A rough, possessive kiss landed. Xavier Foster’s gaze was as dark as ink, deep enough to make anyone fall if they looked too long. He wanted nothing more than to cover every place Julian Jarvis had ever touched with his own mark.
“Mmm—”
Cecilia Ye struggled, her small hands gripped tightly in his.
A voice, low and fierce, demanded, “Cecilia Ye, who’s your husband?”
“Xavier Foster…” The answer slipped quietly from her cherry-red lips without a trace of hesitation.
That answer thoroughly pleased Xavier Foster.
His suit jacket was tossed carelessly to the floor. Slender arms wrapped her narrow waist tight; beneath him, Cecilia Ye had nowhere to run.
Her damp hair sprawled across the snow-white sheets, some strands falling by her ear, some curling around her lips, some tangling at her waist—each a temptation impossible to ignore.
It soothed Xavier Foster’s burning anger to think that these sights were his, his alone to enjoy.
Heat radiated through the chilled night, scorching and unrelenting.
*
Morning sunlight slipped into the room. The girl in bed slept on, oblivious to the world.
After a long while, her delicate brows knit together in pain.
Cecilia Ye felt as though needles were stabbing her head. She pressed a hand to her forehead. As her gaze landed on her wrist, she snapped awake.
A ring of bruises circled her wrist. Looking down, she saw more traces scattered across her skin.
She’d been married to Xavier Foster for four years—she didn’t need to guess what had happened.
The color drained from her face. She started to tremble uncontrollably.
What is this...?
Tears slid down her cheeks. For a moment, all sound seemed to fade away.
She just felt ridiculous.
Just yesterday, she’d heard all about Xavier Foster’s love story with Vivian Belle.
And today, she ended up like this.
What did Xavier Foster take her for? Didn’t he feel guilty toward Vivian Belle?
They were supposed to be getting a divorce...
The events of last night returned to her in broken flashes, each one striking her mind.
She forced herself upright, wincing at the pain wherever she’d been handled too roughly. There was no mistaking it—Xavier Foster had been furious last night.
The door opened. That tall, all-too-familiar figure entered silently.
Xavier Foster glanced at her, placed some ointment by her bedside, and asked, “You want to do it yourself?”
His face was completely expressionless.
Cecilia Ye looked up at him, her heart aching, hollow as if a cold wind were howling right through it.
Did Xavier Foster even have a heart? Did he know what pain was?
Her usually bright, clear eyes were now dull and clouded with misery.
“Why?” she whispered.
Xavier Foster lowered his eyes, gripping Cecilia Ye’s chin between his fingers.
His cold, thin lips spat out the words without a hint of feeling: “Cecilia Ye, you tell me—why? Need me to help you remember?”
Cecilia Ye shook her head. As she moved, tears traced a tiny arc before falling onto Xavier Foster’s hand.
“I just went out drinking with Mia Moore. I don’t know why Julian Jarvis—”
His face darkened. He tightened his grip, voice harsh as he cut her off.
“Don’t mention him to me. Cecilia Ye, you’d better remember who your husband is!”
Cecilia Ye stared at him in disbelief as his anger blazed.
I remember, Xavier Foster. How could I possibly forget who my husband is?
But soon, you won’t be.
“Xavier Foster, we’re already getting divorced.”
“We’re not divorced yet. Make sure you don’t forget that.”
He said nothing more. With a rough motion, he released her hand and strode toward the door.
Just as he reached it, he paused. “At the gallery opening, you and Julian Jarvis were together?”
“Yes.”
You’ve already found me guilty—so what’s the point in asking?
With a cold laugh, Xavier Foster left, not looking back even once.
Cecilia Ye hugged herself tightly, her nails digging deep into her palms.
Xavier Foster, all you ever show me is your back.
With you, I never get to choose—do I?
You act like I’m dirty, just because someone else held me.
But what about you?
She cried herself empty, as if she could drain every last tear from her body.
Meanwhile, after leaving, Xavier Foster called Vivian Belle.
“What did you say to Cecilia Ye yesterday?”
His voice was icy cold; patience running thin.
Vivian Belle hesitated. “Aye, Zhiye, what’s wrong? I didn’t say much, just chatted a bit with Miss Ye...”
“Vivian Belle, I’d rather not waste my time investigating by myself.”
“Zhiye, I... I just mentioned what happened years ago. Are you angry?”
Xavier Foster frowned. Did the past even matter that much?
Why did it upset Cecilia Ye so much she went out drinking?
He had never talked about it, thinking it didn’t matter in the end—he was destined to marry Vivian Belle.
Xavier Foster could never understand how much love meant to a girl, or how sensitive she could be.
To the young president of the Fu family, things like affection could come or go—it wasn’t important compared to vows and obligations.
After all, what you want in this world isn’t always what you get. People have to learn to accept their own powerlessness and losses.
With that thought, he hung up without another word.
Neither he nor Cecilia Ye returned home that night, so her grandfather called to check in.
Cecilia Ye told him she’d stayed out late with friends, so hadn’t come home.
She also explained that she’d be spending more time at her studio, and wouldn’t be back for a while.
Grandpa Rivers didn’t press—just reminded her to take care of herself.
The ointment Xavier Foster had left was still sitting on the bed.
Dragging her exhausted body, Cecilia Ye showered; discovering her injuries were even worse than she’d imagined.
It was clear how furious Xavier Foster had been the previous night.
Her skin, pale as snow, took on angry reds and purples at the slightest pressure.
She set the ointment aside, unable to face those marks.
She had no idea what to do. The whole house felt empty and cold.
Cecilia Ye had never liked big houses. She always thought, if she had a home, just a cozy space for a family of three would be enough.
She stepped outside and slowly made her way to her art studio. Ever since that painting of the cotton rose blossom* had vanished, only an empty frame remained upon the easel.
Sunlight filled the windows with clear morning light.
She remembered when Xavier Foster finished setting up the studio for her—the sunlight had been just as bright that day.
Paints, brushes, easel, canvas—everything neatly arranged, all just for her.
It made her feel almost absurdly cared for; as if she really mattered to someone, as if she was cherished.
It was almost like a dream.
But thinking of Xavier Foster now made her chest ache. The pain was everywhere, soft and sour and tangled like invisible threads stretching tight around her heart until she couldn’t breathe.
She sat in her studio all day, not knowing what to do.
When the maid called her down for dinner, Cecilia Ye just shook her head and hugged her knees to her chest.
Cecilia Ye, maybe you really should’ve changed your life long ago.
Dreams always end, after all.
*
Xavier Foster came home earlier than usual, but nobody greeted him with a warm bowl of soup like before.
A cold frown creased his brow.
Handing his coat to a maid, Xavier Foster asked, “Where’s madam?”
The maid glanced cautiously at his expression. “Madam has been in the studio all day. She hasn’t eaten or come out at all.”
His frown deepened, his chiseled face colder than ice.
Is this her way of sulking at me?
He strode upstairs and pushed open the door to the studio. As expected, that small figure sat curled by the window.
The room was dark except for a faint glow of dusk sneaking in.
She was so tiny, like a doll whose batteries had run down.
Xavier Foster turned on the light.
The sudden brightness stung Cecilia Ye’s eyes, making her squeeze them shut and bury her face in her arms.
Xavier Foster caught her wrist, forcing her to lift her head.