Thanks to his robust constitution, Fu Zhiyan’s fever had already broken by the time he woke up.

There was still a little left in the IV drip in his hand, the medicine dripping steadily through the tube. After watching it for a few seconds, he reached over and yanked out the needle. The veins on the back of his hand were a little swollen, and a bead of blood welled up, which he wiped away carelessly.

Uncomfortable from the sweat-drenched clothes sticking to his skin, he headed to the bathroom. He tossed his pajama pants onto the sink. Warm water rained over him, washing him clean from head to toe. Only after a long while did he turn off the water, the droplets from his hair still falling as he shook them out.

Under the soft, warm lighting of the bathroom, his face looked even paler as he lowered his head for a moment.

All of a sudden, he remembered that day—how Cecilia had left because of Vivian Belle, and how he’d gone home to look for her but couldn’t find her. When she finally returned, he noticed marks on her hand from where she'd been given an IV.

A surge of crazed curiosity swelled within him—he wanted desperately to know what Cecilia had gone through that day. He grabbed a towel to dry off, threw on a random set of clothes, and hit the phone to summon Henry Hart.

He pulled up the company’s security footage from that day. Fu Zhiyan watched as the tiny figure of her stumbled out the front doors, her little hand lifted—probably to wipe tears from her face.

She hadn’t made it far before she stopped at a trash can by the curb and vomited, then someone helped her to a bench.

Even strangers were willing to offer her warmth. But back then, what about him?

He remembered—the wind had been icy that day. His Cecilia, curled on a bench, must have been freezing, and maybe, just maybe, her disappointment in him hurt even worse than the cold wind.

Later, she collapsed and fainted, only to be taken to the hospital.

That ambulance he’d seen when he drove into the parking lot—that had been for her.

Fu Zhiyan sat in silence for a long time, his eyes rimmed red. Then, with a loud crash, he kicked the side cabinet, sending papers fluttering like snow all across the wool carpet.

His leg went numb from the impact. Slumping into his chair, a bitter smile tugged at his lips.

He actually still had the nerve to go looking for Cecilia, to ask her for forgiveness.

Henry Hart entered on perfect timing, guessing that the boss must be almost done with his IV.

The moment he cracked the office door open, a harsh wave of cigarette smoke hit him and made him cough. He pushed the door wider.

The room was a chaos: the person who ought to be resting in bed was sitting in the big armchair, still smoking. The ashtray already held several finished cigarette butts; files and documents lay scattered all over the floor, even the little side cabinet had been knocked over.

"President Foster…" Henry Hart was lost for words.

Fu Zhiyan stubbed out his cigarette, his voice cold: "What is it?"

"You’re just recovering—try to smoke less, please."

He didn’t wait for a response; he was used to being ignored. He pulled out his phone and fished out a message.

"By the way, Madam..."

At the mention of Cecilia, Fu Zhiyan immediately sat up straighter in his chair, lifting his gaze. "What about Cecilia?"

Henry Hart placed the phone on the table and opened up a text, "Madam’s very concerned about your health. She said, if you’re feeling better, let her know."

"Oh, right—I’ve got some paperwork for you to sign. I’ll be back after I fetch it." And with that, Henry Hart quickly strode from the office.

The door slammed shut behind him.

The phone screen still glowed:

[Let me know when he’s better.]

Nothing extra, not a word more. Staring at the message, Fu Zhiyan’s expression softened; his lips curled into a slight, helpless smile.

He saved her number into his own phone and typed out a reply.

"I'm better now, don't worry."

But after sending it, he wondered if maybe Cecilia wasn’t actually worried about him at all.

Caught in these tangled, uncertain feelings, he felt as reckless as a lovesick teenager, afraid even a single word could go wrong.

A long while later, his phone finally chimed quietly.

He nervously opened the message.

[Okay, make sure you rest more.]

Fu Zhiyan read it over and over again. Hugging his phone close, he rolled back into the lounge and mumbled, Well, I can nap a little longer.

……

The Chen family villa.

Every morning after breakfast, Cecilia would head to the hospital to visit her mother.

She always dressed in loose-fitting clothes, hiding her pregnancy—not that it was obvious yet, as the baby was only four months along. The doctor said her baby was positioned further back, so her bump wasn't very visible.

As long as she dressed loosely, Ye Jing couldn’t tell she was pregnant. Cecilia didn’t want her mother to worry, not when she was still recovering. She decided she’d only tell her mom about the baby after she returned to the Chen house.

Ye Jing was improving—her waking hours grew longer and sometimes, she’d even wave quietly at Cecilia.

Life seemed filled with a new sort of hope, for both her mother and the baby.

She used to feel like she had no one in this world, but now, she had two blood relatives. That made her happy.

There was also Uncle Chen. Ever since that conversation they’d had, he’d started acting like she was invisible, never speaking to her. That actually came as a relief to Cecilia.

You can’t expect everyone to like you, and that’s fine. A little mutual distance is sometimes the best arrangement.

But Xiao Mu didn’t see it that way. She thought Uncle Chen had been acting odd lately, coming and going more than before—he’d once never left the house.

That morning, Cecilia came downstairs for breakfast, to find Charles Chase still at home for once, sitting at the dining table and reading the paper.

It reminded Cecilia inexplicably of Fu Zhiyan—she had no idea why. In these days of convenient smartphones, why were they both still so into printed newspapers?

If not for seeing them read, Cecilia would have thought nobody read real newspapers anymore.

"Ge," she called as she came down the stairs, sporting a loose pink crewneck sweater over a white skirt.

Charles Chase saw the pink and smiled to himself: Girls really do like pink. Smart move, he thought, buying Cecilia everything in pink.

Hmm, maybe he’d even get a pink children’s room ready, and soon, when Cecilia had her baby, he could play the doting uncle to a little one—it made him a bit excited just to imagine it.

Though his wild thoughts ran rampant inside, his face stayed as reserved as ever. "You’re up. Eat something first."

Cecilia Ye sat down and stirred her shredded chicken porridge, asking in some surprise, "Not going to work today?"

Charles Chase checked his watch—it was just after eight. "Mm, I have a flight at eleven. I need to make a trip to Country Y. There's a big project to handle."

He was referring, in fact, to the ‘DY’ project bid. Because it was a Country Y project, he had to go over in person. Odds were, he’d run into Fu Zhiyan there.

But of course, he kept that to himself. "I’ll be gone for a couple of days. Take care of yourself at home, all right? I’ll be back the day after tomorrow."

Cecilia Ye nodded obediently. "Don’t worry about me, Ge."

With those frequent reminders, she’d finally gotten used to calling him ‘Ge’ (older brother), and he was quietly pleased every time.

The chicken porridge warmed her up all the way to her toes, and she could feel the baby start moving inside her belly. She gently rubbed her stomach, playing with the child.

By the time she finished, the chauffeur was already waiting to drive Charles Chase to the airport for his flight.

Cecilia Ye also went upstairs to tidy up—soon, she'd be heading to the hospital.