Chapter 1 — Tearful Trial

"This is the last time I ask, Ms. To Van, do you admit that because of your property, you intentionally caused family conflicts?"

In the court, Tham Ngat's voice was as cold as a surgical blade. I looked at him—the man I had loved for seven years—yet now, he was using his invincible professionalism to nail me to the gallows of morality. From the auditorium came a suppressed sob—my mother. As for Tham Ngat's mother, she leisurely pursed her lips, a flash of victory flashing in her eyes. Three months ago, I even ironed his perfectly crisp shirt; Two months ago, he would still gently kiss me on the forehead when he came home late at night, saying "it's been hard"; A month ago, he accepted this case and calmly told me: "Van Van, this is the most important case in my career." He didn't know, or rather—he didn't care—that I was nine weeks pregnant at that time.

1

“This is the last time I ask, Ms. To Van, do you admit that because of your property, you intentionally caused family conflicts?”

Tam Ngac's voice transmitted through the microphone, each word was like a meticulously honed blade of ice. I raised my head and looked at the man in a black suit three meters away from me. The tie he wore was a birthday present from me last year—dark blue with a dark pattern, straight without a wrinkle. Just like our marriage—perfect on the outside, the inside was soon torn to pieces by his calmness. From the audience seats came the sound of suppressed sobbing. It was my mother, she used a handkerchief to cover her mouth. Tham Ngat's mother sat in the front row, leisurely pursing her lips, her fingers gently stroking the collar of her Chanel suit. Three months ago, I ironed the collar of this shirt for him. Two months ago, he came home late at night, still gently kissing my forehead and saying "it's been hard". A month ago, he told me: "Van Van, this case is very important to me. You just need to cooperate." Didn't you know, I was nine weeks pregnant at that time.

“Please answer the witness.” Judge reminded.

Just as my lawyer was about to speak, Tham Ngat stood up: "Judge, considering that the defendant side has repeatedly avoided key issues, our side proposes to present evidence number twenty-seven." The moment he turned around, our eyes met briefly. In those eyes that once told me "I love you", there was now only professional focus, as if observing a math formula that needed to be solved. The assistant brought up a bag of documents. Tham Ngat's fingers were long and steady—those hands once wore my wedding ring, held my hand all night when I had a fever, but now they were pulling out a stack of expense statements from their pocket.

“This is the defendant's spending details in the past two years at high-end shopping malls, jewelry stores, and art auction floors, totaling in excess of three million yuan.” His voice was calm as if he was reading the instruction manual, "while according to my client's tax records, her annual income is only fifteen thousand yuan."

My lawyer stood up: "Objection! These expenses belong to the common property of the couple—"

“Please listen to me until the end.” Tham Ngat didn't even raise his voice, but the whole courtroom was silent, "More notably, these expenses concentrated in the three months after my client expressed his intention to divorce."

Brother Walking to the projector, each photo appeared on the screen: Cartier bracelets, Van Cleef & Arpels necklaces, a small oil painting that I had never seen...

“The defendant said this was 'normal family expenses'.” Tham Ngat stopped, his eyes really laid on me for the first time, "To Van, you once told me you hated luxury brands, thinking they were 'labels of the newly rich'. Are those words a lie?"

I felt a knot in my lower abdomen.

“I…” My voice choked in my throat.

2

I want to say that those gifts were all bought for him - the bracelet was to celebrate him winning his first case worth tens of millions, the necklace was intended to be given to him when he became a partner, the oil painting was because he said the office needed some "tasteful" decoration. I want to say I sold all my college works to raise that amount. I want to say that the day I hid the admission notice from the Fine Arts School in France, he said: "Van Van, I will let you live happily." But I couldn't say anything. Because Tham Ngat's eyes are saying: I see through you.

"Furthermore," he switched to another screen, "this is the contact log between the defendant and Mr. Lam Hoai—a representative of an art gallery. During the time the marriage was valid, the two met regularly, and the defendant repeatedly mentioned 'needing money' 'wanting freedom' to the other person."

Lam Hoai. My college senior happened to meet me on the street three months ago. Knowing my situation, he only said one sentence: "If you need a job, the gallery is lacking a cleaner."

“It's not like that…” I finally let out a voice, but it was so weak that I couldn't even hear it clearly.

Tham Ngac walked to the witness chair, stopping at a distance of one meter in front of me. At this distance, I smelled the familiar scent of cedarwood perfume on him—a scent that took me three months to find.

“The final proof.” He held up a recording pen, "this is a conversation recorded three months ago, in my study."

He pressed the play button. My voice rang out first: "...I really can't stand it anymore, this kind of life..." Tham Ngat's voice: "So what do you want?" There was a cacophony of noise, then my voice choked up: "Money, I need money... give me the money, I'll go." The whole courtroom erupted.

3

My lawyer is objecting to something, the judge is banging his gavel, the bench is in complete chaos. But I didn't hear anything. I just saw Tham Ngat turn towards the plaintiff and adjust his sleeve. I've seen that move a thousand times—whenever he's sure he's fully grasped the position, he'll do it. The cramps in my lower abdomen became more and more intense, a warm stream flowed down my thighs.

“Judge, I…” I tried to stand up, but my eyes were dark.

In the last moment of consciousness, I saw Tham Ngat frown. Not anxiety, but the kind of discomfort that comes with seeing an unplanned variable—like discovering a wrinkle in your shirt that's hard to remove. Then I heard my mother screaming and crying. And Tham Ngat's voice was calm and cruel: "Please note, this may be a tactic to buy time from the defendant." Before the darkness swallowed everything, I reached out and touched my lower abdomen. There used to be a heartbeat there. And now, there is only a dead silence.

4

(One year later) Paris, left bank of the Seine, one The small gallery is busy setting up an exhibition.

“The painting 'Judgment Day' by Mr. Whale Fall,” the young curatorial assistant asked softly, “is it... too painful?”

In the middle of the attempt was a vague court scene: the woman in the defendant's chair leaned forward slightly, with a blood-red gash on her stomach. The most bizarre thing is that the plaintiff's chair is empty, there is only a black suit hanging, with a tongue-shaped chest pin at the collar. Lam Hoai stood in front of the painting and spoke for a long time: "Do you know what happens after a whale dies in the abyss?" The assistant shook his head.

“Its body will slowly sink to the bottom of the sea thousands of meters deep, becoming an ecosystem that lasts for decades.” Lam Hoai's voice was very soft, "More than a hundred species of creatures depend on it to live. People call it 'falling whale'."

Before turning to leave, he glanced at the painting one more time.

“The deepest destruction, at times looks like a sacrifice.”

Outside the window, Paris began to drizzle. And in Shanghai, seven thousand kilometers away, Tham Ngat woke up from the same nightmare for the third time. There was no sound in the dream, only images: the court, blood, and To Van's eyes looking at him for the last time—that was not hatred, but something even more terrifying. As if saying: you win. And I don't know what I won. He entered the study room and opened the locked drawer. There were no files inside, only a diary with a light blue cover. The first lining page has a soft line:

“Like a whale heading towards the sea, like a bird rushing towards the forest. It is inevitable, there is no way back.”

I didn't dare turn to the second page. Because the last sentence of the first page is:

"Today Tham Ngat said he loves me. I think, maybe he really doesn't know what love is."

The rain tapped on the window pane. In Paris, To Van put down her brush and looked at herself in the mirror. The pale scar on his stomach, under the light, looked like a small silver fish sleeping. She said softly in French: “Ca va passer.” Then it will pass. Back in Shanghai, Tham Nga finally opened the second page of the diary. The first line caused the coffee cup in his hand to crash to the ground—

"The doctor has confirmed. I'm pregnant. Tham Ngat, I'm going to be a father."

Date: March 14, 2022. One month before the divorce lawsuit begins. Broken porcelain pieces scattered, just like the sound of something more precious breaking during the trial that year. It's just that at that time, he thought it belonged to someone else.

5

At the wedding three years ago, Tham Ngat once said a sentence. Not "I love you", nor "together forever". He said: "To Van, I will give you a perfect marriage." That day everyone laughed, thinking it was the clumsy romance of a natural guy. Only I was secretly uneasy—perfection was the state of the specimen, and the specimen was lifeless. In the first year after the wedding, he was truly building the so-called "perfection". Every Saturday morning at exactly nine o'clock, we would drink coffee and watch financial news—even though he read the Wall Street Journal, and I read Art Review. Third Sunday of every month, visiting his parents— Tham's mother would smile and ask about my "study progress," meaning etiquette and introductory finance classes. A short trip every quarter—the destination is always chosen by him, the hotel is always booked by him, the schedule is accurate to the minute. I've tried break that precision. On the morning of my second day in Kyoto, I stubbornly lay in bed, saying I wanted to watch the cherry blossom rain. Tham Ngat stood by the window, his back backlit like a statue: "The plan said nine hours to visit Kim Cac Pagoda. Cherry blossom rain was not in the plan."

“But the flowers have bloomed.” I buried my face in the pillow.

He was silent for a long time. Then I heard him call to reschedule, with a barely noticeable trace of frustration in his voice. That day we actually saw cherry blossom rain. White rose petals fell on his shoulders. I wanted to reach out and brush them away, but he unconsciously took a step back.

“Dirty.” he said.

Are the petals dirty? Or is it my touch? I don't ask. A perfect marriage should not have questions like that.

6

When did the change begin? Perhaps after Tham Ngac won that famous "heavenly" divorce case. The media called him a "marriage killer", his colleagues said he had "no emotions, only winning odds". He started working overtime more often, the study light was on until 3 a.m. it was a daily occurrence. I learned how to stew all kinds of soups over low heat for four or five hours, waiting for him to come home. But he usually just glanced at it and said “already eaten,” or worse—“don't do these things, it's a waste of time.” Time. The most precious thing Tham Ngat has. And I gradually realized that, in his schedule, I had slipped from "important work" to "to-do". To celebrate the second wedding anniversary, I prepared a table of food, and there was also a picture—the angle of him sleeping, the morning light through the curtains sprinkled on his eyelashes. He only returned at one o'clock in the morning, glanced at the dining table: "Don't wait any longer." The painting stayed in the living room until one day I discovered it had been put in storage. Tham Ngat explained: "It's not good for guests to see it."

“Why is it not good?”

“Too private.” He said, “besides, you draw… not very professionally.”

That night I hid in the bathroom and cried for half an hour, turning on the faucet to cover my sobs. When he came out, he was answering emails, without looking up, just said: "Tomorrow my mother will come over for dinner, remember to make her favorite stir-fried shrimp with Long Jing tea."

“Yes.”

“Dry your hair, don't catch a cold.”

That was the last thing he said to me that day, and his only concern—if that could be called care.

7

Discovering that you were pregnant was unexpected. My period was two weeks late, I bought a pregnancy test at the pharmacy. During the three minutes waiting for the results, I sat on the toilet, countless images flashed through my mind: Tham Ngat holding a baby, what color should the child's room be painted, will you let me teach my child how to draw... Two lines. It's so clear that there can be no doubt. The first thing I wanted to do was call him, but stopped before dialing the number. Today I have an important hearing, my phone is off. So I did something very stupid: went to the law office to wait for him. The receptionist knew me, smiled and let me in. I sat in the reception room, looking at the medals on Tham Ngat's wall—“Lawyer of the Year,” “Ten Outstanding Cases,” “Number One Customer Satisfaction.” Each picture sparkles, like his life. After waiting four hours, he finally appeared. Not alone, next to her was a woman wearing a red suit, about thirty years old, with exquisite makeup down to every lash.

“Lawyer Tham's plan is excellent!” Her laugh was as clear as a silver bell, "There's a celebration party tonight, you must come."