1 It was a perfectly ordinary day. Out of sheer boredom, I was searching Richard Sterling’s name on Instagram. Most of the results were just official business articles and press releases, but after scrolling for a long time, I accidentally stumbled upon his ex-wife’s account. How was I so sure she was Richard’s ex-wife? Because her profile picture was a photo of the two of them. It had to be a very old photo, though, because both of them looked so young and green. The post that popped up on the Explore page was incredibly mundane: she had shared a food blogger’s restaurant recommendation, tagged an account, and demanded in a spoiled, playful tone, "@richard_s, I want to eat here. Take me." Except, it was posted eight years ago. That tagged account must have been Richard’s private one. I clicked on it first, but it was blank—probably deleted a long time ago. Then, I clicked into his ex-wife’s profile. Why did I click it? Because I was Richard’s girlfriend, and we were currently planning to get married. I had tried to indirectly ask Richard about his past with his ex-wife before. But every time I brought it up, he always looked like he didn't want to dive into it. Eventually, I took the hint and stopped asking. When Richard and I got together, they had already been divorced for nearly three years. I had debated it for a long time before finally agreeing to date him. Lately, he would occasionally drop hints about marriage plans. Barring any surprises, we were highly likely to tie the knot within the next two years. I believe any woman is naturally curious about her current partner's ex, regardless of whether they just broke up or got divorced. What women excel at most is filling in the blanks, using tiny details to mentally reconstruct every little moment of their past relationship. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I was harboring a secret thrill, eager to satisfy my inner gossip, as I began to snoop through this woman’s Instagram. Her most recent post was from two years ago—just a simple "liked" dynamic. Her update frequency in recent years was very low. Going further back, it was just normal, everyday life. I kept scrolling and scrolling; I wanted to start from her very first post. I don't know how long I scrolled, but I finally hit the bottom. Her first post was from May 2011. I stopped, then slowly started scrolling back up. It was her daily life from eleven years ago. Reading between the lines, you could tell she was someone who loved life—positive, optimistic, with a harmonious family. She was obsessed with astrology, loved good food, and had two dogs. It was obvious she came from a wealthy background. But none of that was what I wanted to see. After swiping for a while longer, I finally found what I was looking for. That was the first time Richard appeared on her feed. It was Richard from eleven years ago. The photo quality was terribly blurry, but you could still trace the outlines of his current face—handsome, tall, and straight-backed, just a bit more youthful. They were at a café. He was looking toward the camera, smiling, and his joy seemed to pierce right through the low-resolution image. On the table sat a coffee and a milkshake. Her caption read: Iced Americano and Banana Milkshake. His iced Americano. Her banana milkshake. My heart skipped a beat. Honestly, I never expected they had once shared such ordinary, simple happiness. I knew from my own social circles that their families were of equal status. People had told me their marriage was just a union of two wealthy families, so I had always assumed it was strictly an arranged marriage of convenience. I never imagined they had shared the daily life of a normal, loving couple. After scrolling for a while longer, a dull ache started to form in my chest. Almost every single one of her posts bore the traces of their sweet, passionate romance. When he took her out to try a new food truck, she’d take a cute photo, tag him, and playfully complain about what tasted bad and what she liked. When he was out of town on business, she would tag him from across the country to tell him she missed him... Sharing every single meticulous detail like this pulled me right back to eleven years ago, dragging me directly into the era when they were deeply in love. The imagery was so vivid and concrete that it made my chest feel tight and suffocated. This was the Richard from eleven years ago—a Richard I didn't know. A Richard who belonged to someone else. 2 There was a significant age gap between Richard and me. He was eleven years older. I was a dance instructor, and we first met at an industry gala where I was performing as a guest dancer during the intermission. Later, at the evening banquet, he politely came over and asked me for a dance. Since he was the only one there without a female companion, I gracefully accepted and danced with him. That was our first encounter. To be honest, men around Richard’s age are the most captivating. They possess a wealth of life experience—they are mature, grounded, intelligent, yet maintaining a polite distance. They know exactly how to perfectly cater to their partner’s emotions, their every movement exuding impeccable manners. Not to mention, he was incredibly handsome. With deep-set eyes, whenever he looked at you intently, it was like a whirlpool sucking you in. He was so captivating... and so dangerous. Not long after that, he showed up to invite me to dinner, claiming it was to thank me for my help that night. I was on high alert at first. Because of the nature of my profession, I frequently ran into scumbags—especially married men who liked to package themselves as deeply affectionate, romantic gentlemen. I mercilessly rejected Richard. He just smiled faintly and didn't pester me. Later, he had someone deliver a bottle of perfume to me. It wasn't obscenely luxurious—just a nice brand I could actually afford myself. I didn't want to be overly dramatic, so I accepted it. Just like that, we were even. But it didn't take long for me to owe him another favor. The circle we operated in was only so big. I frequently did commercial gigs with my friends from the dance studio, and it wasn't uncommon to run into wandering hands. However, the men at these events, whether they were actual thugs or just newly rich developers, usually cared about their public image. If rejected, they wouldn't normally cause a scene or throw a tantrum in public. But there are exceptions to every rule. When Richard walked over, a sleazy real estate developer, Mr. Dawson, was gripping my wrist, desperately trying to drag me into his chest. His mouth was foul: "I had my eye on you the second you got on stage. Look at this tiny waist, you really know how to move it. How much money do you even make dancing? Just get with me. I'll give you ten grand a month, and I'll even buy you a condo..." I looked around frantically for help, but everyone just stood by, smiling silently, watching the show. That is, until Richard walked over. He firmly grabbed Mr. Dawson's wrist, smiled politely but with absolute, unquestionable authority, and said, "Mr. Dawson, didn't you see she was saying no?" It was such a cliché hero-saves-the-beauty trope. But that was the beginning of everything, and like anyone else would, I inevitably fell for him. I was completely certain that the reason he and his ex-wife divorced had nothing to do with any flaws in his character. By the time we met, I knew he had been divorced for over two years. While dating him, it became obvious he wasn't a player who just liked to fool around. Before me, he was the only man who attended every business gala without a date. He was always a solitary figure. Sometimes, in a massive ballroom filled with roaring music and deafening chatter, he would just stand there quietly, looking like a lonely outsider who didn't belong in the scene at all. I didn't know what he was so lonely for. His business empire was massive, his family background incredibly prominent yet understated. Wherever he appeared, people flocked to him, treating him like the center of the universe. Later, when I finally gave in and agreed to be with him, he gave me a profound sense of security. He never crossed my boundaries, though he had normal desires for intimacy, like holding hands and kissing. But he always, always asked for my consent first. Because it was my first real relationship, he controlled the pace and rhythm of everything. He even told me, "If you ever feel like we're moving too fast or you're uncomfortable, you have to tell me." He would be the first to tell me good morning, and he’d wait for me to go to bed just to say goodnight. He reported his itinerary to me without fail. I picked out all the profile pictures for his social media accounts. We used matching wallpapers and matching cover photos. And I was absolutely certain I was the only woman in his life. He gave me every little detail, all the security in the world, and spent all his free time outside of work on me. Once, he was out of the country for a conference. During that time, I booked a massive New Year's Eve performance for a major television network, but I was completely stuck trying to choose the right background music for my choreography. Despite the brutal time difference, he stayed on the phone with me at 1:00 AM his time, sharing a Spotify playlist with me. As I stood in front of the massive floor-to-ceiling mirror trying to find the right feeling, he manually skipped tracks for me, one by one. Every time I asked hesitantly, "Richard, are you still there?" He would always reply promptly, telling me he was. I had read a quote once: If you want to know if a man loves you, see if he’s willing to spend money on you when he’s broke, and see if he’s willing to spend time on you when he’s rich. After dragging himself through a brutal, mentally exhausting day of conferences in a different time zone, he stayed up deep into the night, keeping me company and skipping songs for me until I found the perfect one. I honestly didn't know what could possibly express his sincerity more than that. He loved me. He truly loved me. He wasn't just playing around, and he wasn't just trying to sleep with me. I was absolutely certain of it. But now, I wasn't so sure. Did he love me? Or rather... did he really like me? 3 The Richard on his ex-wife's Instagram was a Richard I didn't recognize at all. In December 2011, he was on a business trip to Chicago. His ex-wife posted a pathetic-sounding update, tagging him: Someone’s out of town, and now my breakfast, lunch, and dinner are completely compromised. Just two days later, she posted again at 3:00 AM. The photo was a bowl of noodles topped with a poached egg and some greens. The caption read: Someone rushed back overnight! I whined that I was starving, so he didn't even take off his suit before heading into the kitchen. We didn't have many ingredients left tonight, so we just had to make do! For the next consecutive week, her feed was filled with different, lavish meals. There was even a photo of Richard in the kitchen, simmering soup. In the spacious, brightly lit kitchen, he was wearing comfortable loungewear, standing tall and handsome by the counter. He held a ceramic ladle in his hand, his side profile entirely focused as he watched the soup in the pot. The comments were flooded with their mutual friends teasing him, all calling Mr. Sterling the "perfect 24/7 boyfriend." It was such a noisy, vibrant, warm glimpse into their life. How happy they must have been. The happiness was so overwhelming that, even eleven years later, it still bled through the screen, making my eyes turn red and allowing jealousy to completely blind my heart. I had no idea Richard knew how to cook. We always went out to various high-end restaurants. He employed three private chefs at home, each specializing in a different cuisine. Once, while we were waiting for our food to arrive at a restaurant, I casually asked him, "Do you know how to cook?" He had just smiled, looked at me, and said, "A little." I had looked at him with eyes full of expectation. I really wanted to ask, Then can you cook something for me? A man as smart as him definitely knew what I was hoping for. But he didn't follow up on the topic, so I didn't push it. I wondered, if I had just bluntly asked him to make a dish for me right then, what would he have said? He might have agreed, or he might have refused. I wasn't sure. By early 2012, they were preparing for their wedding. The wedding logistics, the dresses, the honeymoon destination, how to handle the receptions in their respective hometowns. Naturally, there were occasional arguments. For instance, over the color palette for the floral arrangements. She wanted blue, but Richard wanted red. She wrote on Instagram: He said blue is a cold color, but red is romantic and passionate. It’s fearless. He said he wants me to be passionately happy forever. Such a romantic, fiercely direct Richard. He never discussed anything with me. Perhaps it was his sheer breadth of experience and vision, but every decision he made for me was always the right one. I rarely argued with him. I was already used to obediently accepting all of his perfectly arranged plans. He would just go ahead and handle everything that was good for me; I never had to worry or ask about a single detail. I used to think this was his way of spoiling me. But now, looking at this, I was so incredibly envious. I was envious of the woman who had that version of Richard. She complained online about his Virgo perfectionism because, for the wedding balloons, he bought ten different types and personally compared their thickness and texture until he found the one he was most satisfied with. I could never reach this grounded, everyday version of Richard. Nowadays, there were very few things he ever needed to do with his own hands. All he had to do was blink, and countless people would scramble to anticipate his needs. He probably no longer had the energy or the patience to meticulously handle every tiny detail like that anymore. Then, I saw their wedding photos. Various locations, various color grades. Without exception, every single photo radiated pure bliss. That was the first time I had ever seen Richard smile with his guard completely down. His eyes were crinkled deep at the corners. He was unbelievably handsome and charming, radiating an overwhelming, spirited energy. Of course, he smiled at me often, too. But that was the composed, measured smile of a mature man who had been weathered by time. The corners of his lips would turn up slightly, but no matter the occasion, his eyes were always calm and collected. Plus, he didn't like taking pictures. On my birthday, he spent the whole day with me. I pulled out a Polaroid camera to take a photo of him, but he instinctively reached out and covered most of the lens. With a gentle but unquestionable smile, he rejected the idea, telling me, "Baby, be good. I don't like taking pictures." I put the camera away, and I never tried to take another photo of him again. Yet, his figure appeared in countless photos on her feed. He had never compromised with me. The principles and boundaries of a fully grown man aren't something you can shake just by acting cute and whining. They had a set of wedding photos taken at Richard’s alma mater. They were alumni. His ex-wife wrote in the caption: I want to go back to my freshman year, walk into the finance department, grab the hand of the guy who didn't even know me yet, and ask him: If I told you we were going to get married in seven years, would you believe me? Piecing the clues together, I could map out the entire storyline. Such a classic romance. Families of equal standing, attending the same Ivy League college, studying abroad together. In a foreign country, they looked out for each other. Richard’s impressive cooking skills were probably honed while they were living abroad. Just so he could cook for her. She could re-post random recipes on Instagram, tag Richard, and righteously demand: Make this for me. These were their memories. I felt like a rat in a dark sewer, a cockroach scuttling out only at night, the evil stepmother in Snow White, secretly spying on their entire sweet past. It was such a disgusting thing to do. But I couldn't stop myself. 4 Richard said he wanted to marry me. It happened late one night. I woke up in the middle of the night and found him smoking on the balcony. I walked over barefoot and silently leaned against him. In that moment, the loneliness radiating from this man was so palpable. I just wanted to keep him company. He put out his cigarette and raised his hand to stroke my hair, over and over. Neither of us spoke. We just quietly looked at the night-blooming cereus flowering on the balcony in the dead of night. A fleeting beauty, but breathtaking. It bloomed silently under the moonlight. I was a bit sleepy, so I laid my head down on his lap. I don't know how much time passed, but just as I was dozing off, he suddenly asked me, "Once I'm done with this busy period, let's get married." I snapped awake instantly, looking up at him in utter shock. He looked down at me, perfectly calm. It didn't seem like a joke or a spur-of-the-moment impulse. But looking deep into his eyes, I couldn't read his emotions or figure out what he was actually thinking at all. He gave me a promise and a future. I had actually daydreamed about our wedding scene, but he didn't like it. He didn't want a high-profile, lavish spectacle. Because of his status, throwing a wedding required considering entirely too many variables. Beyond the wedding details, there were the complex political and corporate relationships to manage. His second marriage would inevitably be heavily scrutinized by the media, which brought in a whole other layer of social politics. He just didn't want to waste his energy on it. His idea was that we should just go to City Hall and sign the papers. Of course, when he brought it up, he used a very consultative tone. He acted like a gentleman, willing to listen—if I didn't like the idea, we could do it my way. But I loved him. I loved him so much, and I was terrified of causing him frustrating trouble. So, despite being incredibly disappointed, I agreed. I figured, as long as he loves me and genuinely wants to marry me, what else could possibly be more important? Sometimes, the saying is really true: Ignorance is bliss. For example, knowing the sheer amount of time and energy he had poured into his other wedding. Or the romantic, wildly sweet honeymoon they went on afterward. After they got married, they traveled to countless cities and countries. Maui, Aspen, Miami, Sedona, Yellowstone, New Orleans... They traveled to Italy, Australia, Denmark, the UK, France, and Japan together. They went skydiving, swimming, rock climbing, scuba diving. They did so many things together... After finishing one stop, she would immediately tag Richard online, playfully ordering him to plan the itinerary for the next destination. And under her command, he would meticulously arrange everything. That kind of love—answering every call, granting every request. It had been eleven years. I knew I shouldn't be jealous of an eleven-year-old ghost. What was I to him back then? Even now, what did I truly amount to? Richard would never have that kind of time for me. What I mean is, he would never carve out the time to purely and entirely accompany another person to re-do all those locations and activities. Our dates consisted of operas, dance recitals, art exhibits, and VIP restaurants. Everywhere we went, we were surrounded by people who had already arranged everything perfectly. He didn't have to lift a finger or spend a single minute planning. Our dates were standard, by-the-book routines. After the wedding, their love and daily life were filled with trivial, ordinary moments. He did so many childish things with her. They signed a "Marriage Contract" promising never to divorce, even though it had absolutely no legal weight. She knew the PINs to all of Richard's bank accounts, knew the passwords to all his social media. He remembered every anniversary, every holiday, and every single gift managed to surprise and thrill her. Perhaps because their family backgrounds were so similar, their social circles completely overlapped. Their mutual friends were the absolute elites in their respective fields. Richard had taken me to his social gatherings before, but they only ever spoke about investment strategies I couldn't understand. I had absolutely no interest in it. I loved the art of dance; I loved Isadora Duncan. We had nothing in common to talk about. I was visibly bored, and after that, he stopped taking me to those events I disliked. I didn't think much of it back then, but now, it felt like a fishbone lodged in my throat. For the first time, I clearly realized that his world was a world I could never truly enter. Richard would let her look through his phone. He would hold her hand constantly. He went shopping with her, walking block after block. When her feet hurt from her heels, they traded shoes. She shuffled along in his oversized dress shoes, and he walked behind her, carrying her high heels. They worked out together, walked the dogs together, went for night runs together. They debated home renovation designs and went furniture shopping together... We had a shared property, too. I had contributed a small portion of the down payment. Even though it was a drop in the bucket, I continued to deceive myself into believing it was "our" shared home. The renovation was entirely outsourced. The design firm's proposal was so detailed it included five different tile patterns for the master bathroom alone. During the process, neither of us asked a single question or participated in any of the design details. Three months later, the bare concrete shell was transformed into a sophisticated, luxurious turnkey mansion. This was not the Richard I knew—the man who handled everything with effortless ease, who was always breezy, distant, and unbothered. He had dated, married, and spoiled his partner just like a regular, ordinary man. He devoted his entire heart and soul. He spent massive amounts of time and energy maintaining the relationship. He paid attention to makeup brands and categories. He personally simmered herbal, restorative soups for her. He took beautiful photos of her. He stayed awake all night by her bedside when she was sick. He scoured every street and alley to take her to eat foods he thought she might like... When it came to her, he handled everything personally, leaving no stone unturned. These tiny details were deeply rooted in the long river of time. This was his youth. These were the vanished years that I could never touch, no matter how hard I tried. As much as I hated to admit it, I had to accept the truth: in my relationship with Richard, I was the subordinate one. I depended on him, constantly terrified of losing him, forever anxious and insecure. I only accepted what he gave me, but I never dared to open my mouth and ask for anything. Because I was afraid he would find me annoying. I never dared to rightfully demand he do anything for me. I never touched his personal belongings. I certainly never threw tantrums or demanded he coddle me. Perhaps out of psychological pride, I never swiped his credit card either, even though Richard had explicitly told me I was allowed to be demanding and that he would always catch me. But I still didn't dare. Because I was terrified that if I acted out even a little bit, this man would abandon me. God knows how much I envied that woman. I was so, so incredibly jealous of her. Because in a relationship, a woman will only make reckless demands when she is absolutely certain the man loves her, when she knows he will never leave her.
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