Chapter 3 A Marriage She Cannot Escape
1292 Words
Cong Yi didn’t go home that night.
She drove aimlessly through Hong Kong, letting the city lights blur into meaningless streaks of color. The anger that had burned so fiercely on the road gradually cooled into something heavier—thicker—settling in her chest like a stone.
By the time she finally stopped the car, dawn was already approaching.
She sat there for a long time, forehead resting against the steering wheel, eyes closed.
She hated this feeling.
Hated the sense of being cornered.
Hated how easily her emotions were stirred.
Hated that man—Wen Shiyi—most of all.
And yet, beneath the anger lurked an unease she refused to name.
When Cong Yi finally returned to the Cong Mansion, the house was unusually quiet.
The servants greeted her cautiously, eyes flicking toward the study on the first floor.
Her mother was waiting.
“Where did you go last night?” Madam Cong asked, voice calm but tight.
Cong Yi kicked off her heels, walking straight past her.
“Out.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Cong Yi stopped.
Slowly, she turned around, leaning against the banister. Her expression was lazy, eyes cool and distant.
“You already know where I went,” she said. “Why ask?”
Madam Cong’s gaze sharpened.
“You met Wen Shiyi.”
It wasn’t a question.
Cong Yi smiled faintly. “So he complained already?”
“No,” her mother replied. “He said nothing.”
That surprised her.
“He waited,” Madam Cong continued. “For three hours. Ate dinner alone. Spoke politely. Left without a single word of criticism.”
Cong Yi’s smile faded.
That almost annoyed her more.
“So?” she asked flatly. “Am I supposed to feel guilty?”
Madam Cong studied her daughter for a long moment.
“Yi,” she said finally, softening her tone, “this marriage is not something you can simply refuse.”
“There it is,” Cong Yi muttered. “The real reason.”
“This is about the family,” her mother said firmly. “About stability. About the future.”
“What about my future?” Cong Yi snapped.
Silence fell.
“Your future,” Madam Cong said slowly, “has never been separate from this family.”
The words hit harder than any slap.
Cong Yi laughed—short, bitter.
“Then you should’ve told me earlier,” she said. “I wouldn’t have wasted my time pretending I had choices.”
She turned and walked upstairs.
Behind her, Madam Cong closed her eyes.
Three days later, Cong Yi boarded a private jet bound for London.
Officially, it was a business trip—to inspect overseas investments.
Unofficially, it was escape.
London’s winter was cold and unforgiving. The sky remained a constant shade of gray, the air sharp enough to cut through even the thickest coats.
Cong Yi stayed in a hotel overlooking Hyde Park, immersing herself in meetings, shopping, and late-night drinking. She didn’t check her phone often.
She didn’t need to.
Wen Shiyi didn’t call.
That alone unsettled her more than any confrontation would have.
On the fourth night, after too much champagne and not enough restraint, she found herself standing on the hotel balcony, wrapped in a silk robe, staring down at the city lights.
Her phone buzzed.
An unfamiliar number.
She almost ignored it.
Almost.
“Hello?” she answered, voice cool.
“You’ve been in London for four days,” Wen Shiyi said calmly. “The weather isn’t good.”
She froze.
Then laughed softly.
“Are you tracking me now?”
“No,” he replied. “Your assistant filed the travel report.”
Of course.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“A conversation.”
“You already had your chance.”
“And you walked away,” he said evenly. “I’m giving you another.”
She tightened her grip on the phone.
“I told you,” she said. “I won’t marry you.”
A brief pause.
“Cong Yi,” Wen Shiyi said, voice low and steady, “this is not a matter of willingness.”
Her temper flared.
“Then what is it?” she shot back. “Obedience?”
“No,” he said. “Reality.”
She scoffed. “Your reality.”
“Our reality,” he corrected.
She closed her eyes.
“I don’t love you,” she said quietly. “I won’t pretend. I won’t play your perfect wife.”
“I don’t need your love,” Wen Shiyi replied without hesitation.
That stung more than she expected.
“What I need,” he continued, “is a wife who understands her position.”
Her blood ran cold.
“You think you can control me?” she asked.
“Yes,” he answered calmly.
She laughed, sharp and disbelieving.
“You’re arrogant.”
“I’m honest.”
The line went dead.
She stared at the screen for a long moment, chest rising and falling.
Then she threw the phone onto the bed.
Two days later, Wen Shiyi arrived in London.
He didn’t announce it.
She found out when he walked into the private meeting room during her afternoon briefing, coat draped over one arm, expression composed as ever.
The room went silent.
Cong Yi looked up slowly.
Their eyes met.
The air changed instantly.
“You’re early,” she said coolly.
“You’re late,” he replied.
Her assistant excused herself immediately.
The door closed.
They were alone.
“I didn’t invite you,” Cong Yi said.
“I wasn’t asking permission.”
She stood, walking toward him.
“You’re crossing a line.”
“You crossed it first,” Wen Shiyi said calmly. “Running doesn’t change the outcome.”
She stopped in front of him, chin lifted defiantly.
“And what outcome is that?”
He looked down at her, gaze steady and unyielding.
“You marry me.”
She laughed softly, but there was no humor in it.
“And if I refuse?”
“Then your father will refuse the London acquisition.”
Her smile vanished.
He continued, voice even, almost gentle.
“The Cong family needs that deal. Without it, your overseas expansion collapses.”
Her hands trembled—just slightly.
“You’re blackmailing me.”
“No,” he said. “I’m negotiating.”
She stared at him, disbelief giving way to fury.
“You planned this,” she whispered.
“Yes.”
The honesty was brutal.
She swallowed hard.
“And if I agree?”
“You get what you want,” Wen Shiyi said. “Freedom within limits. Respect. Protection.”
“And love?” she asked bitterly.
He was silent for a moment.
Then: “That was never part of the contract.”
Something inside her cracked.
She looked away, blinking rapidly.
For the first time, Wen Shiyi hesitated.
“You don’t have to decide now,” he said quietly. “But the wedding date has already been set.”
Her breath caught.
“When?”
“Next month.”
She laughed weakly.
“So soon?”
“The sooner the better.”
She straightened, forcing composure back into her voice.
“You win,” she said flatly. “Congratulations.”
His gaze softened—just a fraction.
“This isn’t about winning.”
“It always is,” she replied.
She turned away, staring out the window at the gray London sky.
Her reflection stared back at her—elegant, proud, and unmistakably trapped.
“Wen Shiyi,” she said softly, without turning around. “Don’t expect me to be grateful.”
“I don’t,” he replied.
“I expect you to survive.”
- Writer
