The next morning, he woke up in bed, nursing a hangover.
The familiar headache kicked in, sharpening the chill on his already severe face.
After pulling himself together with little care, Fu Zhiyue left for the office. The first thing he did upon arrival was summon Henry Hart to his office.
Standing before the stern-faced president, Henry Hart lowered his gaze submissively.
“Clear my schedule for the next two days. Notify the crew for the private jet—we’re going to Country Y. And before I get off that plane, I want Chi Chi’s exact address.”
Fu Zhiyue was fastening his watch, speaking in a cool, even tone.
“Yes, sir…”
Henry Hart hesitated. There was an important partnership on the table these next couple days, but nothing topped the boss’s orders.
Less than half an hour later, Henry Hart returned to the office.
“Everything’s ready, sir. The car’s waiting downstairs. We can leave whenever you’re ready.”
Without a word, Fu Zhiyue headed straight out of the company.
It wasn’t long before they arrived at the Fu family’s private airstrip.
Soon, the thunderous roar of the plane split the blue-grey sky above Newbridge as they took off.
Leaning back with his eyes closed, Fu Zhiyue’s forbidding expression kept everyone on board at a distance. The crew chief watched from the side, making himself as invisible as possible.
He must have dozed off for a bit, because when he opened his eyes, he realized he’d fallen asleep.
And in that brief dream, all he saw was Cecilia Ye.
He had no idea where they were now—outside, layers of clouds glowed red-gold under the sun. Nothing like the gloomy skies of Newbridge.
He rubbed at his temples.
Just thinking he’d soon see Cecilia Ye again eased the frustration bottled up in his chest.
…
Qingshui Bay.
In the little villa garden, several saplings of hibiscus were laid out—ideal for planting in early spring, though it wasn’t quite spring yet.
With Newbridge’s snow finally melted, Cecilia Ye had only ever seen Uncle Zhou tend hibiscus before. She’d never planted any herself.
She’d ordered the seedlings online, hoping to try her hand early. If they failed, there was still time to plant more.
Grabbing a small stool, she sat by the wooden planter boxes in the garden. Flower Bro had kindly hammered them together for her just yesterday—the reddish-brown matched the villa’s brick perfectly.
He’d even lined the boxes with nutrient-rich soil, saving her a good bit of effort.
Mia Moore was still asleep. Cecilia Ye decided to start on her own, studying the planting instructions sent with the saplings, trowel in hand and an earnest look on her face.
The garden’s wooden gate was ajar—this little corner was secluded, and the street outside was nearly deserted.
She’d just dug two tiny holes in the soil when a gentle knock sounded on the open gate. Turning, Cecilia Ye saw someone she never expected.
Charles Chase, just finishing his morning jog by the lakeside, walked home along the empty road.
He lived just behind—usually, there was never anyone in this villa. Today, spotting the open gate, he glanced in.
What he saw was Cecilia Ye’s delicate profile as she carefully dug in the soil, all attention on her work.
“Mr. Chen?”
Cecilia Ye called out, surprised, still holding the little spade, a trace of dirt smudged on her fair hands.
She stood and crossed to the gate, remembering at the last moment that she ought to invite him in.
He’d helped her a great deal last time. Ever since being discharged, she regretted not getting his contact information.
“Would you like to come in and sit for a while?”
Charles Chase wore black sportswear with his sleeves rolled up, revealing pale skin and veined forearms from his run. Adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses, he stepped inside, eyeing the scattered saplings.
“What are you planting?”
Oddly enough, he always felt a kind of kinship with this young woman.
Cecilia Ye dusted her hands. “Hibiscus. I’ve always liked them. I thought that once I had a studio, I’d plant hibiscus in the garden.”
Mentioning her studio brought a lively smile to her clear, pretty face—so much warmer and more spirited than the last time they’d met.
“Do you actually know how to plant them?”
Charles Chase sat on a garden chair, one arm draped casually over the back, looking skeptical.
A little embarrassed, Cecilia Ye gave a soft cough. She hadn’t expected him to question her so carefully—he wasn’t nearly as cold and unapproachable as she’d once assumed.
Her cheeks flushed. “No, I’ve never done it before. I’m just… giving it a try.”
Charles Chase held out his hand for the manual and started to read.
So, somehow, the neighborhood big shot who’d just jogged by ended up crouched in the garden, helping her plant flowers.
Cecilia Ye watched for a moment, then went inside to heat up the steamed buns she’d made, and to blend some soy milk.
The soymilk machine on the counter was a gift from Julian Jarvis, pink and easy to use—far simpler than her earlier, chaotic attempts.
Her thoughts drifted a little while she stared at the machine, until the beep signaled the soy milk was done. Gathering breakfast into a thermos cup and a lunchbox, she returned to the garden.
Charles Chase was washing his hands at the garden sink. “About finished. Just take good care of them and they should be fine.”
Seeing the neat rows of seedlings made Cecilia Ye happy.
“Thank you, Mr. Chen.”
He frowned slightly. “Just call me by my name—Charles Chase.”
“All right… These buns and soy milk are homemade. Please have some for breakfast.”
Charles Chase eyed the pink thermos and lunchbox, both adorned with cute little cats. He didn’t really like soy milk, but accepted them anyway. “Thanks. I’d better get going.”
He’d only meant to go for a morning run—work awaited.
“Sure. I’ll be opening my studio here in a few days. If you’re interested, you’re welcome to drop by.”
Ever since Charles Chase had helped her—and promised not to mention it to Fu Zhiyue—Cecilia Ye had thought well of him. Cold on the outside, but genuine.
“Mm.”
Charles Chase headed out and back to his villa.
Maybe it was because before the Fu family, she’d never really encountered kindness, but Cecilia Ye was always deeply grateful for any small gentleness shown to her.
Upstairs, a head poked out from a second-floor window. Mia Moore blinked at the tall figure leaving the garden—still half asleep and wondering if she was dreaming—why was he here?
…
The plane took off from Newbridge a little after 10 a.m., landing in Country Y just past noon, thanks to the time difference.
The car and driver were waiting. The first thing Fu Zhiyue did after disembarking was check his phone.
A message from Henry Hart had arrived—it was an address.
Barely two minutes after reading it, his phone rang.
“Sir, since arriving in Country Y, Madame hasn’t made any transactions or posted anything on social media—no trace at all.”
Fu Zhiyue’s voice was cold. “This address?”
“We checked by various means—the person sitting in the seat assigned to Madame on the plane is at that address. They didn’t get a clear look, but say it was a woman.”
“Understood.” Fu Zhiyue ended the call, relayed the address to the driver, and the car set off slowly down the sunlit, plane tree-lined street. Unlike Newbridge’s spring rain, today was warm and bright.
Staring out the window, all Fu Zhiyue could think was, once he found Cecilia, he would take her home.
Fine. If she wanted to stay here a while longer, he’d stay with her—so long as she didn’t run off again, disappearing without a word, leaving him… worrying.
The car eased to a stop. The driver turned and said they’d arrived.
Telling the driver to wait, Fu Zhiyue got out alone.
Dressed in a long black coat and polished shoes, he strode ahead, long legs betraying a certain urgency. The wind tugged at the corner of his coat.
The address was a small, stand-alone house. Fu Zhiyue frowned, then knocked on the door.
For some reason, his heart pounded fiercely in his chest as he lowered his hand and waited in silence.