Jiang Fei hesitated for a long moment before finally dialing the number he hadn’t called in months.
The voice that answered was crisp, professional, and unmistakably female—cool by nature, with an edge of steel. Yet beneath that practiced composure, he could detect a barely suppressed thrill of excitement.
She’s happy to hear from me.
The sound of her voice sent a flood of memories rushing back—her smile, the way she moved, every little mannerism he’d once known so well.
“How’ve you been?” he asked, forcing a casual tone.
Instead of answering, she abruptly shifted focus, barking orders to someone in the background:
“No, not this draft—I need raw, unfiltered coverage that captures the heart of this conflict!”
A flurry of activity followed. Ten seconds passed before her attention returned to the call.
“Sorry,” she said, breathless. “It’s chaos here. I’m on deadline for a dispatch and have a live interview in twenty. Let me call you back.”
The line went dead before he could protest.
“…”
Jiang Fei’s eye twitched.
Even after all this time, her workaholic tendencies hadn’t changed. Two months of radio silence, and their first conversation lasted eight seconds before she hung up on him.
“That damn woman,” he muttered, tossing his phone aside.
Bai Ruoxi—his girlfriend of five years, currently embedded as a foreign correspondent in some war-torn hellhole.
Their last fight had been nuclear. He’d stubbornly refused to reach out first, waiting to see if she’d cave.
Spoiler: She hadn’t.
Now, when he finally swallowed his pride and called, she treated him like a telemarketer interrupting her lunch.
Unbelievable.
Jiang Fei wasn’t some patriarchal relic demanding a stay-at-home wife. He admired ambitious women—found them sexier, even.
But there was a line between having a career and being married to your job. Bai Ruoxi had pole-vaulted over it years ago.
If I wanted a long-distance relationship with a ghost, I’d date a fucking poltergeist.
Back in college, her relentless drive had been intoxicating. Now? Exhausting.
Yet despite everything, he still missed her. Missed them.
That was why, last night, when Lin Moli had gasped Ruoxi’s name at the critical moment—
—he’d frozen.
“You’re not ready,” Lin Moli had said softly.
And she’d been right.
Twenty Minutes Later (Or Seven, Because She’s Weak Too)
His phone buzzed.
“Miss me?” Bai Ruoxi’s voice had shed its professional armor, slipping into the playful cadence she reserved only for him.
He could picture her perfectly—leaning against some dusty corridor, those fox-like eyes crinkling with suppressed laughter.
“Every damn day,” she continued before he could speak. “Sometimes I lie awake fantasizing about booking a flight home just to see you.”
The confession disarmed him.
“Then do it,” he challenged. “Stop talking and act.”
“You know I can’t,” she laughed. “Not with this assignment. Maybe in a month or two—”
“A month?!” His temper flared. “Why not a fucking decade while you’re at it?”
A beat of silence.
“…Are you drunk?” she asked slowly.
“We’re done,” he said, ice creeping into his tone. “For real this time.”
The line went dead quiet.
Then—
“Who. Is. She.”
Three words. Delivered with the lethal precision of a sniper’s bullet.
Jiang Fei’s spine prickled.
How the hell does she always know?
“It’s not— That’s not the point!” he backpedaled. “This is about us! About you choosing work over—”
“Jiang. Fei.” Her voice dropped to subzero. “Her name. Now.”
He swallowed hard.
“Lin Moli,” he admitted weakly.
A sharp inhale. Then—
“You bastard.” Her voice cracked. “After everything you promised—”
The raw hurt in those words gutted him. Bai Ruoxi never cried. Never let herself.
Hearing her on the verge of tears was worse than any shouting.
“I’ll deal with you later,” she hissed.
The call ended with a click far more final than before.
This time, her phone was off.
Jiang Fei slumped onto the couch, dragging his hands down his face.
Women.
He wasn’t indecisive. Just… human.
And humans were terrible at resisting temptation.
