Xia Lihua stepped inside the private hall.
For a brief moment, she allowed herself to look at the paintings. Each piece reflected a fragment of something she had buried in her heart...loneliness rendered in muted blues, restraint in sharp lines, longing disguised as abstraction.
"Miss Xouba."
The voice came from behind her.
That gruff voice was quite familiar.
No, it can't be...
Her body stiffened before her mind caught up.
She turned.
And for a fraction of a second, everything in her expression faltered.
Yang Lingyun stood a few steps away, dressed in a dark suit that seemed slightly out of place—not because it didn't fit him, but because he looked like he hadn't had the strength to care about it. His collar sat unevenly, his complexion paler than she remembered, and the shadows beneath his eyes were too pronounced to ignore.
But his gaze—
His gaze was as sharp as ever.
Xia Lihua's breath stalled.
Out of everyone in the world… it had to be him.
