Morning light spilled into the sunroom, softened by the glass panes that looked out onto the garden. Rows of potted plants lined the low shelves—fragrant herbs, tender jasmine vines, a small osmanthus tree that had just begun to sprout pale blossoms. Lin Qing Yun bent slightly, watering the soil with slow care, her fingers brushing over each leaf as though they too needed her reassurance.
The world here was quiet, nothing like the clamorous halls of Haiyun where Xin Yue's wedding had been held. That day had been grand, dazzling, filled with too many faces and voices. For weeks afterward, Qing Yun felt as if she were still untangling herself from the exhaustion. The sunroom had become her small refuge.
The door creaked faintly. She turned and saw Gu Ze Yan leaning against the frame, tall figure framed by light. He wore a crisp white shirt, cuffs unfastened, tie in hand. His lips quirked faintly.
"You're going to let me leave like this?" he asked, voice low and amused.
Qing Yun exhaled, almost smiling. "Ze Yan…" She set the watering can aside and crossed to him. He always did this—pretended helpless, as though he weren't perfectly capable of dressing himself.
Yet when she reached for the tie, his head dipped slightly, letting her loop the fabric around his neck. She worked slowly, fingers brushing against his throat, knotting it with familiar precision. His gaze never left her face.
"You're worse than a child," she murmured.
"Mmn," he agreed easily. "But I only behave like this with you."
Her eyes flickered upward, meeting his gaze. The sunlight behind him made his profile sharp, his eyes unreadable, yet softened by the faint curve of his lips. Her heart gave a small tremor, one she quickly pressed down. She finished the knot and patted his chest lightly.
"There. Now go."
He chuckled under his breath, straightening, but his hand lingered at her wrist for just a moment longer than necessary before he finally released her.
That afternoon, Qing Yun made her way into the old quarter of Liangcheng where the narrow lanes grew quieter, less touched by the tide of the city. Hidden there was 旧梦轩 (Studio of Old Dreams), the place Shen Huai Zhen had built after retirement.
The scent of sandalwood and aged paper filled the room when she entered. Scrolls lay on wooden tables, brushes and fine knives neatly arranged. Shen Huai Zhen himself sat by the window, white hair loose around his temples, linen tunic simple, yet dignified. He lifted his gaze and smiled warmly.
"You came again," he said. "Good. Come, let's see what these old pages have to teach you today."
Qing Yun joined him at the table. A set of fragile manuscripts waited, edges browned by time. She reached carefully, holding her breath as she brushed dust from the surface. Her hands trembled slightly—the fragility of the paper reminded her too much of the fragility she carried in her chest.
Shen Huai Zhen watched her with kind eyes. "Do you know, child, scars are not to be hidden."
She looked up, startled.
He continued gently, voice like water flowing over stones. "This paper has endured decades of wear. The cracks, the stains—they are proof it survived. When we mend it, we do not erase the scars. We strengthen them, make them endure longer than something untouched. It is the same with people."
Qing Yun's breath caught. She lowered her eyes to the manuscript again, her fingers brushing its scarred edges. For a moment, she wondered if Ze Yan thought the same when he looked at her—if every tender touch of his was also a kind of restoration.
She forced a faint smile. "I'll be careful."
He nodded approvingly. "That's all it asks of you."
Evening found her back at the mansion. The lights glowed warm against the falling dusk. In the study, Ze Yan sat with Chen Rui, long fingers turning through contracts. His expression was as composed as always, though his gaze sharpened when Chen Rui accidentally handed him a thin newspaper clipping along with the documents.
It was a society column. A glossy photograph captured a woman stepping into a gala, gown sweeping the floor, smile poised.
Shen Yi Rong—returning to Liangcheng society.
Ze Yan's eyes narrowed a fraction. Chen Rui paled. "Ah—apologies, sir. That shouldn't have been in there."
Ze Yan set the clipping aside without a word. His expression betrayed nothing, yet inwardly he felt it—a ripple disturbing still water. Yi Rong's name carried no affection anymore, only faint unease, like a memory that should have remained buried.
He dismissed Chen Rui and leaned back in his chair, gaze falling on the window where the first evening stars appeared. He did not mention it to Qing Yun. Some stones, once thrown, did not need to be dropped again.
Later, the mansion's library glowed softly under the lamplight. Qing Yun entered with a tray, the fragrance of jasmine tea filling the air. She placed it on the table beside Ze Yan, who had already shifted from documents to simply waiting for her.
She picked up a slim poetry collection and sat across from him. Her voice was gentle as she read aloud, each word falling like dew into the stillness.
Ze Yan leaned back in his chair, gaze fixed not on the book, but on her—her downcast lashes, the curve of her lips, the way lamplight kissed her skin.
After a few verses, she stopped, narrowing her eyes slightly. "You're not listening, are you?"
His lips curved faintly. "Mn. I'm listening to Qing Yun. That's enough."
Heat rose faintly to her cheeks. She lowered her gaze, fingers tightening around the book. The warmth in his eyes unsettled her more than any words.
For a long moment, neither spoke. The world outside was silent, the night deepening. Within the library, time seemed to pause—just the two of them, held within a fragile bubble of peace.
But outside, another figure moved.
At Zhao Corporation headquarters, bright lights illuminated the glass tower. A sleek black car pulled up. Shen Yi Rong stepped out, sunglasses shielding her eyes though the night had already fallen. She removed them slowly, lips painted a vivid red, curving into the faintest smile.
In her hand was a glossy guest list for Zhao Corporation's upcoming anniversary banquet. Her nails traced lazily down the page until they landed on a name unfamiliar to her.
Lin Qing Yun.
Her smile deepened, voice a low murmur meant only for herself. "So that's the girl he brought to the wedding… Let's see how long she lasts."
The night wind stirred, carrying her words away into the city's endless hum.
And in the mansion far across town, Qing Yun leaned against Ze Yan's armchair, her book slipping slightly from her fingers as drowsiness overtook her. Ze Yan reached to steady it, gaze softening.
Ripples moved beneath still water, but for now, the surface remained calm.