The phone buzzed under Ruòyún’s pillow like a trapped wasp. *Again*. Her spine went rigid before she’d even opened her eyes. She fished it out, the screen’s glare cutting through the dim room. Unknown caller.
“Wèi?” Her voice rasped with sleep grit.
“Hello, darling.”
That fucking charm. Velvet wrapped around a knife. She could smell his Tom Ford Oud Wood through the phone—the same scent he’d worn five years ago when she found him naked with his yoga instructor, and a year ago balls deep in her nanny.
“What do you want, Scott?”
“Just wanted to hear your voice—”
“Stop. Calling. Me.” She stabbed ‘end call’ so hard her thumbnail cracked.
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Three notifications blinked:
2 missed calls, 1 text From May (Babysitter): “Tried calling. Family emergency. Can’t make it today. So sorry.”
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Ruòyún slammed back against the pillows. Sunlight stabbed through the curtains—past 8 already. She dragged herself to the bathroom, scrubbing her teeth like she could scour Scott’s voice off her tongue. Toothpaste foamed pink when she spat.
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Downstairs, she shoved open her son’s bedroom door. Lǐ Jie was a cocoon under rumpled Spider-Man sheets, the blue glow of his iPad lighting his face. Roblox zombies groaned from the speakers.
“Bǎo bèi. Up.”She yanked the duvet off.
He screeched, throwing an arm over his eyes.
“Is May coming?”
“Just me today.”
“You’re always on your phone.”
She kissed his sweaty forehead. “Not today. Breakfast first.”Grabbed his wrist, hauled him off the mattress. His bare feet dragged over the rug’s pile as she towed him down the hall to the kitchen.
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Breakfast was chaos
Scrambled eggs flecked with chili oil. Charred youtiao from the air fryer. Half a grapefruit—his, because he was spoiled but not rotten. He poked at the eggs, eyes locked on the iPad propped against the syrup bottle.
“Eat,” she ordered, snatching the tablet.
He grunted. Stabbed an egg wedge. Ate.
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Her shower steamed up the bathroom. Ruòyún lathered soap over her hips—still tight from twice-weekly Pilates, stretch marks silvered like veins on marble. Water sluiced between her breasts, down the dip of her spine. She’d once imagined Scott’s hands there. Idiot. Rinsed off, toweled dry.
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She chose a sundress the color of bruised plums. Twisted her hair into a *dǒu dā* knot at her nape, pins clenched between her teeth. When she came downstairs, Lǐ Jie gaped.
“Wow. You look…expensive.”
“Your turn. Shower. Now.”
He vanished. Twelve minutes later—after what sounded like a wrestling match with his wardrobe—he emerged in distressed jeans and a graphic tee with a pixelated dragon. “Let’s go,”he announced, as if she’d been the one delaying them.
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The Audi R8 purred through downtown traffic. Lǐ Jie ranted about last night’s Roblox defeat: “Some girl in Budapest sniped me through a wall! Total cheater!”
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Ruòyún half-listened, sipping bitter cold brew.
Brring—
The call flashed on the dash screen: MEI.
“Boss.” Mei’s voice fizzed with gossip. “You ghosted the 9 AM investor meeting. Also, Scott sent peonies. Again. Security says he smelled like a high-end strip club.”
Ruòyún’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. “Shred the flowers. Ban his access.”
“But his suit, he looked rather stunning toda—”
“Ban. Him.”
In the passenger seat, Lǐ Jie was already back to headshotting zombies.
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First stop was the Car Wash. Jets sprayed the Audi’s obsidian paint. Lǐ Jie pressed his nose to the window, counting soap bubbles. “That one looks like a dinosaur!” Ruòyún hummed agreement, checking emails.
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Second stop was the Post Office. The line snaked past faded tax forms and shipping boxes. Lǐ Jie fidgeted beside her as the clerk slid a stack of red envelopes under the security glass. From Grandma. From Uncle Chen. From Auntie Ling.
“Can I open one?” His fingers crept toward the nearest hóngbāo.
“For New Year,” she said, swatting his hand away. He pouted but didn’t whine. Spoiled, not rotten.
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The park at 11:03 AM was a riot of shrieking kids and gossiping nannies. Ruòyún hadn’t even finished parking when the basketball sailed toward her windshield—
—only for him to vault onto the hood. Chief. All coiled muscle and sweat, tattoos snaking down his arms. He caught the ball mid-air, the Audi’s bumper denting under his knees.
“I’m really sorry, “ he said ,coming close to the window, “I know a mechanic ,” he started ,
“It’s alright don’t worry,” she said forcing a smile.
He ran off without any more words or even smiling back.
“Blyad!” A blonde Russian girl yelled from the court. presumably His girlfriend.
Lǐ Jie gasped. “He’s like Spider-Man!”
Ruòyún stared. “Yeah… he is.” Her voice sounded robotic even to herself. Dry-mouthed.
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They claimed a bench beneath an oak tree. Lǐ Jie glued himself to his iPad until—
“Battery’s dead!”He wailed, shaking the device like a malfunctioning toy.
Ruòyún tucked it into her bag, triumphant. “No distractions now. Just you and—”
Her phone rang. “Excuse me,” she told Lǐ Jie, already marching toward the playground fence. “Mei, I said no more hold requests for—”
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Three calls later, Lǐ Jie tugged her sleeve. The Russian girl was laughing as Chief dunked over her head.
“Can I play? With him and his girlfriend?”
Ruòyún eyed the girl—long legs, ice-blonde braid. “They’re busy.”
“You’re busy!”
As if summoned, her phone buzzed. Fourth call.
“Fine.” She stood, dusting plum-colored linen from her thighs. “But we ask nicely.”
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The grass whispered under Ruòyún’s sandals as she marched Lǐ Jie toward the court. Anya—ice-blonde braid, eyes narrowed at her phone—slumped onto a bench. "Bozhe moi," she muttered, thumb scrolling past a video of dancing cats. Lucas spun the basketball on his index finger, sweat carving paths through the dust on his neck. The bumper’s dent gleamed under the noon sun. "Seriously, I know a mechanic," he offered again as they got close to them. Ruòyún shook her head. "Forget it." Lǐ Jie vibrated beside her. "Can I play? I’m elite in Roblox Dunk Simulator!" Lucas’s laugh rumbled like distant thunder. "Real ball doesn’t care about pixels, Private." He tossed the ball. Lǐ Jie fumbled it against his chest, grinning wildly.
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Anya didn’t glance up. "We charge extra for babysitting, Lucas."
"Teamwork makes the dream bankrupt," he shot back, winking at Ruòyún. Her stomach tightened.
"You play Roblox too?" she asked dryly.
"Nah," Lucas grinned. "But I pay the Wi-Fi."
The joke almost disarmed her. Almost.
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The game unfolded in a blur of squeaking sneakers and flying gravel. Lǐ Jie dribbled like a drunk raccoon, the ball rolling toward duck-infested waters. Anya cursed—"Blyad!"—but fished it out, then passed back to him. "In Russia, we learn with wolves chasing us. Dribble faster, malysh." When Lucas "tripped," letting Lǐ Jie steal the ball, the boy screamed, "PASS, BIG BOY!" The name hung in the air like struck glass. Lucas froze. Ruòyún’s breath caught—Big Boy. What she’d called Scott. What she’d called Marcus before him. Anya snorted. "Big Boy? We call that podrostok." She tapped Lǐ Jie’s nose. "Means ‘all talk, no trophies.’"
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Two hours later, Lǐ Jie clung to Lucas’s leg, reeking of sweat and triumph. "Best day ever!" Ruòyún forced herself forward. "We’re leaving. Thank you." Anya extended a hand, nails sharp but clean. "Anya Volkova."
"Ruòyún Chen."
"Korean?" Anya guessed.
Lucas swiped sweat from his brow. "Japanese?" "Chinese," Ruòyún clipped. "He’s eight. I’m forty. You?"
"Twenty," Lucas said. "Anya’s twenty-one. We’re sinking money here—me for a tech startup and a useless accounting course, her for finance." "Boring finance," Anya corrected, but her eyes lingered on Lǐ Jie’s hopeful face.
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As soon as Ruòyún realized they all are headed in the same direction she urged them to accept a ride ,after the boy pressured her , “mom lets give them a ride,” he nagged. They agreed reluctantly since Ruòyún was not the one to negotiate with, her eyes spoke business.
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In the Audi, Anya folded herself into the backseat. "You drive like my babushka. Slow and suspicious." "Safety first," Ruòyún said, gripping the wheel. Lǐ Jie chattered: "Anya let me score!" "Only because Big Boy defends like soggy bread," Anya retorted, but ruffled his hair. At her apartment, Lucas pulled Anya into a hug. The hug was quick, but Lucas’s hand lingered on her back—a beat too long. Ruòyún’s knuckles whitened.
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Outside Lucas’s building—a concrete tower with laundry fluttering like flags—Lǐ Jie launched himself at him. "Bye, Big Boy!" Lucas’s smile flickered. "Kid’s… creative." "Like his mother," Ruòyún said, hitting the gas before he could reply.
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Home. Lǐ Jie collapsed on the couch, already snoring. Later, Ruòyún returned to the Audi for her phone. His scent clung to the passenger seat—sweat, yes, but also spearmint gum and turpentine, like he’d painted before the game. She pressed her face to the headrest, inhaling. Pathetic. Forty. CEO. He’s a child with a Russian almost-girlfriend who hugs like she owns him.
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Upstairs, her reflection in the bedroom mirror showed a woman with smudged eyeliner and a pulse fluttering at her throat. "You look expensive," Lǐ Jie had said. She touched the glass. Spoiled, she thought. Not rotten.
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