She Is Not the Other Woman - Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Fu Wenzhou had a schedule.

Monday through Wednesday, Hangzhou. He left the house at seven-thirty in the morning in a navy suit, his leather shoes polished to a shine. At the entryway, he would kiss Song Zhiyi on the forehead and ask, “What do you want for dinner?” Sometimes he brought breakfast back, and he always remembered that she didn’t drink Americanos.

He had two phones. The one he used in Hangzhou had a photo of him and Song Zhiyi in Kamakura as its wallpaper.

He posted about Song Zhiyi on WeChat Moments with restrained regularity, roughly once a month. The captions were always brief: a bouquet of flowers, a quiet weekend, a simple “everyday life.” When people in the comments called them a “model couple,” he never replied. He only liked the comments.

This persona had been running smoothly for six years.

At dawn on Thursdays, he took the high-speed train to Shanghai.

In Shanghai, he was someone else. He dressed more casually, in cotton-linen shirts with a canvas tote slung over his shoulder. He browsed independent bookstores and went to contemporary photography exhibitions. He talked to Lin Zhi about Henri Cartier-Bresson, about Issei Suda, about the relationship between aperture and emotion. He did not seem like the owner of a consumer brand. He seemed more like someone hovering on the fringes of the cultural industry.

“You know, business was never what I truly wanted to do,” he once told Lin Zhi, leaning against the bay window of the apartment in Laoximen, the shadows of plane trees shifting outside.

He believed these two worlds would never collide.

His wife in Hangzhou did not come to Shanghai-her own career kept her too busy. His girlfriend in Shanghai had no reason to go to Hangzhou. He divided his time with immaculate precision.

He even separated his taste in gifts.

For Song Zhiyi, he bought the brands recognized in her circle: Celine, Loewe, red wine from particular vintages. For Lin Zhi, he chose independent designer pieces: niche handmade silver jewelry, out-of-print photography books, that vintage Jaeger-LeCoultre.

He remembered every detail.

What temperature Song Zhiyi liked her water, what fragrance she preferred in the diffuser, which day her physical checkup fell on. Which lens Lin Zhi usually used on her camera, the regular times she went to the darkroom to develop film, the type of lighting she was obsessively particular about.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care. He cared too much.

So much that the care itself became a form of control.

He needed to be needed. Needed Song Zhiyi to tell their friends, “Wenzhou is very thoughtful.” Needed Lin Zhi to say to him late at night, “You’re the person who understands me best out of everyone I’ve ever met.”

Two relationships. Two forms of validation. One complete self.

He never thought of himself as a scumbag. He genuinely believed he was serious about both sides.

Last month, Song Zhiyi asked why he had not answered his phone on Friday. He said he had been meeting with a very important distributor. The other party was Japanese, so it would have been rude to step out midway.

That night, he was helping Lin Zhi set up her exhibition. It went on until two in the morning. The two of them leaned against the gallery floor, and with his arm around her shoulders, he said, “Once I wrap up everything in Hangzhou for good, I’ll move to Shanghai.”

When he said it, his expression was sincere.

Because in that moment, he really did mean it.