After the birthday banquet, Cecilia Ye didn’t see Fu Zhiyé for several days.
A painting left at Julian Jarvis’s gallery had caught the eye of a potential buyer, so she arranged to meet.
The piece that drew attention was a scene taken from the Fu family archway: half an arched gate, overgrown with creeping ivy, a sliver of morning light slicing through thick, brooding clouds. She titled it "Hope."
Cecilia Ye’s paintings always hovered between realism and abstraction. Even when she painted real-life scenes, she would split them open with a streak of whimsy that carried them beyond the ordinary.
Especially when it came to color—the ivy in her work was a cascade of warm yellows instead of green, as if she’d pulled the moment from a fairy tale, suffused with warmth and healing.
The buyer was a young woman, wanting to gift it to her mother who’d been ill. She hoped her mom could look at something warm and uplifting every day.
The transaction went smoothly, the price was fair, but what made Cecilia Ye happiest was knowing her art truly brought someone hope.
The girl, busy with something else, left after a brief chat, leaving Cecilia Ye alone with Julian Jarvis.
Cecilia Ye smiled. "Thank you, Julian Jarvis. You’ve helped me out again."
"Not at all. Your paintings just hang in the gallery, and people come looking for them on their own. You’re really well-liked."
Every time Cecilia Ye saw Julian Jarvis, she felt as if he radiated some inexplicable energy.
Maybe it was his ever-present smile. He always looked as if nothing could trouble him.
"Come on, it’s late. Let’s get dinner. Didn’t you say you owed me one?"
Julian Jarvis winked, a dashing grin lighting up his refined features.
Cecilia Ye had no reason to refuse and got into Julian Jarvis's car.
They drove to a revolving restaurant on the 27th floor, with the most breathtaking riverside view in the city.
It was hardly a cheap place to eat, but Cecilia Ye didn’t hold back—Julian Jarvis had helped her so much.
Julian Jarvis asked in detail about any food preferences before ordering a few dishes, as courteous as ever.
A plate of crab with scallion oil arrived. Bright green scallions set off the red shells, simply seasoned but irresistible.
Cecilia Ye loved crab, but she was hopeless at shelling them—she’d either cut her hands or pulverize the meat with the shell into a mess.
Staring longingly at the crab, she finally gave up.
Ever since Fu Zhiyé discovered her lackluster crab-cracking skills, he always shelled them for her at home.
His long, deft fingers could always remove the meat perfectly and set it in her bowl.
Cecilia Ye told herself it didn’t matter—she could live without eating crab in the future.
Her earlier good mood dimmed. She looked down at her bowl.
A tender piece of crab meat was set in front of her.
Startled, Cecilia Ye glanced up to find Julian Jarvis wearing disposable gloves, methodically shelling crab. He smiled, "I saw you eying it for ages. Have some."
Her cheeks flushed, and she murmured a soft thank you.
Before she could taste the crab, a cold, angry voice rang out from behind.
"Cecilia Ye!"
Fu Zhiyé had seen them as soon as they entered. It was bad enough seeing them laugh and chat, but shelling crab for her—this was too much.
Fu Zhiyé approached with a stormy face, eyes cold enough to freeze.
He was only here for a business dinner—who knew he’d run into this?
Cecilia Ye was still recovering from the shock of seeing him after three days apart since her grandfather’s birthday celebration.
Catching sight of Fu Zhiyé’s expression, she sighed inwardly—here came the inevitable misunderstanding.
He strode forward, bent over her, and asked, voice like frost, "Cecilia Ye, does crab taste better when someone else shells it for you?"
Cecilia Ye felt mortified. With Julian Jarvis sitting right across from her, did Fu Zhiyé really have to make a scene in public?
His glare was vicious as it landed on Julian Jarvis.
Julian Jarvis’s smile faded. He slowly peeled off his gloves with practiced grace and met Fu Zhiyé’s stare, looking completely unconcerned.
Fu Zhiyé gave a cold snort, grabbed Cecilia Ye by the wrist, and dragged her out.
Thrown off-balance, Cecilia Ye tried to pry free. Diners turned to watch.
"Fu Zhiyé, let go. I can walk by myself."
"Julian Jarvis, I’m sorry. I’ll treat you to dinner another day."
Turning quickly, her small frame managed to get out a hasty apology.
Hearing that, Fu Zhiyé paused, then scooped her up and strode out the door.
A waiter hurried to Julian Jarvis’s side, bowing respectfully, "President Jiang, do you… require anything else?"
Julian Jarvis shook his head and, expression now empty, quietly ate the crab he’d shelled.
So, Cecilia Ye’s husband was Fu Zhiyé.
The moment he saw Julian Jarvis shelling crab for her, Fu Zhiyé had lost all control. Rage threatened to consume him.
He mashed the elevator button, stormed to the car, and unceremoniously shoved Cecilia Ye inside.
His hand on the steering wheel was tense, veins standing out as he wrestled with his anger.
The car tore back to their apartment complex, screeching into the underground garage.
After so many years at the Fu house, this was the angriest Cecilia Ye had ever seen Fu Zhiyé. She couldn’t help feeling a flicker of fear.
After a pause—two seconds, perhaps longer—Fu Zhiyé opened the rear door, climbed in, and sat beside her.
Startled, Cecilia Ye scrambled back until her spine hit the hard car door.
Fu Zhiyé reached for her, pulling her over, and suddenly, her world spun as he pinned her to the seat.
"Fu Zhiyé… what are you—"
Before she could finish, the familiar scent of sandalwood enveloped her and a rain of domineering kisses fell.
His lips sealed hers so hard she could barely breathe. She reached up to push him away.
But Fu Zhiyé’s arms caged her in like iron, unyielding no matter how hard she struggled.
One hand cupped the back of her head, his kisses growing fiercer. Cecilia Ye tried to kick out, but he easily pinned her legs down.
She couldn’t move; panic rose within her.
For years, before their marriage, Fu Zhiyé treated her as a little girl—never overly intimate but always gentle and caring.
After they wed, he’d cherished her, never once rough or so intense.
After bottling up her feelings from the birthday party, Fu Zhiyé’s roughness now left Cecilia Ye both frightened and even more wronged.
Her tears slipped silently into her hair as she stopped resisting.
Feeling the warmth of her tears, Fu Zhiyé froze. He took a shaky breath and looked down at her.
Her delicate face was streaked with tears; her dark hair spilled in messy waves across the seat, her eyes wide with fear.
She was afraid of him.
The realization made his chest tighten. Cecilia Ye had never looked at him this way before.
She used to watch him with affection, shyness, and devotion. He’d always chalked it up to her youthful admiration.
A fat tear rolled down her cheek. Fu Zhiyé sighed, gently brushing it away.
The garage was private and silent. Cecilia Ye sniffled, her voice trembling through her tears: "Fu Zhiyé, you’re bullying me."
All the grievances from the past few days became real, unstoppable tears flowing down her cheeks.
Fu Zhiyé dabbed at her face a few times before finally snapping, his voice low and hoarse, "Don’t cry."
Seeing her cry made his heart twist in a way he couldn’t explain. Maybe after all these years, he’d simply grown used to caring for her.
Seeing her laughing and chatting with Julian Jarvis—doing things only he was supposed to do—ignited a fury he could hardly suppress.
She was his. No one else had the right to touch her.