All morning, Mia Moore’s thoughts kept drifting back to the mysterious figure she’d glimpsed at the window. Unable to focus, she finally couldn’t help but ask Cecilia Ye about it.
“Cecilia, I saw a stranger in the yard this morning. Who was that?”
Cecilia Ye was busy checking the paint supplies on the first-floor shelf, making notes in her slow, unhurried way. She murmured, “This morning, huh… That was Charles Chase. He used to do business with Fu—uh, with him. He’s the one who drove me to the hospital at the annual party last year.”
Mia Moore clapped a hand over her mouth. Talk about putting her foot in it! Sometimes she wished she could just stop talking altogether.
Cecilia Ye shot her an amused look and explained gently, “He lives in the house right behind us. He usually goes jogging by the lake in the morning.”
As she spoke, she sensed something odd. “Wait, why are you asking about him? Do you two know each other?”
Mia Moore hesitated. “Not really, it’s just… that silhouette really looked familiar. I think I saw someone who looked like him when I was out sketching the other day.”
“Alright,” Cecilia Ye let it drop. Early—her fluffy cat—darted out from beside her feet. The little feline had gotten quite used to the villa, having explored every nook and cranny over the past few days.
Cecilia Ye squatted down to scoop Early into her arms. Mia Moore frowned. “You really shouldn’t be carrying the cat all the time. Early’s nearly ten pounds now and you’re pregnant!”
They were both barely more than girls themselves, and this was Cecilia Ye’s first pregnancy. Mia Moore’s anxiety was never far away.
“It’s fine, really. She’s not heavy, and I’ll just hold her for a minute.”
Beneath her clothes, Cecilia Ye’s stomach was still perfectly flat—impossible to tell at a glance. Only at night, lying in bed, could she feel that slight bump if she pressed her hand there. Three months already… she’d have to make a hospital appointment soon. The city hospital was too inconvenient—it was time to look for a clinic closer by.
……
Country Y.
A white wooden door swung open. A young Asian woman stood inside, giving him a once-over before asking, “Are you Chinese?”
Fu Zhiyu nodded slightly, clinging to a fragile hope. “Is Cecilia Ye here?”
The girl looked genuinely confused. “Cecilia Ye? Uh, it’s just me and my mother living here. I don’t know anyone by that name.”
Her face gave nothing away. Fu Zhiyu’s voice turned cold. “Was your flight the afternoon flight on the 13th? Did you sit in your assigned seat?”
“No… Some people didn’t board so there were a few empty seats. I wasn’t comfortable by the window, so I switched.” She struggled to recall the scene.
So… Cecilia hadn’t boarded the plane?
Why not? Or did she swap seats too?
He had flown nearly ten hours to Country Y, only to find nothing but confusion and disappointment. Not even saying thank you, he turned and left in a daze.
The young woman watched him—bewildered, hollowed-out—before quietly closing the door.
At last, Fu Zhiyu was forced to admit it: Cecilia Ye had done everything in her power to leave him.
This wasn’t a vacation. It wasn’t just a break to clear her head. She was leaving him for real.
She was erasing herself from his world.
His steps slowed, the lightness he’d felt coming here now completely gone.
For the first time, uncertainty edged onto the face of a man who’d always been impeccably self-assured.
His mind seemed frozen—dozens of thoughts whipped through, tangled and impossible to unravel. He couldn’t even tell what he wanted, just that his brain was in complete chaos.
He pulled open the car door and got in, still chilled to the bone.
With furrowed brow and closed eyes, he said nothing.
The driver, noticing that the boss was off after he got back, snuck a couple of glances in the rearview. He saw only a cold, chiseled jaw and quickly averted his gaze, pretending to be invisible.
After a long moment, Fu Zhiyu finally took out his phone and made a call.
“Hello.”
The voice on the other end was gentle but held a hint of distance.
“President Chen, I need a favor.”
Although Fu Zhiyu had business ties in Country Y, nothing matched Charles Chase’s local connections. If anyone could find Cecilia Ye, it’d be Charles Chase. Fu Zhiyu had no patience left to waste time.
Back home, the sun was setting. Charles Chase had just finished work when he got Fu Zhiyu’s call asking for help looking for Cecilia Ye in Country Y. He couldn’t help but feel a little exasperated.
To be honest, he thought, I was helping your wife plant flowers just this morning. How could she possibly be on a plane to Country Y? Of course, Charles Chase only said aloud, “Alright, I’ll see what I can do.”
Now he understood: Fu Zhiyu didn’t know Cecilia Ye was living in Qingshui Bay. After the drama at the annual party, her mention of ‘leaving’ must have referred to this.
He had no desire to get mixed up in someone else’s family affairs—especially given his indifference to Fu Zhiyu’s private relationships.
After hanging up, Charles Chase sat back in his car.
A thousand miles away, Fu Zhiyu had no inkling of Charles Chase’s thoughts. He just assumed that, with help like this, Cecilia Ye would be found soon if she really was in Country Y.
He ended his call, gave the hotel’s address, and decided to stay in Country Y for another day.
Once home, Charles Chase got another call—this time from his mother.
He’d been raised by her alone and had no memory of his father. Whenever he asked, his mom would just shrug and say she kicked that jerk out of the family when Charles Chase was two years old.
Yes, he’d taken his mother’s surname—and the whole Chen family had moved to Country Y when he was still a child.
“Hello, darling! You haven’t called your mama in ages!”
He shook his head helplessly at her pet name. “What is it, Mom?”
“What, I can’t call you just because I miss you? Ungrateful child.” Suddenly her tone shifted to business: “Listen, I heard that woman’s name is Ye Jing. She’s from Shaoyang Town near Kyoto. Look there.”
Charles Chase agreed obediently, endured a little more nagging, and finally escaped the gravitational pull of his mother’s loving interrogation.
Meanwhile, Fu Zhiyu washed up at his hotel. He’d wait on news from Charles Chase for another day—if nothing panned out, he’d fly home tomorrow.
Cold water cascaded down, tracing his abs.
Though it was a chilly spring night, Fu Zhiyu didn’t feel cold; on the contrary, a masochistic pleasure overtook him. It was as if shifting the cold to his skin could distract him from the turmoil gnawing at his heart.
He thought back: When he’d told Cecilia he wanted a divorce, she’d cried under the covers.
When Vivian Belle had broken her wooden hibiscus flower, Cecilia cried then, too.
Then there was when he’d tried to take Early away—and at the amusement park on her birthday.
And her desperate plea for help on the phone that night when Theodore Zane took her away. Where was he then? What was he doing in those moments?
Why—why had he always turned a blind eye to Cecilia’s tears?
And now, every memory stabbed like a knife.
He smashed his fist against the wall, jaw clenched, eyes cold.
Country Y and Kyoto were nine hours apart. He’d been running all day.
He thought exhaustion would knock him out, but dawn found him still awake, light filtering through the window.
Bzzzz—his phone vibrated.
It was Henry Hart, calling at just the right moment for the time difference.
“Hello,” Fu Zhiyu’s voice was hoarse and weary, his eyes gritty from a sleepless night.
“Boss, we pulled the airport surveillance. Ma’am went to the airport in Mia Moore’s car, but there’s no footage of her going through security. We can confirm she never boarded the plane,” Henry Hart reported concisely.