At that moment, Shen Zhiyu, who had been sitting silently in the corner, suddenly stood up.
Holding a cushion, he had been wrestling with himself on the sofa for a long time and finally came up with what he thought was a foolproof plan.
“Dad, why don’t I go on Saturday?”
“You were already going!”
Shen Yinluo’s furious roar immediately shut Shen Zhiyu up.
Shen Zhiyu: “…”
Shen Zhili: “…”
Shen Zhili’s lips twitched as she glanced at Shen Zhiyu, who looked utterly bewildered on the sofa.
Is this little fool out of his mind? Why would he suddenly say something like that? Is he trying to ease the tension?
Shen Yinluo ignored his son, who had attempted to show off but failed miserably, and turned to Shen Zhili with a cold, hard gaze.
“You must go. If you don’t, I’ll have someone drag you there. Even if you end up standing on the table and shitting, I’ll find someone to clean it up for you.”
After saying this, he picked up his glass, finished the last sip of wine, slammed the empty cup onto the table, and turned to go upstairs.
Only Shen Zhili and her brother were left behind—one on the stairs, the other on the sofa—staring at each other from a distance, speechless.
“Thanks, even if it wasn’t very smart.”
Shen Zhili tossed the words at Shen Zhiyu before turning and heading upstairs to her room.
Shen Zhiyu, who was already feeling embarrassed by his own foolishness, froze.
He looked up at the beautiful figure disappearing around the corner of the stairs and pursed his lips.
…
When Jiang Xianzhuo returned to his apartment, it was already half past nine.
The motion-sensor light in the hallway was broken, emitting a faint buzzing sound but refusing to provide any light.
He immersed himself in the familiar darkness, relying on muscle memory to climb to the third floor, entered the password, and opened the door.
The moment he pushed the door open, Jiang Xianzhuo froze.
The apartment was unnervingly clean.
A faint, unfamiliar scent of cleaning detergent drifted over.
The living room floor had been scrubbed so thoroughly that it reflected the ceiling light, almost blindingly bright.
The windowpanes were clearer than ever before, cutting the pitch-black night outside into a single, seamless piece.
His gaze finally settled on the corner of the living room.
His pupils instantly contracted.
There… stood an easel.
A brand-new wooden easel was propped up near the window, and beside it, a complete set of oil painting supplies was neatly arranged.
Tubes of paint were lined up in order by color, brushes were tucked into a transparent holder, sketchbooks were stacked in a pile, and even the floor was covered with a protective cloth.
Jiang Xianzhuo stood at the doorway, staring at that corner for a long time.
A very long time.
So long that the blood in his fingertips began to turn cold, spreading up his arms and into his heart.
Shen Zhili’s message earlier today—“I bought a few things and dropped them off at your apartment at noon”—referred to this.
Jiang Xianzhuo walked over, crouched down, and reached out to touch the tubes of paint.
They felt smooth to the touch, carrying the distinctive texture of expensive items.
He casually pulled out a tube of deep blue paint.
On the label of the tube was printed the logo of a brand he had only ever seen in professional art magazines.
It was a brand universally recognized as top-tier in the oil painting world, something only professional artists would use. The price of just this one small tube of paint was enough to cover his entire month’s salary from working at the convenience store.
And here, neatly arranged, were at least thirty tubes.
Jiang Xianzhuo stared at the tube of paint in his hand, his thoughts beginning to wander.
He had been obsessed with painting since he was very young, but his family was poor and couldn’t afford good paints.
His mother scrimped and saved, squeezing money from their meager living expenses to buy him the cheapest set of twelve watercolors.
At the time, she patted his head and said that when they had money in the future, she would definitely buy him the best oil paints in the world.
Later, his mother passed away.
That box of watercolors, which he had treasured like a precious gem, was lost somewhere during their turbulent life, disappearing into some forgotten corner.
Jiang Xianzhuo placed the paint in his hand back in its original spot, his movements so light they barely made a sound.
At that moment, he suddenly noticed a small note tucked into the gap between the paint tubes.
Jiang Xianzhuo frowned and pulled out the note.
On the paper were a few lines of text, written in a bold and unrestrained handwriting, much like the person herself.
“For you.”
“If you don’t want it, throw it away.”
“If you don’t want it, I won’t want it either.”
Jiang Xianzhuo, clutching the note: “…”
He looked at those vibrant, dazzling colors, his mind blank for a moment.
For him?
Why would she give him these things? And how did she know he liked painting?
His fingertips slowly curled, crumpling the note into a ball.
Jiang Xianzhuo stood up, not glancing at the corner again, and turned to walk into the bedroom.
He pulled open the bottom drawer of the desk, where the faded photograph still lay quietly.
His gaze fell on the gentle, smiling woman in the photo, and his throat tightened as if something were stuck in it.
Before his mother passed away, she told him that in this world, aside from her, there would never be another person who truly cared for him.
He was too young then to understand the weight and sorrow hidden in those words.
Later, he understood.
He was an illegitimate child.
This identity was a brand etched into his bones, making it impossible for him to escape the pitying or disdainful gazes no matter where he went.
The few people who showed him kindness either saw the gilded veneer of the Jiang Family on him or wanted to use him as a ladder to climb to power and influence.
Not a single one truly cared about him as a person.
So, what about Shen Zhili?
She was so dazzling, so high above, like a distant star.
What did she see in him?
Jiang Xianzhuo closed the drawer and turned to walk into the kitchen.
The moment he opened the refrigerator door, he paused again.
The once empty refrigerator, which had only held two lonely eggs, was now packed full. Fresh pork ribs and chicken were carefully wrapped in plastic wrap, vibrant green vegetables still glistened with water droplets, and various seasonings and daily necessities were neatly organized.
Even the wilted celery was gone, replaced by a row of unopened milk cartons.
Jiang Xianzhuo stood in front of the refrigerator, staring at the fresh ingredients for a long time without moving.
Shen Zhili’s face began to surface in his mind again and again.
Today, she had worn a beautiful little dress, sitting at the doorway, openly watching him cook.
She had grabbed his wrist, her fingers soft yet firm.
The upward lilt in her voice when she said, “I just like watching you cook.”
Bang.
His thoughts came to an abrupt halt.
Jiang Xianzhuo slammed the refrigerator door shut, then turned and leaned against the cold countertop, closing his eyes.
His slender fingers buried themselves slightly in his hair, carrying a hint of frustration.
No.
None of this was right.
Shen Zhili’s deep-seated dislike for him couldn’t have disappeared without reason.
She must have taken a fancy to something as well.
Jiang Xianzhuo suddenly opened his eyes, those narrow eyes filled with an unfathomable darkness.
He walked to the window and pulled the curtains open with a sharp tug, gazing out into the pitch-black night.
The streetlights below cast a dim yellow glow, illuminating the empty street and making it appear exceptionally desolate.
Shen Zhili had said before leaving today… that she would come again tomorrow.
Jiang Xianzhuo’s fingers tightened around the curtain fabric beside him, inch by inch.
He didn’t believe it.
He didn’t believe she would keep coming.
He didn’t believe her kindness toward him came without any strings attached.
He didn’t believe, even more, that there truly existed someone in this world who would be good to him for no reason at all.