For three years after marrying into the Lucas family, I played the role of the perfect daughter-in-law.

I wasn’t allowed to raise my voice.
I wasn’t allowed to wear bright colors.
Even when I smiled, I had to keep it subtle—no teeth, no laughter that lingered too long.

Tonight, my mother-in-law told me again that I wasn’t proper enough.

That was it.

At midnight, sitting alone in the bedroom that never quite felt like mine, I snapped. I grabbed my phone, turned on the camera, and recorded a video, venting every ounce of resentment I’d swallowed for three years.

“I’m done! I’m divorcing him tomorrow!”
“What kind of ‘elite family’ criticizes someone for eating hotpot? Is that supposed to be bad manners now?”

I hit send.

Three seconds later, my blood ran cold.

I hadn’t sent it to my group chat with friends.

I’d sent it to the Lucas family group chat.

Over a hundred people were in that group—including my husband, Ethan Lucas, the emotionally distant man I’d lived with for three years and who rarely spoke more than three sentences to me a day.

One minute later, my phone buzzed.

A private message from Ethan:

“I’ve made a reservation for hotpot. I’ll go with you tomorrow.”

 

“I’ve made a reservation for hotpot. I’ll go with you tomorrow.”

I stared at the screen.

Was this really from the man I’d married three years ago—the man who treated conversation like an inconvenience?

Had I finally lost my mind?
Or had he?

Panicking, I tried to recall the message.

A bright red exclamation mark flashed:

[Message sent more than 2 minutes ago. Cannot be recalled.]

I was done for.

My head buzzed as if all the blood had rushed upward. I could already imagine my mother-in-law’s tight, furious expression—and the barely concealed glee of every aunt and cousin who pretended to care while enjoying my humiliation.

Idiot.

For three years, I’d lived like a marionette in the Lucas household, polishing myself into the image of a “model wife.” I’d rounded off every sharp edge until I was smooth, quiet, and hollow.

I thought I’d gotten used to it.

Until that afternoon.

My mother-in-law had looked me up and down, her gaze dissecting every inch of me before saying lightly:

“Claire, for the Bennett family dinner tomorrow, that champagne dress will do. But you laugh too loudly. It’s not very ladylike. Remember—women of the Lucas family don’t show their teeth when they smile.”

I’d clenched my fists until my knuckles went white and still answered obediently:

“Yes, Mother.”

That was when the volcano inside me finally erupted.

Now, the place I’d chosen to release my anger had become a direct gateway to hell.

And the scariest part wasn’t my mother-in-law’s inevitable fury.

It was Ethan’s message—calm, casual, unreadable.

Was he mocking me?
Warning me?
Or planning some kind of cold, elegant punishment?

Like taking me to the most upscale hotpot restaurant in the city, then saying in front of everyone:

“So this is the ‘uncultured behavior’ you wanted? Fine. Enjoy.”

The thought made my fingers go numb.

A soft knock sounded at the bedroom door.

My body stiffened.

Ethan was home.

I held my breath as the door opened. He stood in the doorway, tall and imposing, framed by the hallway light. He didn’t turn on the lamp.

He walked to the bedside in silence. The faint scent of cedar and winter air clung to him.

I shut my eyes, pretending to sleep.

But my lashes trembled.

He stopped beside the bed.

No accusations.
No sarcasm.

Just silence—thick and suffocating.

Then, warmth.

He gently pulled the blanket up around my shoulders.

The movement was careful. Almost hesitant.

He turned and left, the door closing softly behind him.

I opened my eyes and stared at the crystal chandelier overhead, my thoughts in chaos.

Ethan Lucas… what are you thinking?

The next morning, I went downstairs with dark circles under my eyes and a stone lodged in my chest.

The living room was unbearably quiet.

My mother-in-law sat upright on the sofa, a teacup in her hand, her expression dark enough to wring water from.

I forced myself forward.

“Good morning, Mother.”

She didn’t look at me.

“So you finally came down. I thought you planned to hide upstairs forever. Claire, you’ve got some nerve—posting something like that in the Lucas family group. Do you have any idea how much face you’ve cost this family?”

I bit my lip and said nothing.

She slammed her cup down.

“Stay home today. Go upstairs and reflect on yourself. As for Ethan—I’ll straighten him out. He’s becoming more and more unreasonable.”

A strange sense of loss welled up in my chest.

So… he wasn’t going with me after all?

Just then, Ethan came downstairs.

He wore a simple dark-gray suit, no tie, the top buttons undone. He looked more relaxed than I’d ever seen him.

He ignored his mother completely and stopped in front of me.

“Go change,” he said calmly.

I froze.

His mother shot up in fury.

“Ethan! What nonsense is this? She’s not going anywhere today!”

Ethan turned to her, his gaze steady and unyielding.

“I promised Claire in the group chat last night.”

“You’d defy your own mother for an ill-mannered woman like her?!”

“She’s not an outsider,” he cut in, his voice low but firm.
“She’s my wife.”

My wife.

The words rippled through my chest like a stone dropped into still water.

His mother fell silent, her lips trembling. She shot me a glare sharp as a blade before storming off.

The room fell quiet.

“Change into something comfortable,” Ethan said. “No dresses.”

I nodded automatically and went upstairs.

I stared into my closet—rows of elegant dresses in muted tones, all custom-made, all suffocating.

In the deepest corner hung an old yellow T-shirt I’d bought before marriage, paired with worn jeans.

I hesitated… then took them out.

The girl in the mirror—ponytail, bright shirt, simple jeans—looked like the real me.

And somehow, she looked almost too bright.

 

The car didn’t head downtown or to any luxury district.

Instead, it stopped near a narrow, bustling alley filled with laughter and food aromas.

“Get out,” Ethan said.

The place felt alive—spices in the air, voices overlapping, warmth everywhere.

This didn’t match the Ethan Lucas I knew.

Inside a small, crowded hotpot restaurant, the owner greeted him warmly.

“Same table as usual?”

I blinked.

Usual?

We sat by a window at a plain wooden table.

The broth arrived—half spicy, half clear.

“Eat,” Ethan said, placing food into the pot and then into my bowl.

The first bite was explosive—spicy, rich, alive.

I forgot etiquette. Forgot restraint. I ate like I hadn’t in years.

Ethan barely touched his food.

“Aren’t you eating?” I asked, mouth full.

He looked at me. There was the faintest smile in his eyes.

“I’m watching you eat.”

My heart skipped.

Later, as he paid, I scrolled through a food blog I followed—“The Flavor Seeker.”

The latest post was about this very restaurant.

“True flavor never lives in gilded halls.
It hides in narrow streets, where we shed our armor and return to ourselves.
If someone is willing to sit beside you over a shared pot, unbothered by how messy you are—
cherish them.”

My chest tightened.

When Ethan returned, he simply said, “Let’s go.”

As the city slid past the window, I leaned my head against the glass.

Ethan Lucas—
cold heir of a powerful family…
or the quiet man who filled my bowl in a noisy little restaurant?

How could both exist in the same person?

And why was my heart no longer willing to stay calm?

After that night, something in the Lucas household quietly shifted.

Not dramatically.
Not loudly.

Just… subtly.

My mother-in-law didn’t suddenly become kind. She still criticized my posture, my tone, the way I poured tea. But she stopped correcting me in public. She stopped calling me into the living room for “lessons” every afternoon.

More importantly—she stopped treating me like someone who could be erased at will.

And Ethan?

Ethan changed in ways that were impossible to ignore.

He started coming home earlier.
He ate dinner with me—sometimes silently, sometimes asking small, almost awkward questions.

“Did you work today?”
“Are you tired?”
“Do you want dessert?”

They were simple words. Ordinary, even.

But for a man like Ethan Lucas, they were seismic.

One night, I finally asked the question that had been lodged in my chest for years.

“Why did you marry me?”

The question slipped out quietly as we sat on opposite ends of the couch. The television played softly in the background.

Ethan didn’t answer right away.

He stared at the screen for a long time before speaking.

“At first?” he said. “It was convenient.”

I smiled bitterly. That much, I’d expected.

“But,” he continued, “you never acted like someone who wanted anything from me.”

I turned to look at him.

“You never asked for money. Or status. Or protection. You just… endured.”

His jaw tightened.

“I didn’t realize how much you were shrinking,” he said. “Until that video.”

I laughed softly. “So I humiliated myself for nothing?”

“No,” he said immediately.

He turned toward me, his gaze steady.

“You reminded me that you’re a person. Not a role.”

Silence stretched between us.

“I grew up thinking marriage was a transaction,” he went on. “Duty. Image. Control.”

“And now?” I asked.

He exhaled slowly.

“And now I don’t want you to disappear.”

My heart trembled.

The first real argument we ever had happened a week later.

Not about family.
Not about rules.

About me.

“I want to go back to work,” I said.

Ethan frowned. “You don’t need to.”

“I know,” I replied. “That’s not the point.”

I told him about the dreams I’d buried, the design job I’d given up after marriage, the way I’d slowly convinced myself that wanting more was selfish.

“I don’t want to just be Mrs. Lucas,” I said quietly. “I want to be Claire again.”

He listened.

Didn’t interrupt. Didn’t dismiss me.

The next day, his assistant sent me a list of design studios looking for senior hires.

“I didn’t choose for you,” Ethan said that evening. “I just… opened the door.”

That was the moment I knew.

This wasn’t control.

It was support.

The confrontation with my mother-in-law came sooner than expected.

At a formal family dinner, she commented—loudly—that my new job was “unnecessary” and “unbecoming of a Lucas wife.”

Before I could shrink back into silence, Ethan spoke.

“Then perhaps,” he said calmly, “the Lucas family needs to redefine what ‘becoming’ means.”

The table froze.

He placed his hand over mine.

“My wife will live as she chooses,” he continued. “Anyone who can’t respect that… doesn’t need to concern themselves with our marriage.”

That night, for the first time in three years, I cried in Ethan’s arms.

Not from humiliation.

But from relief.

We didn’t become passionately in love overnight.

Love didn’t crash into us.

It grew.

In shared breakfasts.
In late-night conversations.
In hotpot dinners at that same little restaurant, where the owner now greeted us like family.

One evening, months later, Ethan asked casually:

“Do you still want a divorce?”

I looked at him, startled.

Then I smiled.

“No,” I said. “But thank you for making it an option.”

He smiled too—soft, genuine.

“I’m glad you stayed,” he said.

“So am I,” I replied. “But this time, I stayed as myself.”

Two years later.

I stood in our apartment kitchen, wearing jeans and an oversized sweater, laughing too loudly at something ridiculous Ethan said.

He didn’t correct me.

Didn’t mind my smile.

Didn’t mind the noise.

On the counter simmered a pot of hotpot, steam fogging up the windows.

Ethan wrapped his arms around me from behind.

“You know,” he murmured, “the Lucas family still thinks hotpot is uncultured.”

I grinned. “That’s fine. More for us.”

He kissed my temple.

In the reflection of the glass, I saw us clearly.

Not a powerful heir and a polished wife.

Just two people—
who chose each other,
without shrinking,
without fear.

And for the first time, my smile showed my teeth.