Once a Week

"If it still hurts this time," Elena Shen mumbled with her face buried in Ethan's shoulder, voice delicate and pleading, "then I'm taking a week off."

Once a week.

Four weeks in a month.

Subtract one week for her period.

That left only three weeks.

Three times a month.

Even if it didn't feel great every time, the math still worked in her favor.

Ethan Jiang saw straight through her little calculation and chuckled softly. His hand caressed the slight tremble of her waist as he kissed her. "You'll feel good, Mrs. Jiang."

Fingers clenched tight on the dark sheets were gently pried open, one by one, until his cool, slender knuckles laced through hers.

Outside, the cold wind rattled at the windows but couldn't sneak through even a crack. Inside, the night grew deep and tender, and Elena's grip only tightened. Her reddened, dewy eyes were kissed over and over—soft touches, part apology, part indulgence.

When the antique clock on the wall struck midnight, the girl, finally released from Ethan's arms, curled like a trembling snail and burrowed under the covers, trying to shut her eyes and slip into sleep.

But the moment the blanket covered her head, a warm palm rested gently against her waist.

She froze.

Her eyelids twitched involuntarily, fingers gripping the comforter tightly.

"Aren't you going to sleep?" she murmured, voice muffled.

Ethan ran his fingers through her hair, cradling the back of her head in his palm as he lowered to kiss her again. His eyes were fathomless. "Just once more. It won't take long."

Liar…

Elena's fingers curled tighter, ready to protest—

But he silenced her with a kiss before she could speak.

At 12:30 a.m., the phone on the nightstand—buried beneath the sheets—lit up and vibrated silently. No one noticed.

Elena, too exhausted, reached out blindly for the blanket, trying to pull it around herself again. In the process, her fingers accidentally brushed across the phone screen, unknowingly answering an incoming international call.

Her waist still sore, frustrated at not being able to pull the covers over, she gave up and instead scooted into Ethan's arms—just like she had the nights before. Her cheek pressed tightly into the curve of his neck, voice soft and plaintive:

"I want to sleep… Didn't you promise Grandpa you'd show some restraint…"

That damp, aggrieved murmur carried through the receiver—directly into the ear of Adrian Jiang, halfway across the ocean.

His hand tightened violently around his glass of whiskey, expression darkening in an instant.

Before the call had accidentally connected, he had already dialed several times.

Normally, he restrained himself, forcing back the urge to contact her. But tonight—maybe it was the alcohol, maybe something else—he had wanted to call. To apologize. To explain that there was nothing between him and Grace Su.

He wasn't ready to give up.

Not like this.

They had grown up together, inseparable since childhood. How could years of memories be dismissed in a single year?

He hadn't been upset when the first few calls didn't go through.

After three or four unanswered attempts, some sense returned. It was, after all, the middle of the night in China. No response made sense.

He was about to hang up—when the call connected.

His eyes lit up. He raised the phone to his ear, about to speak—only to hear her voice.

Like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over his head, Adrian froze.

His throat tightened.

He couldn't speak. Not a single sound came out.

Cold seeped from his veins to his core, freezing everything in its path. He didn't even know how he hung up. All he remembered was the silence that followed—thick, suffocating silence—as if his entire body had turned to stone.

Each breath was a blade, stabbing from the inside out.

He trembled as he picked up the bottle and drank straight from it, hoping to drown the ache clawing through his chest.

But even after draining half the bottle, the pain still gnawed—raw, ugly, relentless.

With a harsh cry, Adrian hurled the bottle at the opposite wall.

Crash.

Glass exploded across the floor.

He didn't even blink. His eyes were bloodshot, the last threads of reason stretched paper-thin.

Twenty minutes later, a knock sounded on the door.

With a terse nod of permission, the door opened.

Kevin Chen, his assistant, stepped in carefully.

Seeing the shattered glass on the floor, he stiffened. But when Adrian spoke coldly—What is it?—Kevin didn't dare delay.

"Mr. Adrian, Grace Su found out you're overseas from someone at Aurora Media. She's downstairs right now, said she has something urgent and wants to see you."

Adrian's gaze was hard as steel. After a moment, he said coolly:

"I don't have time. Tell her to leave. I have nothing more to say to her."

Kevin got the message loud and clear. Before exiting, he glanced at the mess and hesitated—should he call someone to clean it up?

But catching sight of Adrian's expression, Kevin decided not to test his luck. He nodded and quickly left.

Only minutes later, Adrian's phone rang again—a new number, unfamiliar.

He barely looked, just swiped to answer.

The first thing he heard was a choked sob. Then, Grace Su's voice—soft, tearful, full of sorrow and plea.

Since that scandal broke—courtesy of her roommate Jasper Zhong—Grace had been a target of public fury. Accusations flooded her inbox: Was she the real mistress? Was it true she had smeared another woman to cover up her own affair?

She was losing fans by the thousands. Endorsements were being pulled. Even the drama she had already signed was abruptly canceled.

The backlash was swallowing her whole.

And after that night at Shengye, when she introduced Lucas Zheng to Adrian, he had completely cut off contact.

Calls, texts, everything—ignored.

She had no idea what had gone wrong. Just two weeks ago, things were still perfect.

But that night… after Shengye, something had shifted.

"Mr. Adrian, did I do something wrong?" she sobbed, voice fragile, calculated to elicit pity.

But Adrian didn't flinch.

"You should know better than anyone what really happened during that month of headlines," he said coldly. "You also know better than I do whether we ever had a relationship beyond business."

"I won't help with your endorsements anymore. Keep what you can—it's your business. As for the rumors, I'll have them clarified. But this little performance of yours ends now."

He hung up.

Before Grace could plead again, the line went dead.

Inside the van parked outside the company, Grace stared at the phone in disbelief—then threw it across the seat in a fit of rage.