The night wind in Liangcheng carried the faint fragrance of osmanthus. After the noise and bustle of Xin Yue's wedding in Guangjing, the mansion finally returned to stillness. Lights glowed softly through the wide glass windows, the garden paths outside lying quiet beneath the moon.
Qing Yun had barely spoken a word after they returned. She was the type who, when surrounded by crowds, drained herself silently. The moment the car pulled into the familiar gates, she seemed to exhale every remaining bit of energy. She slipped upstairs, washed quickly, and curled into the quilt on their bed.
Ze Yan lingered behind. He changed into home clothes, his movements unhurried, like a man savoring the taste of a rare peace. His tall figure moved through the shadows of the master bedroom, deliberate, self-contained. He sat by the bed, reached to brush a stray lock of hair from her cheek—when his phone buzzed faintly on the nightstand.
He glanced at the screen.
Shen Yi Rong.
The name was one he had not seen for years, yet it carried no warmth—only the faint echo of a history he never cared to revisit.
> Shen Yi Rong:
"You clearly saw me at your sister's wedding, why so cold, not saying hi?"
Ze Yan's brows drew together. His long fingers hovered over the screen before tapping out a curt reply.
> Gu Ze Yan:
"Nothing to talk about."
The three dots flickered almost immediately, her response swift, teasing.
> Shen Yi Rong:
"Oh, you'll be. Soon…"
A shadow rippled across his eyes. He set the phone down face-first, unwilling to give her words more weight than they deserved. There was no anger—only a vague unease, the memory of a woman he had once thought dazzling before her true face was revealed. Still, their history was not entirely bitter; just a chapter closed long ago.
Turning back, he saw Qing Yun's sleeping form. She had already drifted into slumber, breath light, shoulders rising gently with each inhale. The quilt was pulled halfway up, her small body curled into itself, like a fragile cat seeking warmth.
The hardness in his gaze melted.
He leaned forward, fingers brushing through her dark hair. Soft strands slipped between his knuckles, cool to the touch. He lowered his head, his lips almost brushing her forehead, though he stopped short, content just to breathe in the faint scent of her.
Whatever Yi Rong had meant, it was nothing compared to the woman asleep beside him.
---
Morning light spilled across the marble floors of the mansion. The air smelled faintly of fresh bread and brewed tea, drifting from the kitchen.
When Ze Yan descended from the stairs, buttoning his cufflinks with practiced precision, the first thing he saw was Qing Yun.
She sat curled on the long sofa, wrapped in a pale blanket. Her face was paler than usual, lips without color, eyes faintly glazed. The breakfast tray on the low table remained almost untouched.
He frowned instantly. "Qing Yun."
She lifted her gaze, forcing a smile. "I'm fine… just a little tired."
But he could tell. Her small frame hunched against the cushions, the way her hand pressed against her stomach—it wasn't mere fatigue.
Understanding came swiftly.
He exhaled softly, reached out to brush her hair back. "Stay here."
She blinked, surprised as he disappeared upstairs again. She thought he was preparing to leave for the office. Yet minutes later, he returned, not with a briefcase, but with a sleek electric heating pad in hand.
Ze Yan sat down beside her. He adjusted the pillow onto his lap, patting it lightly.
"Lie down."
Qing Yun hesitated, eyes flickering to his crisp shirt. "Aren't you going to work?"
His lips curved faintly, a smile only she ever saw. "Not today. Today is Qing Yun's day. I just want to spoil you."
Her throat tightened. Something warm spread through her chest, chasing away a little of the dull ache. She obeyed silently, lying down with her head on his lap.
Ze Yan placed the heating pad carefully against her stomach, large palm steady against it, ensuring the warmth seeped through. His touch was firm, protective, as though he could shield her from every discomfort.
The living room grew quiet, filled only with the hum of morning. Outside, the garden glistened with dew; inside, time seemed to slow to match her breathing.
---
As Qing Yun's eyelids grew heavy, Ze Yan tilted his head toward the maid standing discreetly by the doorway. He gestured. Moments later, she returned carrying a small box—the face mask set he had purchased months ago, one he had tucked away after remembering how Si Yao once teased Qing Yun about beauty routines.
He opened it, the faint herbal fragrance rising.
Qing Yun barely stirred as he dipped his fingers into the cream and gently spread it across her face. His movements were precise, almost reverent, as though applying lacquer to an antique scroll.
She stirred faintly, brows knitting. "What are you doing?"
"Don't move." His tone was calm, but carried quiet authority. "If you move, it will smear."
Her lips twitched, but she let her eyes close again. He worked slowly, smoothing the cream evenly, taking unnecessary care. When he was finished, satisfaction glinted in his gaze—as if he had completed a perfect restoration.
But just as he set the jar down, Qing Yun's eyes fluttered open. Mischief, faint but real, danced there. She dipped her slender fingers into the cream and, without warning, pressed a cool patch onto his cheek.
Ze Yan froze, voice low. "Qing Yun."
She laughed softly, continuing her strokes across his jaw. "If you can do it to me, then I can do it to you."
At first, he resisted, his hand closing lightly around her wrist. But when she tilted her head, eyes bright despite her pale face, his resolve dissolved. He sighed, releasing her hand.
Soon, both their faces were equally covered, two porcelain masks staring at each other.
Qing Yun giggled, the sound soft, genuine. It was the first time that morning her smile reached her eyes.
---
Just then, footsteps echoed from the hall.
Chen Rui entered, carrying a neat stack of folders. "Sir, here are the documents you—"
He stopped.
On the sofa, his almighty CEO sat with an expression as composed as ever—except his face was slathered in white mask cream. Beside him, Lin Qing Yun reclined peacefully, also masked. Both turned their heads toward him with unnerving calm.
Chen Rui's jaw slackened. His mind stalled completely.
Ze Yan's gaze cut toward him, cool and steady. "What are you staring at?"
"…Nothing, sir."
Qing Yun bit her lip to keep from laughing. She reached for the jar, extending it toward Chen Rui with all seriousness. "Would you like to join?"
The silence stretched. Chen Rui's shoulders slumped. "…Yes, Madam."
Minutes later, the scene turned absurd: three figures in the bright living room, all faces covered in mask cream.
Qing Yun leaned against Ze Yan's lap, breathing softly. Ze Yan's hand stroked her hair, gentle and protective. Chen Rui sat stiffly on the side chair, expression resigned to fate.
No words were spoken, yet the atmosphere was oddly serene. The mansion, usually echoing with the footsteps of staff, seemed to cocoon itself around them.
Ze Yan lowered his gaze, eyes fixed on the woman resting against him.
If every day could be like this—mundane, ordinary, filled with her presence—he would gladly trade Zhao Corporation, Luminar, the entire empire he built.