Xavier Fostern brought her to the apartment—a two-story penthouse on the top floor.

Cecilia Ye had stopped crying, though her eyes remained red and swollen. She put down the painting in her hands. "You should get to work. I’ll be just fine on my own."

Xavier Fostern didn’t move. In his chilly voice, he said, "If you’re short on money, tell me. If you need anything else, just ask. Even if we’re divorced, you’re still part of the Fu family."

"Thanks."

Cecilia Ye stared off, dazed. Her hair was a mess, the tip of her nose was flushed, and the tiny mole there quivered with every uneven breath.

Xavier Fostern frowned at her as he turned away, expertly rummaged in the cupboard for a first aid kit, and squatted down to tend to the injuries on her hands.

Looking at the soft crown of his head as he worked, Cecilia Ye gave a bitter, silent laugh.

Why—why do you still care about me? What am I supposed to do with that?

Once he’d finished, Xavier Fostern stood up and left.

The door slammed shut. Cecilia Ye flopped herself onto the couch. The place was lovely: clean, complete. Not a thing missing.

Clearly, Xavier Fostern had been ready for this—all set for her to leave.

She sat there a while, then gathered her painting and set it on the dining table, carefully unwrapping it.

Her bandaged fingertips trembled. The colors on the canvas, compressed and twisted, were tangled into chaos.

The painting had been called "Blooming"—a gift she'd meant for her grandfather’s upcoming birthday.

She had poured so much of herself into it... But now, that was all gone.

The cotton rose in the painting was crumpled, just like her heart: crushed into a wrinkled ball.

In his car, Xavier Fostern answered his phone.

"Ah Ye, did you finish comforting Miss Ye? If you’re done, can you come see me? I just got back to the country, I don’t have any friends here yet, and the hospital feels a little lonely."

A frail voice came through the receiver. Xavier Fostern merely frowned.

"Call your mother to stay with you. I have to go to the office."

"Okay, I won’t bother you anymore. Come see me when you’re done with work, okay?"

"Mm." He hung up and tossed his phone coldly onto the passenger seat.

*

"Oh my goodness, Zhizhi, my precious daughter—what happened? Who hurt you?" Vivian Belle’s mother arrived at the hospital, wailing her grievances.

"Mom, it was that woman Ah Ye used to bring home. Hmph! These days she acts like she’s all high and mighty. I just ruined one of her stupid paintings, and she went and hurt me."

Vivian Belle complained to her mother, venom glinting in her eyes.

"That damned girl! Listen to me, you have to find a way to win Xavier Fostern’s heart now—don’t waste your time on that little tramp. Otherwise, what’s the point of coming back to the country?"

Mrs. Bai plopped her plump frame onto the edge of the hospital bed, grumbling nonstop.

Irritated, Vivian Belle cut her mother short. "I know, I know. After all, Xavier Fostern’s still convinced he hurt me back then. Once I’m the mistress of the Fu family, let’s see what use that woman has left."

The two continued whispering conspiratorially.

*

Cecilia Ye tried everything she could think of, but the ruined painting couldn’t be fixed. The next day, she went to the Fu residence and took out all her other paintings, even the one hidden under her pillow along with a photo.

This time, she was smarter—she called ahead to the housekeeper, and only went when she was sure Xavier Fostern wasn’t home.

A driver took the paintings right to an art gallery, dropping them off on the curb. Cecilia Ye thanked him and waited by the roadside.

The gallery was called Cloudwater Pavilion. The name was refined, but it was actually the largest gallery in Newbridge.

Most importantly, they genuinely appreciated Cecilia Ye’s work. Two of her previous pieces had sold here at excellent prices.

She took out her phone and made a call. "Hello, Julian Jarvis?"

"Cecilia? What’s got you calling me?"

"I’ve got a few paintings I’d like to put up for sale at the gallery. I’m outside Cloudwater Pavilion. Are you free?"

Inside the gallery, Julian Jarvis broke into a smile. "I'm here! Hold on, I’ll be right out. Wait for me!"

Before Cecilia Ye could even reply, the call was cut off.

Soon enough, a tall, slender figure emerged at the entrance.

Compared to Xavier Fostern’s stoic sharpness, Julian Jarvis had a boyish air. Under his straight brows, his eyes were long and fox-like, always sparkling with a roguish grin.

Young as he was, Julian Jarvis had remarkable taste, and countless renowned artists preferred having their work displayed or sold at Cloudwater Pavilion.

He spotted Cecilia Ye from afar and waved, bounding down the steps—tall as he was, he looked almost like an overgrown golden retriever. For once, a small smile broke onto Cecilia Ye’s face.

When he reached her, Julian Jarvis eyed the carefully wrapped paintings on the ground. "Suddenly decided to sell your work? Didn’t you say you wanted to keep it safe before?"

"Yeah, just… doesn’t feel like there’s any point anymore. Can I leave them here at your gallery? If someone wants to buy one, just sell it for me."

Cecilia Ye’s voice was soft, tinged with a nearly imperceptible sadness.

But Julian Jarvis wasn’t easily fooled; in his line of work, he’d seen all sorts. He could tell Cecilia Ye was in trouble.

"Cecilia, do you need money? I could—"

"No, that’s not it. I just… really don't want them anymore."

She refused without hesitation. It really wasn’t about the money—she’d already made a substantial sum from her earlier sales, and she had no habit of wasting it. Those funds had only ever bought gifts for Xavier Fostern and her grandfather. Gifts, she believed, should be purchased with one’s own earnings—for sincerity’s sake.

Now, she simply wanted nothing to do with these paintings. They were all connected with the Fu residence.

Julian Jarvis frowned, looking at the girl before him. She was so pure, yet walled herself off from the world so tightly.

He didn’t pry. Instead, he smiled. "Alright—just remember, if you ever need help, just ask."

After the movers carried her paintings inside, Julian Jarvis said, "Let me give you a ride."

Cecilia Ye hesitated, then agreed—she actually had something she wanted to ask him.

They got into his car. Fidgeting nervously, Cecilia Ye watched Julian Jarvis turn toward her. "Is there something you wanted to ask?"

"Um… Well, do you have any ideas for what I could give my grandpa for his birthday?"

Julian Jarvis grinned, surprised it was such a simple problem. "Actually, your paintings are great gifts."

"Uh… I already gave him one before," Cecilia Ye fibbed.

"Elderly folks usually like gifts that are thoughtful or practical. For example, I’ve given my grandpa a massager, or warm clothes for the winter. As long as it’s from the heart, he’ll appreciate it."

Cecilia Ye’s eyes lit up, her delicate face seeming to brighten in an instant. Of course—she could get her grandfather something to keep him warm in the winter.

For the first time in days her worries eased. With her mind made up, she felt herself genuinely smile again.

When the car stopped downstairs, Cecilia Ye bent to say goodbye, turned, and walked toward the building.

She hadn’t gone far before she found herself face-to-face with a pair of frosty eyes. He had clearly been standing there a long while.

In those chilling eyes, a trace of anger flashed—barely perceptible, but real.