Cheng Yi leaned against the tall, floor-to-ceiling window, a cup of warm ginger tea in her hands.
Outside, on this cold winter morning, the only lively scene in the park came from the skaters gliding gracefully across the frozen lake, their movements catching the morning light. Inside, the heating was ample, keeping the apartment warm, but she still enjoyed holding something warm in her hands—it helped her ease into the harshness of winter.
This was New York, where every inch of Manhattan was worth its weight in gold.
Her mid-rise luxury apartment, perched beside Central Park, offered an unparalleled view. Below her stretched Central Park, a rare oasis of tranquillity amidst the towering buildings of Manhattan. Cheng Yi wasn't drawn to the sense of power that came with looking down at the world from above. Instead, she longed for the serenity that the lush greenery below offered.
It had been almost six years since she'd come to the United States, and she still hadn't gotten used to the habit of drinking ice-cold water. It wasn't about hygiene concerns; it was simply that the warmth of the cup brought her a sense of comfort—something to hold onto, something to remind her of home in a foreign land.
As she stepped out of the kitchen, she paused by the blue-and-green abstract painting hanging beside the staircase.
Leaving always leaves a trace.
The painting, recently re-hung, clearly hadn't settled into its place just yet—the wall behind it showed faint patches of different shades. She reached out and gently touched the bold signature scrawled along the edge of the canvas. A soft smile played on her lips.
"To my Yi."
The first time she saw this painting, she fell in love with it instantly.
The artist said it was his finest piece. And for her, this apartment—this home she'd meticulously curated—was her proudest achievement. Three years ago, she'd poured her heart and soul into decorating this place, opting for a warm, understated American style. Two months ago, she'd been living in a house almost identical to this one, the only difference being that it was a replica. But when she first laid eyes on it, she could still recall the shock it had sent through her, reverberating deep within her soul.
This painting had crossed oceans to find her in China. And now, just like her, it had made its way back to where it belonged.
All that effort… His affection had never been expressed in words but rather through actions.
That's how he was—focused on the result, never the process.
They had returned from Hawaii just last night. Cheng Yi had woken early this morning, intent on tidying the apartment, only to realise there was nothing to be done.The house was immaculate, the living room and bedroom were filled with her favourite eustoma flowers. The fridge was stocked, no doubt by Maria, the housekeeper. Even the luggage they'd shipped ahead had been unpacked and neatly organised. Had she not personally repacked her belongings, she might have believed they had never left.
With nothing else to do, she settled for a simple breakfast of cereal and milk, brewed a cup of ginger tea, and spent the entire morning lost in thought by the window.
It was nearing noon when the door upstairs clicked open. A tall, disheveled man, with unruly hair and a scruffy beard, shuffled down the stairs, yawning and scratching his head. He slumped lazily into the seat opposite Cheng Yi. Resting his chin on one hand, his eyes were glazed, revealing a bit of decadence. He reached out and picked up Cheng Yi's cup, would like to gulp down its contents. But the unexpected spicy kick of the ginger tea made him frown. After a moment of hesitation, he reluctantly finished it, then leaned back against the window and closed his eyes, drifting back into a half-doze.
Cheng Yi let out a helpless sigh, turned toward the kitchen. She poured a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and placed it in his hand. Predictably, his face twisted into a look of disdain, the familiar mask of indifference falling into place as he prepared to give her his usual list of excuses.
"I just had tea."
"Top up the Vitamin C."
"I take supplements."
"That's not the same."
"I need to brush my teeth."
He stood up, trying to escape back to his room and dodge this tiresome back-and-forth. Nice try. Cheng Yi wasn't about to let him off that easily.
"I'll wait."
His steps faltered slightly. Resigned, he turned back, bent down, and pinched his nose before gulping down the juice as if it were some kind of bitter medicine. Mission accomplished, he spun around, making a beeline for the stairs—until her voice rang out again.
"Wait a second!"
What now? Does she think I'm going to spit it out or something?
"What do you want for lunch?"
"Whatever. Dinner too. Whatever."
"Dinner can't be 'whatever,'" Cheng Yi said softly. "Mum wants us to come over for dinner tonight."
"Not going."
"She asked me to come early and help out."
This wasn't the time to bring up Ye George. Relations between father and son were hanging by a thread. They were both armed with countless reasons to sever ties completely—excuses honed to perfection, capable of withstanding any argument. But when Xu Shufang, Ye Mingzhe's mother and Ye George's wife, made a request, all those reasons evaporated like mist. Cheng Yi had learned the fine art of navigating the tensions within the Ye family, knowing exactly which strings to pull and when.
For a moment, he hesitated, his stubborn stance wavering. Finally, with a begrudging sigh, he muttered under his breath:
"You go ahead first."