Zhong Nian woke very late.
Perhaps it was the alcohol—her head throbbed, heavy and dizzy.
She pushed herself upright and immediately realized the surroundings were unfamiliar. Instinctively, she looked down at what she was wearing.
The bathrobe hung loosely around her body. There was nothing underneath. After a night of restless sleep, the collar had fallen open, exposing half her chest.
A chill shot down her spine. Her scalp tingled.
She turned her head and scanned the room. On the bedside table lay a set of clean clothes—even clean underwear. After putting them on, she discovered they fit perfectly.
Her phone was beside her. Fully charged.
She stepped outside. The room was empty.
The décor was minimalist—black, white, and gray tones. Cold, restrained. On the dining table sat breakfast and a glass of honey water.
Then she noticed, on the bar counter not far away—
A pair of cat’s-eye cufflinks.
A limited-edition classic from a luxury brand.
She had attended that brand’s launch event once. Standing far in the back, in high heels, she had remained on her feet for over three hours just to capture one headline-worthy photograph.
When she returned home that night, her heels were blistered raw. It took more than a month to recover.
It wasn’t as if she had never seen Liang Yifeng over the years.
At that same launch event, while she stood in the back row with her camera raised, she saw him.
He sat in the first row of the guest section, wearing a custom deep-gray suit.
She lowered her camera and stared at him.
All she could see was the back of his head.
He sat upright, shoulders even, hair unchanged from years before. Under the dazzling lights of the event, he looked impossibly distant.
Later, as she and the photographer drove back, the unpredictable British weather shifted again. It had rained in the evening; now the sky was clear.
Stopped at a red light, she lowered the passenger window and glanced sideways.
And froze.
He sat in the backseat of the black car beside them, head slightly lowered. His profile was sharp and clean, brows dark, nose perfectly sculpted.
She could not mistake him.
For thirty seconds, she looked at him.
He never once looked back.
When she sorted through her photos that night, staring at dozens of images of the back of his head, she thought—
It was fortunate she hadn’t gone to greet him.
He seemed to have forgotten her.
A lifetime brings countless encounters.
Only a handful are remembered.
Her thoughts returned to the present.
She picked up the cufflinks.
As expected of a wealthy heir—six-figure accessories left carelessly on a bar counter.
She dialed his number.
He answered quickly.
Neither spoke first.
As if waiting.
“Liang Yifeng.”
“Mm.”
“About my clothes last night…” She hesitated.
He was walking toward the inpatient building when he replied, “The hotel manager changed them.” After a pause, he added, “Female.”
The stone in her chest finally settled.
“Anything else?” There was faint impatience in his voice.
“Thank you.”
“One ‘thank you’ is enough?” He stopped walking, gestured for others to go ahead, and stepped into the stairwell.
Her fingers tightened around the cufflinks.
Not enough?
After a moment, she asked, “Then… I’ll treat you to dinner. Would that be okay?”
He adjusted his sleeve. “Okay.”
Something felt off. She couldn’t pinpoint what.
“What do you like to eat?”
“Home-style cooking.”
If he wanted home-style cooking, couldn’t he just go home?
But then she remembered—his parents were rarely there. Raised largely by household staff, perhaps he had never truly tasted what “home-style” meant.
Or perhaps he had.
Once, when the housekeeper needed leave, Zhong Nian and Liang Yifeng were studying in the study room. The housekeeper knocked nervously to ask permission.
Zhong Nian glanced at him.
Without looking up, he said, “Your decision.”
She granted the leave.
Afterward, their biggest problem became meals.
Liang Yifeng was picky. And fastidious. He didn’t eat outside food.
So she had no choice but to cook.
Though she barely knew how.
She boiled water and threw in a packet of noodles.
Liang Yifeng leaned against the kitchen doorway, expressionless, watching her flustered movements.
She turned. “I can fry eggs. Want one?”
He shrugged. “Whatever.”
She cracked two eggs into a pan. But her hands were still wet. When water dripped into the hot oil—
It splattered.
She gasped in pain and stumbled back.
Liang Yifeng reacted instantly, pulling her into his arms and running her hand under cold water. He turned off the stove without panic.
Carefully, he rinsed the spots where oil had splashed—her fingertip, knuckle, the back of her hand. Seven or eight tiny burns dotted her pale skin.
Ugly.
And painful.
He washed them for several minutes before letting go.
But her injuries weren’t limited to her hand.
Oil had splashed near her eye.
It burned. She couldn’t open it.
Tears streamed down.
When he looked up, he saw her crying silently—eyes closed, lashes wet, hair clinging to her cheeks.
His breathing faltered.
When she cried—
It shook him.
He held her as she wept quietly.
It felt as though rain fell across his entire world.
She didn’t know why she was crying.
Her hand hurt. Her eye hurt. Her face hurt.
But the tears wouldn’t stop.
Her father had died on a stormy night. His body dismembered, his face slashed beyond recognition. DNA identification had confirmed it.
She hadn’t cried then.
Not even at the funeral.
But now—
It was as if a floodgate had opened.
She crouched on the floor, hugging her knees, sobbing until exhausted.
Later, he placed a bowl of overcooked noodles before her. A misshapen fried egg rested on top.
“Eat?”
She wiped her face. “Yes.”
When she stood, her legs trembled. He lifted her effortlessly, set her at the table, and brought the bowl.
Her injured fingers struggled with the chopsticks.
He noticed.
Silently, he took his own bowl, lifted noodles with his chopsticks, and held them out to her.
She stared. “You…”
“Eat,” he said, impatience edging his voice.
“Can I have a spoon?”
His patience thinned. “Stop talking. Either eat or I’ll throw it away.”
She lowered her eyes—and opened her mouth.
After she finished, his noodles had gone completely limp.
Yet he ate them all.
He cleaned the kitchen afterward.
The same man who couldn’t tolerate wrinkles in his clothes stood washing dishes.
That night, a thunderstorm cut power to the entire villa district.
Unable to sleep, she heard her bedroom door open.
“Who?”
“It’s me.”
Liang Yifeng.
He entered with a pillow and blanket and lay on the small sofa beside her bed. His calves hung off the edge.
“You’re sleeping here?”
“Mm.”
She struggled with rainstorms—they reminded her of her father’s death.
He must have known.
“Go back,” she said softly.
“Too much talk.”
“I can sleep.”
“Stop talking.”
She said nothing more.
She didn’t sleep well—but she didn’t wake either. Only drifted through nightmares.
She never knew—
That he spent most of that night sitting on the carpet beside her bed, watching.
When she frowned in her sleep, he held her hand.
When she settled, he withdrew.
That stormy night, lightning illuminated the room.
He remembered her tears earlier that day.
Those few tears—
He would have died for them.
…
Back in the present, after hanging up the phone, Liang Yifeng opened the stairwell window. Wind rushed in.
He remembered bathing her the previous night.
How unbearably beautiful she had been.
He had wanted her.
Even while she was unconscious.
The thought had spread wildly through him.
He smoked three packs before it subsided even slightly.
Zhong Nian.
Her name itself—
Was a spell.