It’s been over a week since the gala.

Over a week of Bael leaving early and coming home late, of passing each other in the room or hallways with polite nods, of lying in the same bed with careful distance between us.

Over a week of me buried in the study, sketching concepts for the competition.

Residential clusters, green corridors, sustainable infrastructure, community spaces that actually encourage interaction instead of isolation.

The ideas flow faster than I can get them down, and for the first time since I woke up in this body, I feel like I’m doing something that matters.

Something that’s mine.

Not tied to the Wuchen name, not dependent on Bael or this marriage or any of the complicated mess my life has become.

Just design, skill, and me.

I lose track of time in here.

Hours bleed together, marked only by Mrs. Wen knocking to tell me meals are ready, by the light changing outside the windows, by the stiffness in my shoulders when I finally lean back.

Thursday morning, I’m deep in a layout revision when the study door opens without warning.

I glance up.

Bael is standing in the doorway, still in his work clothes, briefcase in hand like he just got here.

"What are you doing in here?" he asks.

I look back down at my sketch. "Working."

"I’m working from home today." His tone is flat, matter-of-fact. "I told you to stay in my office when I do that."

Right.

He did say that.

Weeks ago, back when he was checking on me after the hospital visit, making sure I was following Dr. Xi’s instructions.

I set down my pencil. "The two days are over, I’m fine. I don’t need supervision anymore."

"That wasn’t a temporary instruction." He steps into the room, eyes scanning the sketches spread across every surface. "Bring your work to my office."

"I’m in the middle of something—"

"Then bring it with you."

Not a question, not a discussion, it’s just a directive, delivered in that calm, controlled tone that doesn’t allow for argument.

I want to refuse, to tell him I’m perfectly fine working here, that I don’t need to be monitored like a child, that his instruction was about making sure I recovered and I’m recovered now.

But what’s the point?

Fighting about this means making it into something bigger than it is, means acting like I care about the principle when really I just want to be left alone.

And honestly, I can sketch in his office just as easily as I can here.

The designs don’t care where I draw them.

"Fine," I say.

I start gathering my things, sketches, pencils, laptop, the notebook where I’ve been jotting down concepts.

Bael watches for a moment, then turns and heads down the hall toward his home office.

I follow a few minutes later, arms full of materials.

His office is exactly as I remember it.

Large desk facing the windows, bookshelves lining one wall, the side table where I used to sit with my sketchbook during those two days of recovery.

Bael is already at his desk, laptop open, focused on whatever work pulled him home today.

I set up at the side table without a word.

Spread out my sketches, open my laptop, pull up the reference materials I’ve been using.

The silence settles around us, heavy but not uncomfortable.

Just... existing in the same space.

I go back to my layout revision, adjusting the pedestrian pathways to create better flow between residential clusters and the central green space.

The pencil moves across the paper, lines appearing, concepts taking shape.

Behind me, I can hear the quiet clicking of Bael’s keyboard, the occasional rustle of papers.

Working.

Just working.

Nothing more.

An hour passes...maybe two.

I’m deep in figuring out the proportion of green space to built area when Bael’s voice cuts through the silence.

"Have you eaten today?"

I don’t look up. "Mrs. Wen brought breakfast."

"Did you eat it?"

I pause, pencil hovering over the page.

Did I?

I remember her knocking, remember her saying something about food, but I was in the middle of a concept and—

"Runze."

"I don’t remember," I admit.

There’s a beat of silence, then the sound of his chair moving.

I glance back.

He’s pulling out his phone, already typing something.

"What are you doing?"

"Ordering lunch." He doesn’t look up from the screen. "You need to eat properly."

Of course.

Can’t have the baby going without nutrition, can’t jeopardize the pregnancy through something as stupid as skipping meals because I got absorbed in work.

I turn back to my sketch without responding.

A few minutes later, he sets his phone aside. "It’ll be here in thirty minutes."

"Okay."

The silence returns.

I go back to my layout, adjusting proportions, refining the integration between different residential densities.

The design is starting to come together.

Starting to feel like something that could actually work, that could actually win.

My phone buzzes.

I ignore it.

Buzzes again.

I grab it, ready to silence it, then see the notification.

**Ling Yue:** *Jin Hao mentioned the submission deadline got moved up slightly. Two weeks earlier than originally posted. Just wanted to give you a heads up!* 𝘧𝓇ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝘣𝓃ℴ𝓋𝑒𝑙.𝑐𝘰𝑚

Two weeks earlier.

Fuck.

That’s... that’s a lot less time than I thought I had.

I stare at the message, recalculating timelines in my head.

If the deadline moved up two weeks, that means I have what, four weeks instead of six?

Four weeks to finish the concept design, develop the full master plan, create all the required documentation, refine everything to competition standard.

It’s doable.

Barely.

But only if I don’t waste time.

I set the phone down and pull my laptop closer, opening the timeline spreadsheet I’ve been using to track progress.

Start adjusting dates, redistributing tasks, figuring out what needs to happen when.

"Problem?"

Bael’s voice cuts through my concentration.

I glance back.

He’s watching me, expression neutral but attention clearly caught by whatever he saw on my face.

"No," I say. "Just a deadline adjustment."

"For what?"

I hesitate.

I haven’t told him about the competition, haven’t mentioned it at all, haven’t even hinted that I’m working on something this significant.

Because it feels separate and mine in a way nothing else in this life is.

"A project," I say finally. "Personal thing."

His eyes shift to the sketches spread across my table, clearly visible from where he’s sitting.

"Architecture."

Not a question.

"Yes."

"For what?"

"A competition." I keep my voice neutral. "Design competition. Master-planned community."

He’s quiet for a moment, and I can feel his attention, assessing, evaluating.

Then: "When’s the deadline?"

"Four weeks."

"And you’re entering under what credentials?"

The question is practical, not accusatory, but it still hits a nerve.

"They waived the requirement," I say. "Based on portfolio strength."

"I see."

That’s all.

Just "I see."

No follow-up questions, no interest in the details, no asking to see the designs or understand the scope.

Only acknowledgment that I’m doing something, then back to his own work.

I turn back to my laptop and continue adjusting the timeline.

Four weeks.

I can do this.

***

Thirty minutes later, Mrs. Wen appears with lunch.

Two plates, both substantial, the kind of meal that’s clearly been ordered with nutrition in mind rather than taste.

She sets them on the coffee table near Bael’s desk, then disappears with a small bow.

Bael stands, moving to the couch. "Come eat."

I save my work and join him, settling on the opposite end of the couch.

The food is good...grilled fish, vegetables, rice, soup.

I eat mechanically, fueling rather than enjoying.

Bael does the same, efficient and focused.

We don’t talk, we eat in silence, the way people do when they share space but not much else.

When I’m done, I go back to my table, he goes back to his desk.

The afternoon passes the same way the morning did.

Quiet. Productive. Parallel.

He works on whatever contracts or deals or board preparations he brought home.

I work on refining the residential layouts, adjusting densities, planning community amenities.

Around four, he takes a call.

His voice is low, controlled, discussing something about quarterly projections and market positioning.

I tune it out and focus on the corridor system I’m trying to integrate through the entire community plan.

By six, he’s closing his laptop.

"I have a dinner meeting," he says. "You should eat properly. Don’t skip it."

"I won’t."

He stands, gathers his things, and heads for the door.

Pauses there for a moment, looking back.

"Tomorrow I’m at the office. But next time I work from home, same routine."

"Understood."

He leaves.

I sit there for a moment in the sudden silence, staring at my sketches.

The whole day we were in the same room, working side by side, eating together, existing in proximity.

And it meant nothing.

He wanted me nearby to make sure I was eating, resting, not overdoing it.

Standard pregnancy management.

Nothing more.

I gather my materials slowly, carrying them back to the study, set up again at my desk, and spread everything out the way I like it.

The designs stare back at me, half-finished but promising.

I pick up my pencil and get back to work.

The house is quiet around me, Bael gone to his dinner meeting, Grandmother probably in her sitting room, Mrs. Wen managing evening tasks.

And I’m here alone with my designs, working on something that’s entirely mine.

This isn’t his.

It’s mine.

And that’s exactly how I want it.