A cold wind swept snowflakes sideways, scattering icy particles through the air.
A black SUV idled outside a warehouse on the outskirts of the city. Fu Zhiyie was lounging in the back seat, eyes closed.
He was waiting for Henry Hart to bring someone over.
Not long after, a minibus rumbled into the warehouse, and five or six men stepped out.
Henry Hart walked over and knocked on the window. Fu Zhiyie opened his eyes and lowered the window, casting a cold gaze at the men standing behind Henry Hart.
Five of them, and among them, a burly man with a long scar running diagonally across his face—clearly their leader.
They wore bulky cotton coats, hunched over as they peered at the sharp-faced man inside the car.
Despite their rough exteriors, all of them had the same ingratiating expression. Even if this man had once sent them to prison, he was the head of the Fu Group in Newbridge; what happened back then, they could only count themselves unlucky.
Fu Zhiyie crooked his finger at Scarface. Scarface stepped to the window, bending low. "Hey, President Foster."
A slender hand extended a check. "Take it."
Scarface accepted it, glancing at the amount. Inwardly, he was startled—what generosity. A smile instantly blossomed on his face.
"President Foster, if you need anything, just say the word."
Fu Zhiyie clapped his hands, his cold, severe face betraying no emotion. Still, these hardened men felt a chill down their spines.
"Nothing special. I kept you locked up all these years—think of this as a little compensation."
He turned his head and, for the first time, truly looked at them. "A debt repaid is only right and fair. You did well—those old scores we never settled with the the Belle family shouldn't be just swept under the rug."
Scarface was startled. The old debt—wasn't that the one with the the Belle family?
He remembered the the Belle family's young lady, who had them pretend their target was Fu Zhiyie, absolving herself of blame.
Could it be the truth was finally out? Did President Foster learn what happened back then?
Understanding dawned. He nodded quickly, bowing low. "Yes, I understand. Since the father's debt falls on the daughter, we'll make sure to recover the money for Mr. Jin."
Fu Zhiyie grunted a reply and signaled for Henry Hart to get back in. They drove off.
Behind them, the men swarmed around Scarface. "Scar bro, how much is that? Damn, that's a lot!"
Scarface thumped their heads. "You'll get your cut. Didn't you hear? President Foster doesn't want that Bai girl to have it easy. We'll settle old and new scores together. Let's go see Mr. Jin."
The crew piled into the minibus and sped away.
"President, are you really leaving it up to them?"
"Yeah," Fu Zhiyie replied in a low voice, gazing out the window. "They know what needs to be done."
Heh, those guys were far better at intimidation than he was.
"Should we head back to the office now?"
Fu Zhiyie tightened his grip on his lap. The matter with Vivian Belle was settled for now, but he needed to pick up Cecilia first.
"Do you know Mia Moore's address? Go to her place and pick up Cecilia."
"Yes, sir."
The last time Madam went to the bar with Mia Moore, Henry Hart had already gathered her details, so he knew where to go.
The car wound its way toward the apartment complex. For some reason, a strange anxiety crept into Fu Zhiyie's heart.
It had been a week since that night. He admitted the truth from the past had shaken him.
But more than that, a new, unfamiliar worry gnawed at him.
He remembered the events of that night, and everything that had happened since Vivian Belle's return.
He realized how ridiculous some of his actions had been—and in all of it, Cecilia had been the one hurt the most.
If what Henry Hart said was true—if this was love, if it meant caring—
Then did he like Cecilia Ye? Like holding her every day, watching her smile?
Fu Zhiyie couldn't make sense of it. His childhood was shaped by his parents' failed and miserable marriage, and after he turned eighteen, all his energy went into work.
For him, love felt like a burden, an unnecessary emotion.
But now—
He hesitated.
The car stopped in front of the building. Fu Zhiyie got out and told Henry Hart to wait in the car while he went up.
"Ding dong—ding dong—"
The doorbell rang.
Mia Moore was slumped on the sofa, binge-watching dramas. With Cecilia gone, even watching TV alone had lost its flavor—she felt unbelievably lonely.
She grumbled as she got to the door, wondering who would visit at this hour.
Standing outside with an icy expression—of course, it was the annoying Fu Zhiyie.
"Oh, what a rare guest. What brings the illustrious President Foster to my humble home?"
Mia Moore's expression instantly soured. She was a head shorter, but her aura was undiminished as she shot him a sidelong glance.
Fu Zhiyie ignored her, scanning past her into the apartment, searching for someone he didn't see.
His brow creased as he asked coolly, "Where's Cecilia?"
"Cecilia? She's not my wife—how should I know where she is?" Mia Moore rolled her eyes and tried to close the door.
Fu Zhiyie pressed a hand firmly against the door. "Want me to come in and look for her myself?"
That made her furious. Such arrogance! No wonder he usually bullied Cecilia.
"I sent Cecilia to the old mansion this morning. President Foster, you can leave now!"
Fu Zhiyie froze. Normally, Cecilia Ye would tell him wherever she went. Since she hadn’t checked in, he’d assumed she was still with Mia Moore.
He let go and turned to leave, an unexplainable discomfort burrowing into his heart—maybe Cecilia was still angry.
"Jerk!"
Mia Moore shouted after his retreating back, slamming the door with a bang.
Henry Hart saw his boss return alone, a frosty chill clinging to his face.
"Let’s go. To the old house."
They soon arrived at the old mansion. Henry Hart left for the office while Fu Zhiyie strode toward the house. The garden was still blanketed in snow—this winter truly was bitter.
A servant shoveling snow greeted him respectfully.
He took off his coat as he entered. The old man was sitting on the sofa watching TV, as if he’d known his grandson would be coming home. He lifted his head and glanced over.
"You're back."
"Mm. Grandpa Rivers, is Cecilia home?"
The old man regarded him in silence for a while, then motioned him over.
Fu Zhiyie, pressing down the urge to immediately see Cecilia Ye, took a seat on the sofa.
"The guest room’s ready. If you want to stay here, use it for now."
"..."
Fu Zhiyie was momentarily lost for words.
"Not everyone’s heart is as numb as yours. You’ve hurt Cecilia—she’s still upset. Don’t keep showing up in front of her while she’s like this."
"Understood."
Fu Zhiyie rubbed his brow. He didn’t expect her to forgive him right away; after all, he knew how much she’d been hurt that night.
"Zhiyie," the old man said gravely, "you were in the wrong. If you truly care for Cecilia, stop pushing and hurting her. Go on, go see her."
Grandpa Rivers had clearly been waiting for him. With just a few instructions, he stood up and went to rest.
Fu Zhiyie quietly climbed the stairs. It had been a week since he last saw Cecilia Ye, and the urge to see her only grew when she hadn’t been at Mia Moore’s.
The bedroom door was slightly ajar. He pushed it open and saw his young wife asleep on the bed.
Half her small face was buried in the quilt, looking pale, breathing soft and even.
Fu Zhiyie gazed at her, the image in front of him overlapping with the trembling girl in that video—memories of what happened after he left that night made his heart ache.
Reporters had been staked out at the company lobby for days, demanding an apology, only to be chased off by security again and again.
But in the end, the one who’d been the cruelest was himself.
Fu Zhiyie stood there silently, unsure what he was feeling—only that seeing her again made his heart feel suddenly full.
On the bed, Cecilia Ye frowned and burrowed further into the blanket, face half-hidden.
Worried she might suffocate, Fu Zhiyie gently pulled the quilt down a little.
Perhaps it was the presence of a familiar scent—Cecilia Ye's eyelashes fluttered, and she slowly opened her eyes.