How could there be so many coincidences in this world?
They're nothing more than carefully laid plans.
Half a year ago, Ye Mingzhe arrived in Z City and set his pieces in motion. Today, it was Fang Zhiyuan's turn to follow the clues and arrive at the luxury apartment by Central Park. He pressed the doorbell, and a maid with a slightly accented English opened the door.
As soon as he stepped out of the elevator, he was struck by an indescribable feeling of familiarity—a sense of déjà vu, combined with an oppressive heaviness that weighed on his chest. He glanced around, taking in the decor, and his heart gave a slight jolt.
This apartment… It looked exactly like Cheng Yi's dorm back in Z City.
The visual impact sent a wave of emotions crashing through him. He stared at the meticulously arranged room—every piece of furniture, the color scheme, even the placement of a vase—everything mirrored the layout he remembered.
The maid invited him to take a seat, mentioning that the couple had just gone out for their morning run and would be back shortly. The cheerful South American woman, naturally warm and talkative, noticed his interest in the decor and couldn't resist sharing more details.
The apartment had once been a cold monochrome—a stark mix of black, white, and grey, with barely any furnishings. But Mrs Ye had revamped it completely. The new, cozy, and elegant style was entirely her vision, inspired by the ever-changing views of Central Park visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Fang Zhiyuan couldn't help but admire her aesthetic sense. The serene elegance inside the apartment complemented the scenery outside perfectly. Even in the bleakest of winters, a few extra Christmas decorations and a lit fireplace could fill the whole space with warmth.
Just as he was absorbing it all, the maid guided him to an abstract painting hanging on the wall, her face flushed with enthusiasm.
"Mr. Fang, this was a wedding gift from Mr. Ye to Mrs. Ye." It's not by a famous artist, but she fell in love with it the moment she saw it. Mr. Ye even asked the gallery to find the artist to sign it and add Mr. Ye's personal inscription just for her. Look…"
In the bottom right corner of the painting, a small line of blue-green script blended discreetly into the canvas, easy to overlook unless pointed out. When Fang Zhiyuan's gaze finally landed on those words, a sharp pain shot through him, taking his breath away.
"To my Yi."
Damn it! He had an overwhelming urge to punch that man.
But amidst the surge of anger, a cold voice deep inside sneered: Do you even have the right?
Morning jogs in the summer, ice skating in the winter.
In winter, the open-air skating rink at Central Park was as lively as a bustling beach on a summer's day. Skating in New York's biting cold with a loved one was a supremely romantic experience—provided, of course, that you could actually skate.
Cheng Yi had terrible balance and could only clumsily shuffle along, holding onto the edge of the rink. She was so focused on not falling that she constantly watched nervously the skaters around her, afraid someone might accidentally bump into her.
But the one scenario she hadn't anticipated was this: suddenly, a strong hand grabbed her arm, and in an instant, she was being pulled across the ice at breakneck speed.
The figure led her through the crowd, weaving effortlessly between skaters. The wind whipped past, and everything around them blurred into indistinct shapes. Finally, they came to an abrupt stop in the center of the rink, and she stumbled forward, falling straight into his arms. Heart still racing, Cheng Yi clung to his coat, glaring up at the face that grinned mischievously down at her.
"Learning to fall is the first lesson in skating."
Avoiding a fall is basic human instinct, okay? Cheng Yi felt a wave of dizziness wash over her. She didn't even have the energy to argue against his "nonsense."
She stayed nestled in his embrace, feeling his solid chest and the steady rise and fall of his breathing. Her hands unconsciously slipped inside his coat, clutching at him like a child seeking comfort, burying her head deeper into his warmth. He lowered his head, planting a gentle kiss on her forehead, then buried his face in her hair, inhaling deeply, as if savoring the scent that was uniquely hers.
New York's winter was frigid and severe. The man lost himself in her softness and enchanting scent; she, in turn, found comfort in his warm embrace.
The sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the hallway, and the door burst open. Cheng Yi burst in, excitement lighting up her face as she ran upstairs, shouting loudly.
"Maria, I won!"
A tall, scruffy-looking man followed her in, covered in snow; he looked helpless yet amused.
Maria rushed out of the kitchen, gasping at her disheveled master.
"What's up, sir?"
Ye Mingzhe shrugged with a light smile, his eyes filled with mirth.
Cheng Yi rushed back down the stairs, now draped in a thick coat. She gave the maid a quick peck on the cheek before hurrying out the door.
"Maria, I'm running late!"
Ye Mingzhe watched her leave, a doting smile tugging at the corners of his lips. But when he caught a glimpse of the sharp gaze from the figure standing by the window, he remained surprisingly calm.
"What's up, man?"
He greeted Fang Zhiyuan with a casual American greeting, as relaxed and easy as if he were meeting an old friend.
Fang Zhiyuan had come to find her, but instead of calling out to her, he chose to remain silent.
It wasn't that he didn't want to—it was that he couldn't.
He was afraid to face the woman who now moved like the wind, so free and radiant. Was this really the same gentle, delicate girl from his memories?
Ye Mingzhe sent Maria away and personally tended to the uninvited guest.
A long-distance visitor like him would probably appreciate a cup of hot tea. Awkwardly, Ye Mingzhe fumbled with the teapot, adding a small handful of tea leaves. He burned his fingers while rinsing the pot, his clumsy movements at odds with his confident demeanor, but his hospitality was sincere.
His guest, however, wasn't interested. He hadn't flown all this way for a cup of tea. There was no aloofness in Ye Mingzhe's demeanor, no air of a victor flaunting his triumph. He even had the patience to brew tea for his guest? Fang Zhiyuan's gaze grew colder as he watched Ye Mingzhe's inept tea-making, the fury burning even brighter.
"No need for the hospitality!"
"A guest is a guest. It's only right."
The host remained composed; the guest simmered with rage.
This was Ye Mingzhe—not Ye Minglang, his impulsive, hot-headed younger brother. This man, even when faced with a rival, remained unflustered and composed. His calmness and poise made it impossible for Fang Zhiyuan to unleash his fury. Fang reached for the teapot and, with practiced ease, warmed the cups and poured the tea, his movements smooth and effortless, earning a nod of approval from Ye Mingzhe.
"Sorry for the poor hospitality."
The tea was scalding hot, not meant to be sipped hastily.
Fang Zhiyuan crossed his arms, his eyes burning as he stared at the man before him.
He needed an explanation.
Steam rose gently from the teacups as Ye Mingzhe turned away, his gaze drifting out the window.
He wanted to tell a story.