Seeing his strange expression, Song Yunhua raised the book, “Shen Chuye! An obscure little writer, a novel full of nonsensical, sentimental writing!” Her mouth curved with a hint of mockery, “I didn’t expect your taste to become so vulgar!” She looked at him strangely, “You read this kind of street-level writing that deceives young girls?”
Gu Yunzhi’s face darkened, calmly saying, “As you said, such a vulgar street novel is indeed not suitable for you to read. Please return it.” He took the book from Song Yunhua’s hand and turned to walk out of the bedroom.
Song Yunhua was stunned, her expression inexplicable.
“By the way,” Gu Yunzhi turned back, his tone still calm, “If you want to enter my study in the future, please ask me first. Thank you!”
Song Yunhua’s face alternated between pale and flushed. Their studies were usually undisturbed, and if someone wanted to borrow a book or find materials, they had to ask first as a sign of respect. This rule was originally proposed by Song Yunhua herself, so now Gu Yunzhi was using her words against her, leaving her speechless. But suddenly finding such a soft, feminine novel among his shelves of business and management books was truly shocking. She remembered that since she’d known him, he never read such sentimental writing. So where did this book come from? Song Yunhua was curious.
In the study, Gu Yunzhi sat in his chair, staring blankly at the “Hong Zhuang” book on the desk. Returning from Chu Yue’s warm little room to this big house felt like moving between two worlds. He felt oppressed. To outsiders, he and Song Yunhua appeared to be a model couple, happy and successful.
Everyone around them admired that in an era where marriages often became stale after three years, they had maintained their marriage for eight years and still respected each other. But only they knew that this marriage was not as perfect as it seemed; in fact, they were just trying hard to maintain this perfect appearance.
The Appearance of Chu’e Accelerated This So-Called Perfect Imperfection
