Cecilia Ye didn’t say a word. She kept staring out the window, her gaze lost somewhere no one could see.
Xavier Foster’s grip tightened; he immediately noticed the bruises he’d left on her wrist last night.
Trailing down from Cecilia Ye’s elegant neck, marks could still be seen along her collarbone.
He crouched down, gently enclosing her cold hand in his palm.
Coldly, he asked, “Why aren’t you eating?”
She acted like she couldn’t hear him, giving no reply at all.
She was right here, yet for the first time, Xavier Foster couldn’t see himself reflected in Cecilia Ye’s eyes.
He ran out of patience. Without another word, he scooped her up and strode back to the bedroom.
She shrank away, limp, resting her weight against his shoulder.
Glancing at the untouched medicine on the table, Xavier Foster picked it up.
He pinned Cecilia Ye with one hand and reached to take off her pants with the other.
Suddenly, she clung tightly to her waistband, tears pooling in her eyes.
The look in her eyes made Xavier Foster feel a little uneasy.
Looks like he really frightened her yesterday.
“I’m just putting on your medicine.”
Cecilia Ye shook her head, biting down hard on her lip. Tears slid from the corners of her eyes into her hair.
Forcing out a few words from her throat, she said, “No… please don’t.”
Seeing how much she resisted, Xavier Foster didn’t push it. His frustration grew. He’d never seen Cecilia Ye like this—he had no idea how to handle it, so all he could do was threaten her harshly.
“Cecilia Ye, if you cry again, I’ll bully you just like I did last night.”
Choking her tears back, Cecilia Ye went silent.
His long fingers brushed away her tear stains, but Xavier Foster said nothing, his expression stormy and unreadable.
He took Cecilia Ye downstairs to eat.
Or maybe she was afraid he really would bully her again—Cecilia Ye became unusually obedient. Whatever he put in her bowl, she ate. If there wasn’t anything, she just lowered her head and picked at her plain rice.
“Why didn’t you tell me before that you and Julian Jarvis went to the art exhibit that day?”
Her chopsticks paused midair. Cecilia Ye stared at the rice in her bowl.
It took a long time before she finally answered softly.
“Because I didn’t want you to know… that I saw you with Vivian Belle.”
There was no point hiding it now—not after he already knew.
“I wanted to buy you a birthday present. You once said you liked Quentin Zane’s paintings.”
It was rare for Xavier Foster to offer an explanation.
But Cecilia Ye didn’t want to believe him. She couldn’t bring herself to.
“Thank you.”
Silence returned to the dinner table.
That night, after Cecilia Ye had fallen asleep, Xavier Foster still applied medicine for her.
The soft skin there was red and swollen, evidence of his roughness and violence.
For the first time, he felt something like regret.
Day after day, Cecilia Ye remained like this, trapped in her own emotions.
Polite yet distant with Xavier Foster, their relationship sank to an all-time low.
At first, Xavier Foster thought it was fine—at least she was as docile as before, so he didn’t have to worry about managing her feelings.
But after a while, he realized something was off. He wanted to see Cecilia Ye smile again—like before, eyes full of him, her whole face lighting up when she looked at him.
On the third day, Cecilia Ye finally left the house. She couldn’t stand staying home any longer—it only filled her mind with thoughts of Xavier Foster, to the point of giving her headaches.
The bruises had faded a bit now, and her high-necked sweater could cover the rest.
She went to the art studio.
Ever since Xavier Foster had brought up divorce, she hadn’t returned to the studio once.
Cecilia Ye gathered up her paints—she didn’t ask the driver for a ride.
It was winter now; a cold wind whistled through the empty streets, shaking loose the last few leaves from the trees.
She walked slowly, the biting air making her cheeks flush red, but all she felt was relief. Some of the sadness in her chest seemed to clear away.
It was a weekday, so the studio wasn't crowded. Some people here were professionals, others were just pursuing art as a hobby.
Cecilia Ye came here mostly to get out of the house, hoping for a change of pace, to see other styles and maybe learn something new.
She quietly took a seat in the corner; her half-finished painting was still right where she’d left it.
Sitting down, she leaned over, opened her oils, and began painting with perfect focus.
When you lose yourself in something, time flies. After touching up the colors several times, it was already afternoon.
She packed up her tools, said goodbye to the owner, and left the studio.
It had been a whole day where she hadn’t thought of Xavier Foster at all—which, to Cecilia Ye, felt pretty good.
The studio wasn’t far from the Fu house—she planned to walk home.
*
Vivian Belle had waited long enough for Xavier Foster’s divorce, and her patience was finished.
She’d already played her first card, and judging by Xavier Foster’s call, it had worked.
There must be tension now between Cecilia Ye and Xavier Foster.
Vivian Belle smiled to herself. Time to move on to step two.
She applied her lipstick in front of the mirror, admiring herself: not quite as stunning as Cecilia Ye, maybe, but still beautiful in her own right.
Putting the lipstick down, she picked up a small silver knife with her slender, white hand.
The blade glinted coldly as she played with it, lifting the edge of her shirt.
Carefully, she pressed the blade along the ugly scar on her belly.
Staring in the mirror, she mimed a few mock gestures, lips curling into a chilling smile.
The blade bit into the scar—Vivian Belle gritted her teeth and scraped at it. She wasn’t so stupid as to stab herself for real.
Crimson blood trickled down her skin, dripping onto the floor, as she grabbed her phone and dialed Xavier Foster’s number.
“A’Ye… Wu wu… there’s so much blood, they’re trying to kill me, they’re going to kill me!”
She sobbed loudly, voice slurred and incoherent.
At that moment, Xavier Foster was just finishing signing a contract. He frowned. “What’s wrong with you?”
“A’Ye, it hurts so much, I’m bleeding everywhere—just like back then—I’m so scared!”
“Stay put, don’t do anything stupid. I’m coming now.”
Xavier Foster rushed for the elevator. That incident years ago had been a rare defeat for him—one that had dragged Vivian Belle down with him. He genuinely felt guilty.
He knew exactly how deeply she’d been hurt by it.
She’d been so young then, stabbed terribly. After countless surgeries, she’d lost her uterus.
For years, Vivian Belle had lived with the shadow of that trauma.
He remembered how, whenever she called from overseas, she’d say she was afraid, kept having nightmares, even hurt herself.
Thinking of all this, Xavier Foster sped up even more.
He knew the apartment’s code and let himself in.
Vivian Belle lay curled on the bathroom floor, her white nightgown soaked with blood.
Clutching her stomach, she trembled.
Xavier Foster crouched down and pulled her into his arms.
His voice was angry, but shaking: “Vivian Belle, stop this nonsense!”
Vivian Belle shivered, then the tears poured down her face.
“Wu wu, A’Ye, I keep having nightmares—I haven’t slept at all these last few days. Every time I close my eyes, I dream about that day.”
She clutched his shirt, her bloody fingers leaving stains.
“This scar scares me so much. Just looking at it, it hurts so bad I can’t even breathe… Would it stop hurting if I just cut it away…”
Xavier Foster couldn’t help but recall those days. If he hadn't been ambushed, Vivian Belle would never have been hurt. She would’ve grown up like any normal girl, never trapped in these memories.
“Nnngh…” she whimpered, her gaze turning vacant.
Xavier Foster lifted her nightgown—a shredded, bloody scar was still bleeding heavily.
“Damn it, I’m taking you to the hospital!”
*
The road leading to the Fu house was almost empty—no people, no cars.
Cecilia Ye shifted her paint box from her left hand to her right.
The studio did provide paints, but she preferred her own set.
A car approached from behind. She drifted closer to the sidewalk, keeping out of the road.
An old, battered white van pulled over about ten steps ahead of her.
Cecilia Ye frowned—everyone coming this way ought to be headed to the Fu house. Why would this van stop here?
She kept walking, edging further away.
The door opened, and someone got out from the driver’s seat.
Cecilia Ye paid little attention, thinking only of getting home and cleaning her paints.
But before she could go any farther, a strong hand clamped down on her arm, squeezing hard enough to bruise.
A body pressed in close behind her, an arm wrapping tight around her slender neck.
Rough cloth rasped against her chin, and a foul stench filled her nose. Cecilia Ye froze in fright, then struggled desperately.
Who was this? What did they want?
Her paint box crashed to the ground, tubes and color exploding everywhere, staining shoes and splattering the street.
A voice straight out of Cecilia Ye’s nightmares echoed in her ears.
“Cecilia Ye, what’s wrong? Don’t you recognize your brother?”
Brother… brother…
Her eyes went wide, heart thundering.
It was Theodore Zane—the son of the family who had adopted her.
The one who tied her up and beat her, day after day.
The one who’d lock her under the stairs in the pitch-dark room whenever he was in a mood.
Cecilia Ye trembled all over. Who could possibly save her now? Who would come to her rescue?