Novels by bixiaojiestella

　　The woman hesitated only a moment. Then nodded, retrieving it with careful hands and pouring a small glass.　　Emily lifted it to her nose first.　　Dark berries. Tobacco. Blackcurrant. A touch of smoke.　　Then the taste.　　Sharp.　　Tart.　　Uncompromising.　　It hit the tongue with a punch of acid and tannin—unyielding, intense, bone-dry. A wine that didn’t pretend to be gentle. Complex, yes. Structured, absolutely. But it carried the kind of bitterness that lingered long after the first sip.　　Emily swallowed slowly.　　The back of her throat burned.　　And suddenly, she understood.　　This was what it had felt like for him. That year. That silence. That kind of waiting—not soft or hopeful, but bruised and hollow. The wine didn’t cry out. It endured.　　Just like he had.　　She set the glass down.　　Her fingers hovered for a moment above the bottles…then reached for a new one. One that hadn’t yet been stored.　　“I’d like to add one,”she said.　　The attendant brought over the form.　　Emily

　　Night had fallen by the time Emily made the international call.　　She sat by the bedroom window, the city lights behind her casting long shadows across the floor. The world outside was quiet, stilled in twilight, but halfway across the globe, it was morning already—sunlight pouring over distant vineyards and limestone hills. She dialed the number listed at the bottom of the wine estate’s emails, her fingers steady despite the thrum in her chest.　　A few rings.　　Then a woman’s voice—warm, polished, with the faintest trace of a European accent—answered.　　“Good evening, Leclair Wine Estate.”　　Emily hesitated for half a breath. Then said gently,“Hello. My name is Emily Hart Blackwoods. I believe…you’ve been working with my husband for some time.”　　There was a pause on the other end. Then a small, delighted gasp.　　“Oh! Mrs. Blackwoods. My goodness—we’ve heard so much about you. It’s an honor to finally speak with you. Is there anything we can assist you with?”　　Emily’s lips curved

　　Most replies over the years were purely logistical. Address confirmations. Shipping instructions. Name labels.　　Early entries all bore the same default phrasing:　　Label:Ms. Emily Hart　　Requested by:A. Blackwoods　　But then she saw the timestamp.　　The date they got married.　　On that day, he had replied to the wine estate’s routine inquiry:　　“Would you like to keep the current label format:Ms.?”　　Adrian’s response was brief, typed in that same composed tone she knew by heart:　　Please update to:Mrs. Blackwoods.　　There’s something special I’d like to share—yes, we got married.　　She blinked.　　It wasn’t just that he’d kept every part of her in his world.　　It was that he’d claimed it, quietly, without spectacle.　　Even in a place she’d never meant to look.　　And somehow, it felt more intimate than any public vow.　　Emily sat still in front of the screen, her fingers trembling slightly above the mousepad.So many dates.So many moments.Each one chosen, remembered, recorded—like

　　A few days later, Adrian left the country.　　Emily woke alone the next morning, the bed still faintly warm where he’d last laid. On the pillow beside her, a folded note waited, written in his slanted, elegant handwriting.　　Remember to eat well. The chef will still come by every day at the usual time.　　Call me if you feel even a little lonely.　　We’ll video chat every night. I already miss you.　　—A.　　She smiled, touched the edge of the note, and tucked it carefully into her drawer.　　The first few days passed in quiet rhythm. Mornings with soft light and coffee, afternoons spent working in her studio. The private chef arrived at noon each day, polite and precise, preparing elegant meals in the sleek open kitchen.　　By the fourth day, the doorbell rang unexpectedly.　　It was Lila.　　And Adrian’s mother.　　“We figured you’d pretend you’re not lonely,”Lila said with a grin, walking right in with a paper bag full of pastries.“So we decided not to give you the chance.”　　“We just came

　　They pulled up outside a discreet, upscale restaurant tucked behind a row of townhouses. Candlelight shimmered through the windows.Inside, everything was warm and muted—white tablecloths, low conversation, soft piano murmuring beneath it all.Emily reached for her menu. Then paused.Her eyes had caught something.At Adrian’s wrist, just beneath the cuff of his jacket, was a familiar flash of deep navy.She leaned in slightly. “Wait… are you wearing—?”He followed her gaze. Said nothing.She reached out, brushing her fingers lightly against it. A blue-toned cufflink, imperfect in shape but carefully made. The one she’d designed in high school, just for him.Her voice was quiet. “I can’t believe I’m only noticing it now.”“You weren’t supposed to,” Adrian said. “I just… wanted to wear it.”She turned his wrist gently in her hand, studying it. The enamel was intact. The edges smooth. No scratches.“You’ve kept it in perfect condition.”“I tried.”“Did you ever wear it? You know… durin

　　Emily let out a quiet laugh and leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms.“That’s a dangerously sweet thing to say.”　　He walked toward her now, slow and unhurried, until he was standing right behind her chair.　　“Is it?”He leaned down slightly, his breath warm near her ear.“Because I meant every word.”　　She tilted her head to look up at him.“You always know exactly what to say.”　　“Only when I’m looking at you.”　　His hand came to rest gently on her shoulder, thumb brushing the edge of her collarbone.　　Emily reached up and covered his hand with hers.　　Emily tilted her head, her gaze catching on the side of his neck. Her smile froze for a second, then softened into something slightly flustered.　　She reached out without thinking, fingertips brushing lightly along the edge of his collar.　　“That…”she murmured, biting her lip.“That’s from last night.”　　Adrian’s lips curved, slow and deliberate.“Mm. I know.”　　A faint flush rose to her cheeks. She glanced instinctively at the o