By the time she came back to herself, the person inside the window was already turning to look at her, eyes gentle and filled with countless unspoken words.
Maybe she’d been looking too long; tears slipped from the corners of her eyes, slowly dampening her pillow.
When Ye Jing woke up, she habitually glanced toward the window—and there, she saw a petite girl standing outside.
The girl was dressed all in white, her sweater soft and fluffy, her hair long and beautiful. In Ye Jing’s heart, no girl in the world could compare to her daughter’s beauty.
She didn’t need anyone to tell her; Ye Jing knew instantly—this was her daughter, the one she’d yearned for through endless days and nights, always living in her thoughts.
Whenever she was locked in that freezing cold cell, just thinking about her daughter made her feel like she could endure anything.
Back then, when she left her at the orphanage doors, the girl had been so tiny—far too small to even say the word ‘Mama’ properly. In the blink of an eye, how had she grown so much?
Cecilia Ye suddenly didn’t know what to do or say. They simply stared at each other, as if nothing in the world could disturb them.
Cecilia wiped her eyes and managed a smile. She didn’t want her mother to worry.
So this is what it feels like to have a mother. Her mother had the gentlest eyes in the world, and when she looked at her, it felt like she could be brave enough to face anything, nothing would ever truly scare her anymore.
She lifted a hand and waved gently through the glass—a tiny greeting.
Ye Jing smiled back, the two of them exchanging silent words until the doctor entered the ward.
Cecilia watched anxiously as the doctor examined her mother, her small face taut with worry, her eyes never leaving the room.
Not until the doctor finally came out did she step forward to ask.
“Don’t worry—she’s doing fine for now. Mr. Chen has brought in the best experts. She just needs some time under observation in the hospital. Once things stabilize and her functions have recovered, she can go home and rest.”
“Thank you, doctor,” Cecilia said quietly, glancing back into the room.
Ye Jing, still frail from her illness, soon drifted back to sleep.
Cecilia stood alone for a while longer before finally leaving the hospital.
---
At the Fu Group, after a whole afternoon of meetings, the new project plan and bid proposal were finally set.
Xavier Foster returned to his office, frowning. The exhaustion of the past few days hit him hard now that things had finally eased up; it was as if his body was suddenly protesting every effort.
He pressed a hand to his stomach, waiting for the discomfort to pass, then made his way to the break room to shower.
Afterward, he tossed himself on the bed, not bothering to dry his wet hair before closing his eyes. The pain in his stomach was familiar by now—he brushed it aside, thinking he’d sleep it off like always.
But that night, his fever spiked. Under the dark gray covers, his half-naked body burned with heat.
He woke in the middle of the night, gulped down two mouthfuls of icy wine, and collapsed back onto the bed. Whatever—better that than lying awake all night.
Early the next morning, Henry Hart arrived at the office. Seeing no signs of life, he pushed open the door to check. It was already well past nine, and their always-early president hadn’t made a peep.
Remembering a scheduled morning meeting, he went to knock on the break room door. No answer. He knocked again—the door cracked open, a wave of alcohol hitting him.
Empty bottles rolled across the floor. An uneasy feeling crept up on him as he entered, only to see Zhiye on the bed, pale and flushed with fever. He reached out—his forehead was burning hot.
---
At the Chase family’s old house, Cecilia strolled in the garden for a while, soaking up the sun. As soon as she returned to her room, her phone rang.
A name flashed on the screen—Henry Hart. They hadn’t been in touch for ages; this was the first time since she changed her number.
She knew, if Henry Hart was calling, it could only be about Xavier Foster...
“Madam,” he greeted her the same way as always, “do you have a moment? Could you come to the office?”
Cecilia hesitated, dabbing water from her hands with a tissue. “Assistant He, is something wrong?”
Truthfully, she didn’t want to go—not right now. They’d agreed to take some time apart, after all.
“The president is ill. He’s running a high fever. It’s pretty serious.” Henry Hart’s tone was as even as ever.
Cecilia frowned, biting her lip. “I’m sorry—I really can’t come today. Please, just take him to the hospital.”
“Madam, the president’s not cooperating. He refuses to leave the room, and he...he keeps calling your name.”
“Then call the family doctor. And don’t call me Madam anymore, Henry Hart. I’m not his wife any longer.”
Her voice trembled on the last words—and before he could reply, she hung up, almost as if fleeing.
It’s fine, Cecilia. With Henry Hart watching over him, he’ll be taken care of. He’s not a child—it’s only a fever.
She clutched her phone tightly, repeating these words to herself over and over in her head.
Henry Hart still called in the family doctor. After all, even at over 189 pounds, he couldn’t drag the president out alone.
He understood well—the president had been trying to punish himself lately, working like a man possessed, barely sleeping or eating, just to numb the pain and avoid thinking about ‘Madam.’
Whoever said the president of the Fu Group had it easy knew nothing—the decisions large and small, the development of the company, it all weighed on him.
He and the president had known each other since they were little boys. Back then, Zhiye was a treasured grandson of the Fu elders, everyone's darling. Only after his parents’ accident had he shut himself off from the world, saying that by caring less, he could get hurt less.
That chilly nature was hard to break through—until Madam came along. Now, it was clear: he’d truly fallen for her.
His phone buzzed—a message from Madam. He hurried to open it.
“Let me know when he gets better.”
Cecilia had struggled not to send that message, but she just had to know he’d be alright. Once she knew, she wouldn’t keep worrying.
Henry Hart smiled. He knew it—she still cared for the president.
The family doctor soon arrived, set up an IV for Zhiye, and prescribed some fever medicine. But for that persistent stomach pain—he’d have to get it checked at the hospital, and he had to eat regular meals from now on.
---
Once again, in that dimly lit room…
Red-polished fingernails pressed the answer button.
“How’s it going?”
“It’s almost ready. I hope you remember our deal, not a single cent less.”
“You’ll get every penny. Don’t worry.”
The call ended.
The woman hummed a cheerful tune, pulling out lipstick to touch up her makeup.