Qingshui Bay. Cecilia Ye had just finished eating a little something.
It was just after seven—still early—and the studio’s grand opening was the day after tomorrow.
By then, Yaoyao and Julian Jarvis would both come over; probably Hua-ge and Braid-ge would be there too.
Cecilia Ye didn’t have many friends. She could count them all on her fingers. After finishing the two characters on the second floor that day, Hua-ge and the others had put up a small sign on the red brick wall next to the wooden door.
‘Chi·Morning Art Studio’—white letters standing out boldly against the red wall, impossible to miss if you passed by.
Over the past two days, a few passersby had already stopped in to ask about the opening. Whenever they heard the date, most said they’d like to try it sometime.
People living here tended to have a good quality of life, free from the stress of survival, willing to spend some time on things they enjoy.
A nearly ten-meter-long table, draped with a soft green cloth and topped with white lace, dominated the studio’s first-floor hall. Down the middle ran a bright colored silk runner, printed with Monet-style water lilies.
On one side of the table, five little easels with blank, white frames were neatly arranged.
Along the grid-like glass windows stood several tall easels, and matching rugs lay on the floor.
Plaster sculptures stood here and there in the hall’s corners, interspersed with just the right amount of greenery.
A few of her works hung on the blank wall across from the tea station.
Cecilia Ye loved the whole house’s decor. It was simple, a little vintage, and reminiscent of Monet’s vibrant color palette.
When sunlight flooded in, the studio felt warm and rich.
After dark, Cecilia Ye would leave two lamps on downstairs, and warm white string lights twined up the stairs to the second floor.
As a child, Cecilia Ye was often locked in small, dark rooms. Her years with the Fu family had mostly healed her from that.
For years, she needed to sleep with the lights on. But after getting together with Fu Zhiyie, she was less afraid of the dark.
Yet after what happened with Theodore Zane, maybe those old, bad memories had been reawakened. If she didn’t keep the lights on, unease would creep in.
With nothing else to do that evening, she checked all the doors and windows, then headed upstairs.
Zoey Zhang followed her, sticking close to her legs whichever way she walked.
After so long here, she’d gone from restless to settled.
She showered, changed into soft pajamas, climbed into bed, wiped Zoey Zhang’s little paws, and snuggled in with the pup.
Every night, she’d speak to her baby bump. Tonight, as usual, she picked a storybook from her stack to read to the little one.
What story tonight? Cecilia Ye glanced at the picture books by her bedside—recent purchases, all new.
Her long black hair tumbled down her back. She pushed it behind her ear, picked up a book, and decided: tonight, The Little Mermaid.
“Legend has it, under the sea lives a people with beautiful tails and flowing hair…”
Her gentle voice drifted through the little room, brimming with love.
Zoey Zhang sprawled across the covers, big black eyes occasionally blinking, cocking her head to listen.
Under the streetlights outside the villa, a sleek black Maybach was parked. A tall, slender man leaned against it on one bent knee, smoking one cigarette after another.
His half-empty pack was down to the last stick, sharp features veiled in a haze of smoke.
Passersby shot him strange looks, only to be driven off by his cold, forbidding gaze.
When the final cigarette burned out, Fu Zhiyie tossed the stub in the pack, crushed it in his palm, and slowly walked over to the trash. After tossing it in, he paused—then returned to stand by the car.
Every step was as careful as if he were doing something vitally important.
He saw her. Cecilia.
She was right there in that villa. From where he stood—up the slope, and tall as he was—it was easy to spot her silhouette through the low wall.
He watched as she carefully straightened a tilted easel.
He watched her bow her head to water the plants.
Even at a distance, where her expression was lost to shadow, he could picture Cecilia’s gentle, attentive face.
On the way here, Fu Zhiyie had resolved: when he saw her, he’d ask why she was living in Julian Jarvis’s house. Why she left him without a word. Why she’d left behind her engagement ring and the household register.
So many questions pressed on his heart.
But in the instant he saw her, none of it seemed to matter.
He couldn’t put his feelings into words. It was like regaining something precious he’d lost. The gaping hole inside him suddenly felt whole.
Was this what loving someone was like—only she could fill every empty corner of his heart?
Suddenly, he remembered what Cecilia had once asked him: why did loving someone mean letting them go?
Back then, what did he say? He’d said it was enough to know the person you loved was living well—where didn’t matter.
But now, facing Cecilia Ye, he realized he couldn’t do it—he couldn’t let her leave his side.
Again and again, Fu Zhiyie fought the urge to rush in and scoop that small figure into his arms.
...
Elsewhere in Qingshui Bay, in another villa, Charles Chase sat staring at two files delivered to his door.
The information was simple. One record: Cecilia Ye’s arrival at the orphanage, August 23rd—Cecilia Ye, female. Nothing but the bare facts.
The other: her adoption by the Theodore Zane family.
His subordinates had left, filling him in on everything about Cecilia Ye's life after adoption and once she had entered the Fu household.
Charles Chase pressed his brow. So Cecilia Ye really was his younger sister.
Before meeting her, he’d decided—if this half-sister turned out horrible, he wouldn’t bother with her.
But this girl—she was beautiful, gentle, kind. Even overly cautious, always making people ache for her.
Maybe, after living too long without a home of her own, she just didn’t know who to rely on, and so grew careful and conscious.
Charles Chase gathered the files into a drawer, his thoughts a tangled mess, clutching at his chestnut-colored hair.
The one thing he was glad about: he hadn’t left her behind at the gala. Then again, he regretted not taking her sooner.
Let those reporters and Fu Zhiyie think carefully about how to make it up to Charles Chase’s sister.
He looked up, long fingers pinching the gold-rimmed glasses off his nose, setting them carelessly on the table.
The gentle features behind the lenses suddenly sharpened.
...
Upstairs, lights still glimmered. Fu Zhiyie looked up, his eyes fixed on that window.
The faint purple curtains gentle the glow inside.
He could picture Cecilia freshly showered, burrowed lazily into bed—maybe with Zoey Zhang cuddled up too.
A biting spring breeze sobered him up. He wanted—needed—to see Cecilia.
And with that thought, he strode, step by measured step, toward the villa.