsessed with these dry technical safeguards as you ever were. You never understand what 'art' is."

She stood up, wiped the corner of her mouth with a napkin, and tossed it on the table without leaving a single crease.

I stood in the warm sunlight, watching her back. I know all her hidden habits: the varieties of lilies she’s allergic to, the obscure white-noise frequencies she loves when she can’t sleep, and the rhythm of her heartbeat when she gripped my sleeve during that rainstorm.

But I know better: those so-called emotional investments are, in Serena’s logic, merely the air conditioner in this bedroom—it must stay at exactly 24 degrees Celsius. Whether it’s bitter winter or scorching summer outside, and regardless of how much fuel I burn to maintain that temperature, it cannot have a shred of discordance.

After breakfast, she went upstairs to touch up her makeup. I stayed in the dining room alone, looking at the half-slice of toast she left behind. She’s always like this, habitually eating only half, and I finish off the rest after she leaves.

I am the waste-disposal unit of this home, and the maintainer of order. I remember once, due to extreme exhaustion, I made a mistake in the defense protocol and didn't clear her wine bottles from a small gathering in time. The look of disgust she gave me was as if I’d tracked mud into a temple. From that day on, I swore to be the world’s most perfect system, even if it meant stripping away my soul.

A notification popped up on my phone—the maintenance report for the northern vacation home I bought three years ago. There’s a pine tree I planted there myself. I haven't even had the chance to see if it survived. My paycheck is bound to accounts here; my time is filled by Serena; all my preferences must yield to Serena’s aesthetics.

I sat in her chair and lightly touched the coffee cup she’d just set down. There was still a hint of warmth on the rim, but that temperature was rapidly dissipating.

In this vast estate, I am an extra puzzle piece. I fit every gap precisely, but when this puzzle is complete, even if I—this piece—vanished, there wouldn't be a shred of fragmentation. Because in this world, if you have enough money, you can always buy the next identical piece to fill the void.

This is my marriage. A long, humble, unknown one-man show. I gave her the most exquisite luxury of her life, and in exchange, she completely erased my personal sense of existence.

I stood up and walked toward the study. There was still media liaison work for her charity event to be done. I had to finish it by 2:00 PM and ensure that in every cameraman’s lens, Serena had the perfect angle of light.

This is my life. I willingly, in this shrine, act as the last believer.