Zhong Yi never got a message back from him—but her father’s phone lit up with a voice message.
Jiang Jingyuan opened it right away.
“Third Uncle, I’ve got a last-minute meeting and may arrive a bit late—probably around six-thirty at the restaurant.”
Zhong Yi was sipping her black tea, now sweetened with fresh milk and caramel.
The moment that familiar voice—one she hadn’t heard in three years—came through the speaker, she froze.
Amplified by the phone, it felt like he was right there beside her. Even her swallowing halted mid-motion.
Jiang Jingyuan replied to Zhou Shiyi, “No rush. Focus on your meeting. Teacher Yu’s flight hasn’t landed yet anyway.”
Another message came from Zhou Shiyi: “Third Uncle, if you have time, could you ask Zhong Yi if there’s a painting from Teacher Yu’s exhibition she likes? I’ll take a photo and give it to her as a first-meeting gift.”
His voice was low and smooth, carrying effortlessly through the spacious, silent office.
He had emphasized “first meeting.”
Zhong Yi tried to savor the sweet red bean flavor on her tongue, but compared to the first sip, it now tasted much duller.
Jiang Jingyuan responded, “That’s thoughtful of you. Alright—I’ll ask her when we get home.”
As he replied, he glanced at his daughter. The emotional knot between those two wasn’t something he could untie with a few well-meaning words.
When the engagement was brought up, both of them had responded the same way—with silence. He could see the turmoil in their expressions, yet neither had the heart to say no.
And not rejecting it was already a good sign.
As a parent, matters of the heart weren’t his place to interfere with too much.
After locking his phone screen, Jiang Jingyuan patted Zhong Yi gently on the shoulder and said reassuringly, “Starting over as strangers isn’t such a bad thing.”
Zhong Yi gave a faint smile but said nothing.
She didn’t know what to say.
Jiang Jingyuan continued, “Once you’ve decided which painting you like, just tell me—or send it to Zhou Shiyi directly. Whatever feels best.”
The exhibition would last two days.
At the closing night’s charity dinner, four selected works would be auctioned off, with all proceeds going to the Tongxin Charity Foundation to help children with congenital heart disease from underprivileged families.
Zhong Yi finished off her large cup of red bean milk tea and said, “I’ll go help out during the exhibition.”
“That’s good,” Jiang Jingyuan replied.
“Teacher Yu mentions you often.”
When she got home, Zhong Yi headed straight to the yoga room.
The housekeeper, coming out of the kitchen and finding no one in the living room, went upstairs to call her down for dinner.
Passing by the yoga room on the first floor, she saw Zhong Yi already in her workout gear, balancing in a headstand.
The housekeeper said nothing and quietly returned to the kitchen.
Zhong Yi stayed upside down for about five minutes. Her emotions, which had been turbulent all afternoon, slowly began to settle.
She used to hate yoga, refused to get up early for runs—thought it was all a waste of her precious rest time. Why bother when she could just sleep in?
But her father had insisted. Health was non-negotiable. No room for indulgence.
Now, she had to admit—his insistence was wise. During practice, there was no room for distraction, no energy left for overthinking.
About half an hour later, she emerged from the room.
With her father out for the evening, she ate dinner alone. At a dining table that could seat more than ten, she sat by herself. It felt vast.
The housekeeper had made sakura crepe cake and fresh cucumber-pear juice—everything on the table blooming with spring colors.
She couldn’t remember what she’d been doing at this time three years ago.
Her father had asked her to get in touch with Zhou Shiyi, but she still hadn’t figured out how to start that first sentence.
If she were honest, she was waiting—hoping he’d reach out to her first.
Without realizing it, Zhong Yi had eaten a huge slice of the crepe cake and emptied her juice. She got up and went to the storage room.
None of her childhood toys or keepsakes had ever been thrown away. The housekeeper had everything carefully categorized and stored.
One box, however, had been brought back from abroad—and Zhong Yi had specifically instructed not to sort or touch it.
Three years had passed, and the box remained unopened.
Inside were gifts from Zhou Shiyi, along with keepsakes from when they were dating.
When she brought the box back, she had told herself: When I get married, I’ll deal with all of this. I won’t bring any of it into a new relationship.
But who would’ve thought—she’d be marrying Zhou Shiyi.
Now, there was no longer any need to “deal with it.”
Opening the box, the first thing she saw was a few old photographs. Back then, her hair was long.
On quiet nights, she liked curling up in someone’s arms, wrapping the ends of her hair around his fingers.
Zhong Yi shook herself out of the memory. There were too many things in the box. She didn’t have the energy to sort through it all. She closed the lid again.
At 11:30 that night, Jiang Jingyuan returned from his dinner engagement.
The villa was brightly lit—just like so many nights in the past. His daughter was waiting for him, fast asleep on the sofa.
She wasn’t in deep sleep. Hearing footsteps, she stirred and opened her eyes as he walked up.
“I told you to sleep early.”
“It’s fine. I don’t have work tomorrow.”
Zhong Yi sniffed the air. No trace of alcohol. She blinked in confusion at her father.
“Didn’t you drink at the dinner welcoming Teacher Yu?”
“I had half a glass.” Jiang Jingyuan leaned down and picked up the hangover soup she had left on the table.
“Someone else drank for me.”
It was obvious who that someone was.
Zhong Yi didn’t press the matter. Instead, she teased, “I heard that you’re so irresistibly charming, people were scrambling to drink for you—had to stand on chairs just so you’d notice them.”
Jiang Jingyuan burst out laughing, loving the banter from his daughter.
He added, “Tonight, Zhou Shiyi had two glasses of baijiu, and one of red wine. I think he likes fish noodle soup too—asked the chef to make him a bowl of Jiang-style swordfish soup noodles.”
Zhong Yi lowered her eyes, staring at the pillow in her arms. She was quiet for a moment before turning her head.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because your dad doesn’t know whether you want to hear it or not… So I talk too much just in case.”
Jiang Jingyuan gently ruffled her hair.
“I’m off to bed. You should sleep too.”
Zhong Yi leaned against him, her voice slightly hoarse.
“Goodnight, Dad.”
The next morning.
Zhong Yi lay in bed for a while before getting up, making sure everything that had happened yesterday—everything from afternoon to evening—hadn’t just been a dream.
Suddenly, her phone rang.
Unknown number.
She sat up in bed and answered.
The caller introduced herself—it was Yang Xi, a staff member from the art exhibition, who’d be her main contact for the next few days.
“If you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to call me.”
Her voice was soft and friendly, putting people at ease.
Zhong Yi hadn’t expected her father to arrange things so quickly.
She thanked Yang Xi and asked, “What time should I be there tomorrow?”
“It’s a bit early—before seven, if possible.”
Yang Xi was curious about this stranger she’d never met.
The only thing the boss had said was: “She’s not too familiar with Beicheng, but she’s close with Teacher Yu. Used to appear in a lot of his earlier works.”
Anyone featured often in Teacher Yu’s art had to be someone special.
The next morning, Yang Xi arrived early at the venue to help with logistics. Worried Zhong Yi might get lost, she waited by the entrance.
At 6:50, a car pulled up and Zhong Yi stepped out.
The moment Yang Xi saw her, she knew exactly which painting series she’d appeared in.
Zhong Yi wore the exhibition’s official uniform, pulled her staff badge from her canvas bag, and looped it around her neck.
The curating and setup had been handled by professionals. The only way she could help was by serving as a guide, explaining the pieces to visitors.
Her father had said she was perfect for the job—besides Teacher Yu, she probably knew the stories behind the paintings better than anyone.
This exhibition included the debut of Teacher Yu’s early “Whimsy” series.
All of those pieces were painted two decades ago, back when Teacher Yu was far from a household name.
To prepare, Zhong Yi had spent all of yesterday memorizing the background of every work on display.
As she approached, Yang Xi hurried over to greet her.
After a few words of welcome, they walked into the gallery together.
Yang Xi, ever cheerful, pointed at Zhong Yi’s canvas bag and said, “That’s from the ‘Whimsy’ series, right?”
The image on the bag echoed the paintings—an imaginative little girl of about five, drawing with intense focus.
Unlike the pieces on display, this one showed the girl lying on the grass, propping her head up with her hands, clearly deep in thought.
Zhong Yi thought for a moment, then replied, “Sort of.”
That illustration wasn’t printed—it had been drawn by Teacher Yu himself. So, was it official merch? She wasn’t sure.
Teacher Yu had jokingly nicknamed the series “The Girl Who Could Never Draw a Windmill.”
Back then, she’d found it funny to be the muse in a painting.
But growing up, she’d realized it was just a record of her embarrassing failures—and now, she could barely look at it.
The exhibit opened at ten. Not long after, a visitor asked her for an introduction to the “Whimsy” series.
“Of course.”
This was her element. As she spoke, she was swept back into the carefree days of her childhood.
Season Fangxing recorded video while Zhong Yi spoke, capturing both her narration and the art.
Once Zhong Yi finished, she smiled at her and said, “Thank you.”
Then she looked more closely at Zhong Yi’s striking features, unable to help herself:
“I hope it’s not too forward—but have you ever considered acting? You’ve got amazing presence. It’d be such a shame not to try.”
She handed over a card.
“I’m just a small-time director. Teacher Yu’s work has given me so much creative inspiration—I came just for this show.”
Zhong Yi politely declined.
“Thank you, but I’m not looking to change careers. I’m just a volunteer. I already have a full-time job.”
Fangxing looked disappointed—this was the first time she’d ever had such a strong urge to sign someone on the spot.
But she kept smiling.
“Totally fair. May I ask—what do you do?”
“I’m a programmer,” Zhong Yi said vaguely.
Fangxing was impressed. Beautiful and smart?
She’d heard programmers were super busy—if Zhong Yi was still volunteering, she must really love art. Just as she was about to strike up a deeper conversation, Zhong Yi got called away.
Over two days, Zhong Yi went through a whole box of throat lozenges.
For someone as quiet as her, it was a massive challenge—but she completed the task beautifully.
Plenty of people asked for her contact info. She turned them all down gently.
Yang Xi, picking up on her low-key nature, whispered before the gala, “Tonight’s banquet will be even livelier. People will definitely ask for your WeChat.”
“Let’s stick together—if you’re not up for it, I’ll step in and deflect for you.”
Zhong Yi didn’t stand on ceremony. She laughed and agreed.
That evening’s charity auction and celebration dinner was held at a five-star hotel, drawing many high-profile guests.
After the exhibit closed, the teardown crew took over, and Zhong Yi headed to the hotel with Yang Xi.
On the way, her father messaged again—asking if she’d decided on a painting. If not, he reminded her, the auction would begin at 8.
She had decided.
Zhong Yi stared out the car window for a long time before pulling out her phone—not to text her father, but to open her chat with Zhou Shiyi.
With every word she typed, her heart beat faster.
Zhong Yi: 【I want the whole “Whimsy” series. Thank you.】
About two minutes later, he replied, with just three words:【You’re welcome.】
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