Marry by Relying on Favor: Chapter 103 - Having One Ex-husband Die Sounds Better for My Reputation than Becoming a Widow

January 13, 2026 Oyen 0 Comments

Happy Reading~

Chapter 103: Having One Ex-husband Die Sounds Better for My Reputation than Becoming a Widow

 

On a February night, the temperature was low, and the air carried the chill of early spring.

 

A group of well-trained bodyguards in black suits guarded the inside and outside of the Wen family’s old residence. At this hour, lights on the second floor turned on one after another, coldly illuminating the quiet corridor. The secretary brought a cup of hot tea into the study, and after a moment, walked out softly and gently closed the door.

 

Heavy curtains blocked the night view outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. A standing lamp glowed beside the sofa, its warm yellow light falling from above, casting a faint shadow over the man’s lean facial contours—his brows, nose, and eyes all shrouded in quiet focus as he lowered his gaze and slowly read through the diary in his hands.

 

A long time passed. The secretary came in again with a fresh pot of tea, cautiously glancing at the baby bassinet beside the desk.

 

Inside the layered white canopy lay a well-behaved infant. He didn’t cry or fuss the entire night. Everyone in the old residence intentionally kept their voices low, afraid to disturb this tiny little one.

 

Not all of the study’s lights were turned on—because the child was asleep.

 

In front of the bassinet, in an unremarkable shadowed corner, a tall figure lounged lazily. Only the darkness-framed outline of his black suit pants was visible, along with one hand idly flicking the crib mobile, his knuckles slender and defined.

 

The secretary stepped out again and closed the door.

 

In the quiet atmosphere, the man beside the baby’s bed finally lifted his eyelids when he saw the diary slowly being closed. His cool voice cut through the silence: “Wen Yue sold Wen Corporation’s internal secrets yesterday. He’s about to create a lot of trouble for you.”

 

Wen Shuchen’s face was calm to the extreme. He placed the diary beside him on the sofa, lifted the cup of tea, and drank.

 

The man hidden in the shadows continued, “He’s meeting Elder Meng at Yipinxiang tonight.”

 

After a moment, Wen Shuchen stood up. He was wearing a light blue shirt and trousers, with a coat draped over him. His shoulders looked noticeably thinner. He walked slowly to the bassinet, lifted the white canopy with one finger, and gazed at the sleeping child.

 

His voice rose softly, his side profile blurred by the surrounding shadows: “Tonight, I’m going to Yancheng.”

 

“You’re not handling Elder Meng?”

 

“Nothing is even one percent as important as going to Yancheng.”

 

His tone was calm, but paired with the silence of the study, it carried a finality that no one could change.

 

The man sitting in the shadows said nothing more, casually flicking the mobile again.

 

The faint chime resonated softly.

 

The tiny baby inside suddenly stirred awake. His newborn vision was still unfocused, so he seemed to rely on scent, instinctively turning his small face toward the man who had held him the most.

 

Soft… like a little newborn kitten.

 

Near midnight, the surroundings were deserted.

 

A black luxury car drove off the overpass, cutting through the thick night, escorted by two more vehicles all the way to a certain residential area.

 

Inside the car, Wen Shuchen, having taken his medication, leaned back with his eyes shut in brief rest.

 

Song Chao made a call to the He family. After nearly four hours of rushing through the night, his explanation still earned zero sympathy from Father He, who directly refused Wen Shuchen’s request to see He Qingchi.

 

Song Chao pleaded endlessly until the He family finally compromised: The car could stop at the front gate—

 

But Wen Shuchen could not go inside.

 

Hanging up, Song Chao glanced at the pale, frowning Wen Shuchen and lowered his voice: “It's the middle of the night. Madam is still in postpartum confinement and resting. Even if she’s near the window, she might not see us. Sir… your father-in-law is clearly making sure she doesn’t know you came.”

 

Wen Shuchen slowly opened his eyes. The diary still lay across his knees, and with his thumb he gently rubbed the corner of the first page. He carried it everywhere now—whenever he felt unwell, he read a few pages, as if that alone eased the discomfort.

 

He suppressed the complexity in his tone and said, “Stop outside the He family’s villa.”

 

Since it was said this way, Song Chao dared not protest further.

 

He had followed Wen Shuchen for years and was painfully aware of his self-control. To avoid dragging He Qingchi into danger, Wen Shuchen had stayed out of sight for nearly a year. During treatment abroad, he even wrote a will by hand. 

 

If anything happened to him, the news was to be sealed for as long as possible—until the day He Qingchi had grown used to life without him. Only then would she be told.

 

Everything had been arranged down to the smallest detail.

 

He had even considered every possible outcome. If he lost in the Wen family’s internal power struggle, a lifetime’s worth of assets would be left for He Qingchi to live freely. 

 

If he died, he would make sure He Qingchi—this noble daughter of the He family—would not become a widow for nothing. A divorce agreement would be sent to the He family in advance.

 

In the history of marriage, a woman “whose ex-husband died” sounded far better than a woman who became a widow.

 

Of all the outcomes he had calculated, Wen Shuchen never expected He Qingchi to secretly bear him a son.

 

He understood what that meant. The moment he saw the child with his own eyes, he had not one or two, but more than ten impulses to throw aside everything and rush to the He family to bring her home himself.

 

But just as quickly as the thought appeared, he forced it down.

 

As long as He Qingchi stayed with her family, he could clear the Wen family’s obstacles without fear.

 

Soon, the car slowly pulled up to the gate of the He residence.

 

Except for the streetlights illuminating the darkness, not a single silhouette was in sight.

 

Snowflakes had begun to fall outside. Song Chao got out of the car first, then hurried to the back seat to open the door. Dozens of bodyguards stood watch not far away. Wen Shuchen stepped out, his lean figure wrapped in a black coat, his face appearing pale beneath the streetlights.

 

Snow drifted onto his shoulders piece by piece. When a bodyguard handed Song Chao a black umbrella to pass on, Wen Shuchen refused it.

 

He lifted his head, his deep, dark gaze fixed on the second floor of the He family villa.

 

Accurately and unerringly, he found the window of He Qingchi’s room.

 

It was covered by thick curtains, not a sliver of light slipping through.

 

Everything was silent. Wen Shuchen stood there quietly, watching from a distance not too close, not too far—unable to see her even once.

 

Song Chao stayed beside him, worried both for the man’s health and the situation, trying to find something to say: “These past few months, Madam’s phone went from ‘unanswered’ to ‘powered off.’ Do you think she changed her number?”

 

During the worst period of Wen Shuchen’s illness, he hadn’t answered He Qingchi’s calls.

 

Months later, when he tried calling her himself, no one picked up.

 

When he could no longer reach her, he began writing cards instead. There were no flowery declarations, no pleas for her to wait in the He household—

 

Just simple, ordinary sentences, hiding all his feelings between the lines.

 

But none were answered. It felt like karma finally catching up to him.

 

From midnight to the latter half of the night, snow accumulated over the shoulders of his black coat, making his already pale face look even paler. His thin lips pressed tightly together, his gaze never once straying from that second-floor window.

 

Song Chao feared that after returning to Jiangcheng, Wen Shuchen’s weakened health—already damaged by poison—would deteriorate further. He was still undergoing treatment, and standing out here half the night in the snow would surely bring on another serious illness.

 

He silently cursed Wen Yue’s mother for her cruelty—wanting to drag others into death with her.

 

Wen Shuchen coughed twice, low and weak. His fingertips were cold, without warmth.

 

Just a wall separated them. He stood here restraining every urge to rush into the He household, yet he wasn’t willing to leave even a minute earlier.

 

Song Chao could only accompany him quietly, having the bodyguards in Jiangcheng arrange for a family doctor. By 5 a.m., the sky had begun to lighten faintly.

 

The temperature was so cold it made one shiver. Had anyone come out onto the street at this hour…

 

They would have seen several understated luxury cars parked before the He family gates, dozens of bodyguards in black guarding both sides of the street, and in the middle—a tall, slender figure, his face hidden from view, the thin layer of snow on his coat leaving only a pale impression in the darkness.

 

Ten minutes later—

 

Except for tire tracks in the accumulated snow, the front of the He residence was empty.

 

Upstairs, the room was sealed shut, windows and doors closed tightly.

 

He Qingchi had woken several times throughout the night. She lay in bed unable to fall back asleep, her cheek pressed against the pillow. At some unclear hour, she faintly heard the sound of a car driving away outside.

 

Soon after, she slowly closed her eyes, indifferent to everything.

 

Her postpartum depression continued for over a month.

 

Even after finishing her confinement period, she refused to leave her room, shutting herself inside all day.

 

As if she no longer had the will to live.

 

This finally alarmed Father He, who woke several times each night to check on her.

 

He feared she might lose the will to go on.

 

At the end of March, when the entire He household was weighed down by worry, an elderly woman dressed elegantly in a cheongsam arrived.

 

She was He Qingchi’s grandmother.

 

Just like years ago, she entered the room and helped the sickly, frail He Qingchi sit up from the bed.

 

Her aged hands brought her granddaughter—who looked as though a gust of wind could knock her over—to the vanity. She wiped her face with a warm towel, combed out her long black hair, and dressed her in a clean, beautiful skirt.

 

Without a word, the old lady finished tidying her up, then held tightly to her cold hands.  “Girl, will you come with Grandma?”

 

Ten years ago, when He Qingchi was nearly collapsing under severe insomnia and depression, it was her grandmother who personally came to take her away.

 

Now she was once again on the verge of breaking, desperately needing a place to hide away—and her grandmother was her safest harbor.

 

He Qingchi’s throat tightened. After a long moment, she slowly sank into her grandmother’s embrace. The familiar warmth from childhood gradually quieted her heart. Under Father He’s anguished gaze, she lowered her voice and whispered: “Grandma… please take me away.”

----------