Seven Days Before Marriage

Seven days before my wedding, I pushed a small cart filled with handmade taro balls and stopped in front of the most dazzling Star Club in the Capital City. A cold fragrance drifted out from behind the transparent glass door, mingling with the sweetness of the brown sugar syrup on my cart—two things that would never truly blend. I gripped the cart handle tightly, my knuckles turning white, while Ben Luke's words from that morning still echoed in my ears. He said, "Ruby, this client wants to order ten portions of taro balls; the deposit alone covers half our rent for two weeks," but now, the excitement in his tone feels utterly false. Just as I was about to wheel the cart inside, two bodyguards in black suits blocked my path, their cold eyes sharp enough to cut ice. "This is not a place for street vending. Move along now." I read aloud the address the client had given me, my voice trembling more than I expected: "Miss Duncan asked me to deliver taro balls." The moment the bodyguards stepped aside, I clearly saw the disdain in their eyes — as if I were something filthy. No sooner had the cart entered the lobby than a figure in a wine-red haute couture gown rushed toward me. It was Miranda Duncan; later I learned she had been Ben Luke's wife for three years through an arranged marriage. She didn't even glance at the steaming bowls of taro balls. Instead, she raised her hand and overturned the cart; the ceramic bowls smashed against the marble floor, shattering into pieces. Brown sugar syrup splattered onto my jeans, sticky like an unshakeable shame, and my stomach churned violently. She drew a cheque from her crocodile leather handbag, gripped it between her fingers, and slammed it against my face. The cheque's edge scraped my cheek, stinging lightly, but the arrogance behind it crushed the breath from my lungs. "Take this one hundred million, disappear from Ben Luke’s life, and get rid of the thing inside your belly." Her voice was thin and cold: "A poor girl selling taro balls like you—do you even deserve to bear a child of the Luke Family?" I stood frozen in place, still clutching the takeout bag I hadn't handed over, the warmth at its opening already completely gone. Isn't Ben Luke supposed to be a poor kid? Wasn't he still squeezing into the eighteen-square-meter rented apartment with me, saying we'd save up for a place with a balcony? Wasn't he always rubbing my hair and saying, "It's okay, I'm here," whenever I complained about the taro balls not selling well? These thoughts spun wildly in my mind, finally turning into a sharp cold that seeped from deep within my bones. It turned out he was the head of the Luke Family, the cherished prodigy held in the palm of Capital City's elite. It turned out he already had a wife and two children; a family photo of the four was always tucked inside the wallet he carried. It turned out that accompanying me to sell taro balls, squeezing into that rented apartment, even talking about marrying me—all of it was just for a fleeting thrill. I crouched down to pick up the porcelain shards on the ground; the moment my fingertips touched them, a small cut opened, and the blood mixed with brown sugar syrup, stinging my eyes. "Alright, after seven days, I will disappear completely." I lifted my head, tears swirling in my eyes but refusing to fall: "But I don't want this money." I picked up the cheque marked "100 million," pinched its edge between my fingers, and tore it forcefully, the pieces fluttering onto the broken porcelain shards. "I only ask you for one favor." Miranda Duncan raised an eyebrow, seemingly surprised I would refuse the money, her tone softening slightly: "Go ahead." I drew a deep breath, my chest tightening, my voice trembling fiercely: "Ben Luke lied about his identity, so I intend to deceive him once in return." "Can you help me stage a feigning death? I want him to never find me again." Miranda Duncan barely hesitated: "As long as you disappear, I can help with anything else." I said nothing more, crouching down to pick up the broken porcelain shards and the leftover taro balls piece by piece into the trash bag. The small cart's wheel was crooked, squeaking as I pushed it, like it was crying. Stepping out of the Star Club, the sun was fierce—burning on my skin without a trace of warmth. My phone rang, the screen flashing the name "Ben Luke." I stared at it for three seconds before answering. "Ruby, why have you been gone so long? Wasn’t the client right inside?" His voice was filled with concern, no different than usual, with pauses timed just right. "Do you want me to come pick you up? I just bought the syrup I need to brew this afternoon—I'm right outside the door." I leaned against the roadside plane tree; its rough bark pressed into my back, itching and aching.