The corridor on the twelfth floor was quiet, broken only by the occasional beeping from medical machines.
Cecilia followed behind Charles Chase, her heart pounding in her chest. Her small hands instinctively rested atop her little belly.
Even though Ye Jing had been transferred out of the ICU, she was still in intensive care—visiting wasn’t allowed just yet.
They walked to the last room at the end of the hallway. Charles Chase stopped and gestured for her to look through the window.
Outside the ICU, there was a large glass pane. Slowly, Cecilia turned her head and saw the person lying on the bed inside.
The woman looked frail, with a few stray white hairs beginning to show, hollowed cheeks, and sallow skin.
She was still wearing an oxygen mask, her breathing turning the mask foggy.
Cecilia pressed herself closer to the glass, her hand clamped over her mouth. This was… her mom.
She just knew. Some unspoken, mysterious bond told her so—before she even saw that their eyebrows and noses shared the same shape.
Tears welled up, blurring her vision. She wiped them away, desperate to see her mother more clearly.
In that moment, she couldn’t say exactly how she felt—somewhere between disbelief and happiness, but also a twinge of pain seeing her mother so weak.
“Don’t worry. The doctor said it’s nothing serious—she just hasn’t woken up yet,” Charles Chase explained quietly.
He felt only sympathy for Ye Jing. She was a pitiable woman, and as a mother, he admired everything she’d done for Cecilia. Beyond that, though, he felt nothing more.
Cecilia was certain her mother was okay, and it was clear that Charles Chase had gone to great lengths for this.
She remembered him once saying, ‘She’s not my mother.’ After thinking it through, she understood—they must share a father but have different mothers.
Cecilia wondered, if her own father had a child with another woman, could she care for them the way Charles Chase did for her?
“Brother… thank you.” She turned to look at him, eyes sincere and earnest.
“Silly girl, you’re my little sister. I’ll take care of you from now on, so don’t be afraid of anything.”
Charles Chase bent down to gently wipe away the tears that stubbornly clung to the corners of her eyes.
“You have family now too, Cecilia. From now on, you can rely on your brother for anything.”
Those simple words undid the last of Cecilia’s defenses. She’d never known what it felt like to depend on someone with her whole heart.
“Alright, are you going to cry again? You’ve cried too much today, and you know I’m hopeless with crying girls.”
Cecilia sniffled, suppressing another sob. “I—I’m not a little girl.”
He grinned. “Right, our Cecilia is about to become a mom herself. Tsk, how did I suddenly become an uncle? I’m still single, you know?”
Usually, he was calm and reserved. Even a little distant. But now, joking like this, he finally coaxed a smile out of Cecilia.
Handing her a tissue to blot her tears, Charles Chase hesitated for a moment, considering whether to tell her about what happened to Ye Jing all those years ago.
Cecilia had always been so sensible—she hadn’t even once asked about her father.
Charles Chase brought her to the empty room next door, and they sat down together.
Remembering that Cecilia had only just been discharged from the hospital herself, he decided it was best to let Ye Jing recover fully before talking about the past.
For now, there was something even more important he needed to ask her.
They chatted for a while, and then Cecilia returned to look in on Ye Jing. At last, Charles Chase took her back to Qingshui Bay.
She didn’t want to leave, but there was nothing she could do to help at the hospital, and she wasn’t allowed in the ward anyway.
...
Back at the villa in Qingshui Bay, Fu Zhiyie had been sitting on the sofa all day.
By noon, the weather had turned gloomy.
“Sir... have you made a decision about the overseas project?”
Henry Hart called—he managed most company affairs, but sometimes there were decisions only Fu Zhiyie could make.
With Fu Zhiyie away, this particular project had stalled. Henry Hart handled whatever he could, but the final decision was up to him.
“I’ll come in tomorrow. Set up a meeting,” Fu Zhiyie replied.
He ended the call, slouching on the sofa. His stern expression revealed just how troubled he felt inside.
His agitation only grew as time passed.
He waited for Cecilia to return, unable to shake the thought: Would she leave with Charles Chase?
If she went with Charles Chase, what would he do? The urge to hide her away, to keep her only with him—he couldn’t help himself.
The car pulled up to the house attached to the studio. Charles Chase looked at Cecilia, worried. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?”
“No, I’ll be alright on my own.”
“I’ll come pick you up tomorrow, then.”
“Okay, brother.”
Cecilia nodded. The wind lifted a strand of her hair, and she tucked it behind her ear before heading inside.
Fu Zhiyie sat on the sofa, legs crossed, watching her come in. He finally set his feet down.
His face was cold, devoid of expression. Two buttons on his shirt were undone, exposing a flash of collarbone—he looked nothing like his usual polished self.
“You’re home.”
In the end, it was Fu Zhiyie who finally broke the silence.
Cecilia nodded and turned to head upstairs. She was exhausted—physically and emotionally.
From yesterday to today, she’d barely had a moment’s rest.
Even though the doctor had told her to stay cheerful and calm, these past two days had been a whirlwind: Fu Zhiyie’s unpredictability, then learning she had both a brother and a mother. It was all too much to process at once.
She felt like she’d cried so much her eyes ached. She didn’t want to shed another tear.
Fu Zhiyie stepped in front of her, rigid and upright. He looked down at her, quietly intense.
Cecilia shrank back, afraid he’d lose control again like last night. “I just want to sleep for a while.”
Watching her skirt around him and head upstairs, Fu Zhiyie felt a dull ache in his heart.
He brought this on himself. Never had he imagined that things between him and Cecilia would end up like this.
When she’d left, he thought finding her and apologizing would be enough.
But after he found her, he realized he wanted to do more than just apologize—he wanted to treat her well, take care of her.
But Cecilia didn’t need him anymore. Just being near him overwhelmed her.
For the first time, Fu Zhiyie tasted real defeat. He wandered upstairs—the bedroom door was already closed—so he went out to the balcony, letting the cold breeze whip around him.
He hadn’t smoked in days. The box in his pocket was crushed, but he took it out and lit one cigarette after another.
The wind tore the smoke away almost as soon as it left his lips. He squinted, taking a hard drag that burned his lungs before he exhaled, forcefully.
But the heaviness suffocating his chest wouldn’t budge.
He didn't know how long he stood there, long enough for the sky to grow dark. The cigarette between his fingers had long since burned out.
Stiff as a statue, Fu Zhiyie leaned on the balcony railing. The wind from the lake whipped his hair, sending it flying messily.
The door opened, and Cecilia stepped out. She’d watched him from behind the glass for a while before quietly coming outside.
Hearing the sound, Fu Zhiyie turned around.
Maybe it would rain tomorrow. Behind him, the clouds burned in the sunset—the cold man’s silhouette bathed momentarily in warm orange, touched for once by gentleness.
Fu Zhiyie already knew what she wanted to say. After all these years, her every look and every secret thought were already engraved in his heart.