A MARRIAGE IN THE MIST

Married to Bui Chi Vien for three years, my life passed like a disturbingly still lake. He was always gentle, thoughtful, and never spoke a harsh word, but between us, there seemed to exist an invisible, impenetrable wall. We were husband and wife in name, sharing a roof, but we shared no intimacy.

Becoming “Mrs. Bui” was a twist of fate. Three years ago, to escape my parents’ relentless matchmaking, I lied and said I had a boyfriend. During a video call, Bui Chi Vien—my boss at the time—happened to walk past the camera. With just one look, my parents decided he was their future son-in-law, even remarking: “Look at those hips, he’ll guarantee two kids in three years!”

One lie led to another when my parents somehow got a hold of him. Facing their expectations, I secretly tugged at his trouser leg, pleading for help. To my surprise, he raised an eyebrow, adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, and calmly said: “I thought Nhuan Nhuan had already told you about our plans to marry.”

And so, I walked down the aisle in a daze, only to realize three years later that I was still just his “closest stranger.”

The arrival of Bui Huong—Chi Vien’s nephew—at the company disrupted this false peace. Young, vibrant, and making no effort to hide his admiration for me, he constantly created awkward situations.

During a company party, I had one too many drinks. As I left the restroom, Bui Huong blocked my path with eyes sparkling like stars: “Sister Kieu, you’re so cute when you’re drunk.” I coldly brushed him off, but the alcohol made my legs weak. At that moment, Bui Chi Vien appeared, his voice low and cold as he passed by: “You don’t know how to drink yet you’re addicted to it. You get drunk and then make a mess.”

That night, Bui Huong insisted on staying at our place because he didn’t want to stay in a hotel. In a house meant for two, a third person made the air suffocating. As Chi Vien carried me to the room, I heard Bui Huong rambling outside about whether it was “appropriate to bring a drunk woman into his uncle’s bed.” I lay there, my heart bitter. He carried me, he tucked me in, but his gaze remained distant, as if I were a piece of fragile porcelain rather than his woman.

The next morning, the real storm hit. Candid photos of me and Chi Vien struggling at the restroom door and me getting out of his car were leaked to the company group chat. Malicious whispers like “sleeping her way to the manager position” and “little fox” surrounded me. I realized the one behind this was none other than Bui Huong—the boy wanted to use public pressure to drive us apart, or perhaps, to force me to acknowledge this relationship.

The pinnacle of pain came when I received a message from an unknown number. It was Luong Tuyet—the ex-girlfriend, the “White Moonlight” in Chi Vien’s heart. She sent me a photo of him wearing an apron, cooking at his parents’ house, with a firm assertion: “He married you just to spite me. You and Chi Vien are a fake couple, aren’t you?”

At midnight, Chi Vien returned. The sound of the shower roared like it was tearing the silence apart. When he stepped out, I sat up in the darkness, my voice sharp like a knife:

“Bui Chi Vien, let’s get a divorce.”

He froze, his breath hitching:

“Because of Luong Tuyet?”

“Not just because of her. Because I want a child of my own. I’ve had enough of this hollow marriage.”

Chi Vien stepped closer, the pressure of his tall frame looming over me. He let out a soft, bitter laugh:

“So, you’re blaming me for not cooperating? Kieu Nhuan, you used me as a tool to deal with your parents, and now you want a divorce because there’s no marital life?”

In a fit of anger and lingering alcohol, he began unbuttoning his shirt. His eyes were no longer gentle but filled with a primitive, dangerous possessiveness:

“Then let’s make this marriage real. I don’t want a divorce, so I will give you whatever you want.”

That night, the barriers of three years were shattered. Amidst the belated passion, I was still haunted by the question: Was he doing this because he loved me, or just to hold onto a dead-end marriage contract?

The next morning, I woke up exhausted. Chi Vien had prepared breakfast, looking as composed as if nothing had happened. In the small kitchen, I showed him Luong Tuyet’s message.

He glanced at it, his brow furrowing slightly. It turned out that last night, his parents had called him home because Luong Tuyet was there. He explained that he only found out once he stepped into the house.

“Don’t you see Bui Huong has intentions for me?” I asked, trying to find a hint of jealousy in his eyes.

He nonchalantly put a piece of egg into my bowl:

“He’s not your type. You like the type your ex-boyfriend was. Cool, can sing, handsome…”

I was stunned. How did he know so much about my ex? Chi Vien remained silent, carrying the dishes to the sink, his back suddenly looking lonely.

Everything was still unresolved. Luong Tuyet was still there, Bui Huong hadn’t given up, and what truly lay in Chi Vien’s heart remained a mystery. But at least, after last night, we were no longer two parallel lines looking at each other through a pane of glass. I watched his back, wondering if the next three years would be a real love story or a continued descent into this painful game of hide-and-seek.

“Divorce”—the word was still on the tip of my tongue, but its weight seemed to have shifted after the touch of a kiss.

Would you like me to develop the next chapter where Kieu Nhuan confronts Luong Tuyet or discovers more about Chi Vien’s secret past?