In the upstairs room, Mia Moore threw herself onto the bed.
As beautiful as it was, the elaborate wedding dress was nothing but a burden—the heavy weight of it made her sigh.
Charles Chase entered quietly behind her. His jade-like hand braced against the bed by her ear, gently rubbing her round little earlobe as he leaned over to look at his stunning bride. "Baby, are you tired?"
Mia Moore nodded, her lashes as soft as raven feathers falling shut—she was truly exhausted, not even wanting to lift a finger.
"Help me change—I’m so tired."
"Mm-hmm." The toasting dress was a simple champagne-colored gown, much lighter and hanging conveniently on a rack nearby. Bending down, Charles Chase scooped her into a seated position and began untying the wedding dress strings on her back, one by one.
Once the dress was undone, Mia Moore felt a wave of relief—it was like taking off a corset. She didn’t even bother with the formal dress, slipping into a nightgown instead and flopping back onto the bed.
She rubbed her belly, hunger beginning to creep in, and poked at Charles Chase. "Aren’t you supposed to go downstairs and toast the guests? I’m hungry."
"No rush. Mom and the others are there, and Fu Zhiyan’s around too—plenty of people to cover for us."
"True," she agreed.
So, the two of them stayed cozily tucked away in the bedroom, leaving all the guests downstairs to fend for themselves.
"I can’t believe Song Ying caught the bouquet! I must have the perfect aim," Mia Moore giggled to herself, thoroughly enjoying the comfort of the soft blankets.
"I’ll get you something to eat." But before Charles Chase could step out, there was a knock at the door. Sarah Chase walked in, carrying a tray of food she’d prepared.
She bypassed Charles Chase entirely, setting the food beside the bed and looking over Mia Moore. "Yaoyao, you must be hungry. I brought you something to eat."
Mia Moore sat up and beamed, "Thank you, Mom. I’m starving!"
The dishes were all Mia Moore’s favorites, and she immediately started sipping the chicken soup placed at the bedside.
"Eat first, don’t worry about things downstairs—Mom’s got it covered."
Then, moving closer, she glared pointedly at Charles Chase and warned, "Hey, son, behave yourself. Ahem, Yaoyao is only three months along. Tonight—you two better not…"
Before she could finish, Charles Chase knew exactly what she meant and ushered the ever-worrying Mrs. Chen out of the room. Of course, he was well aware there would be no funny business on their wedding night.
Mia Moore’s ears immediately flushed red as she sipped her soup...
Even so… she was actually a few days over three months now.
---
The reception was lively, carrying on late into the night.
It was a rare opportunity to visit the Chase family and meet the president of the Fu Group, so the guests stayed as long as they could.
Knowing Cecilia’s (Cecilia is a nickname) low tolerance for alcohol, Fu Zhiyan quietly substituted juice for her. People came up to toast, and several inquired about the art exhibition.
"Mr. Fu, your wife’s exhibition is truly outstanding—I’m sure it’ll help so many kids."
"We’ll definitely attend the exhibition, Mr. Fu. We hope to contribute in any way we can."
Whenever someone praised him, Fu Zhiyan would simply nod and reply, "It was my wife and today’s bride who put the exhibition together. I just went along for the ride."
Of course, some guests came straight for Cecilia.
"Mrs. Fu, I absolutely adore your paintings. Besides the exhibition, can I buy any of your work?"
Quite a few wealthy women and heiresses were genuine fans of Cecilia’s art.
"I still have a few pieces in my studio. If you’re interested, feel free to come by sometime," she replied.
"Thank you for your support," Cecilia answered every guest politely, never once losing her composure.
But as the crowd thickened, Fu Zhiyan wrapped an arm protectively around her and led her to a quiet corner—his chilly aura warning everyone else to stand back.
"Zhiyan, it really is such an achievement to have people love your work like this."
"Your art deserves every bit of admiration."
During the time Cecilia disappeared, Fu Zhiyan had seen all her paintings. He knew just how much time and effort she’d devoted to that hibiscus painting that had been destroyed. Thinking of that memory, bitterness welled up—he still kept the painting, now patched up, in a corner of his study, though it could never go back to how it was.
"Baby."
He held her a little tighter and kissed her gently on the cheek.
"What’s wrong?"
There were still plenty of people around, sneaking glances their way. Cecilia blushed, not as indifferent to the crowd as Fu Zhiyan.
"Nothing—I just felt like calling your name."
Cecilia smiled, blinking her long lashes like tiny fans. "Let me have a sip of your champagne."
Fu Zhiyan’s glass was a cup of champagne, not his preferred drink, which is why he hadn’t touched it.
The pale golden champagne sparkled, tiny bubbles swirling up from the crystal-clear base and bursting with a faint pop. Cecilia had been enticed by its sweet aroma for a while—ever since getting tipsy that one time, she’d found drinking rather fun. That fuzzy, carefree feeling let her say whatever was on her mind.
Fu Zhiyan eyed the drink and then her, leaning in. "You’ll get drunk."
"Just one sip," she coaxed, clinging with all the soft persistence of a kitten.
He sighed, completely helpless, and brought the glass closer. Cecilia took a small sip, then couldn’t resist taking another.
Her beautiful eyes curved with delight.
The wedding photographer, unable to find the newlyweds anywhere, stood aimlessly in the main hall. Catching this scene, he quickly snapped shot after shot.
Downstairs, not only were Mia Moore and Charles Chase missing—Song Ying and Julian Jarvis were nowhere to be seen either.
The crowd was thick indoors, and Song Ying never enjoyed such noisy scenes. She clutched the white bouquet she’d caught, poured herself a drink, and headed out to the garden.
A handful of guests lingered among the blooms outside, the sky gradually darkening as twinkling lights turned on.
White tulle and rose petals scattered across the ground. In the golden glow, the garden sparkled with romantic warmth, envy sparking in the heart.
Song Ying rarely drank—her work demanded she stay lucid. But for Mia Moore’s wedding, she’d traded shifts and had nothing pressing the next day.
One last glass—she was already a little woozy, any more and she’d be drunk.
Setting the glass gently on the bench, she stared at the bouquet in her hands. She held it so tenderly, dew still beading on the white petals, touches of pale blue flowers nestled at the edge.
Today’s wedding really was beautiful.
And so very happy.
Song Ying let out a faint sigh. Her confession, all those years ago, had gone unanswered. Now she was left with passion and no place to spend it—not knowing where to begin.
Men like him—still so stubborn and unyielding. Hmph.
Someone seemed to sit at the other end of the bench, but she didn’t care. Reaching blindly with her hand, she tried to move her wine glass out of the way, the same way she always did.