The sudden words of thanks made Xia Xiqing’s ears burn. A flood of thoughts surged within him, yet he found himself at a loss for words.
Zhou Ziheng grabbed his shoulders, spun him around, and embraced him from behind, pressing his chest against Xia’s back as he gently guided him forward. “Huanya Group… So our dear Brother Xiqing is actually the young master! If I’d known you were this wealthy, I’d have asked you to support me.”
Zhou Ziheng always carried a teasing edge when calling him “brother.” Xia Xiqing jabbed his stomach with his elbow. “I couldn’t possibly afford to keep you, young master Zhou.”
“I can afford it.” Zhou Ziheng planted a kiss on Xia Xiqing’s nape from behind. “Sleeping with me is free. I’d even pay you to do it.”
Xia Xingqing turned his head and raised an eyebrow at him. “You want me to sleep with you, I’ll pay you.”
Zhou Ziheng cupped his face and kissed his lips awkwardly. “Then I’ll pay you.” After saying that, he pushed Xia Xingqing’s shoulders forward, wanting to quickly change the subject.
Who knew when he’d finally let go of this notion.
The villa was spacious, its furniture covered in white cloth—obviously unoccupied for a long time. The scene reminded Zhou Ziheng of their first recording of Escape from Heaven with Xia Xiqing, also surrounded by white-covered furniture and ornate yet cold decor.
“I’ll take you upstairs to look around.” Xia Xiqing’s voice held little emotional fluctuation, which made Zhou Ziheng somewhat concerned. He knew Xia Xiqing well enough to understand that the flatter his emotions, the deeper he was hiding them.
Yet all Zhou Ziheng could do was grip his hand tightly and accompany him.
The first-floor living room featured a soaring ceiling, roughly four meters high, making the staircase quite long. A handrail ran along the right side, while the left was lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves packed with books of every kind. Xia Xiqing guided Zhou Ziheng step by step up the stairs. Noticing him lingering by the bookshelves, he remarked, “I used to sit on these stairs reading books when I was little. Sometimes I’d get tired and just lean against this wall and fall asleep.”
Just imagining that scene made Zhou Ziheng’s lips curve upward involuntarily.
He really wanted to see what Xia Xiqing looked like as a child—surely the cutest and most adorable kid in the whole class.
Xia Xiqing pulled Zhou Ziheng up to the second floor. A deep, narrow corridor stretched ahead, reminiscent of an art gallery’s exhibition hall. Its walls were a deep beige, with ten paintings hung in sequence on the opposite side. Passing a room along the way, Xia Xiqing tried the door handle—to his surprise, it wasn’t locked. He flipped on the light switch by the door.
“This is my mother’s collection room.” Xia Xiqing pulled the door open and stood by the entrance. Zhou Ziheng glanced inside—it was an exceptionally large room. Stepping further in, he discovered another room nested within, filled with various canvas frames covered in cloth, some nearly as tall as a person.
“Are these all paintings?”
“Yes.” Xia Xiqing nodded. He recalled what Xi Hui had mentioned about the art gallery opening last time. These collections hadn’t been taken by Xia Yunkai—presumably left for him. Yet he’d been so careless he hadn’t even arranged for someone to look after them, just leaving them in the old house.
Then again, he hated his mother so much, and hated himself just as much. Seeing these paintings, he probably wished he could burn them all to ashes.
“My mother came from an artistic family. My grandfather was a renowned sculptor in his youth, and my grandmother was a celebrated oil painter. Growing up in such a household, my mother naturally became an art connoisseur and collector.”
Xia Xiqing casually lifted the dust cloth from one painting. “She spent her entire life regretting she never became a painter herself. No, wait,” Xia Xiqing added with a bitter smile, “regret isn’t quite right—it was more like resentment. She lacked the talent for painting. After years of trying, her work remained mediocre. Yet she could instantly discern the quality of a painting and discovered many artists who were unknown at the time.”
With the story unfolding this way, Zhou Ziheng could already guess the rest. “So, after your mother gave birth to you, she discovered your talent.”
Xia Xiqing’s fingers lightly brushed the frame. “She merely found a lifeline.”
And a deadly poison.
He clapped his hands and moved to another painting. “She believed I’d inherited my grandparents’ talent across generations, so she forced me to study painting from a young age. I was only four or five then, knowing nothing. Locked in a tiny room every day, with nothing but brushes and paints.”
It looked colorful, but it was actually a bleak gray.
“I didn’t want to learn back then. I cried and threw tantrums, and she would scold me, saying things I couldn’t possibly understand at the time. Around that time, her relationship with Xia Yunkai was also deteriorating. They fought every day, even resorting to physical blows.”
He still couldn’t bring himself to call this so-called father by name, only referring to him by his surname.
A dresser stood out in the collection room. Xia Xiqing paced over to the mirror, staring at his reflection as if lost in thought.
In Zhou Ziheng’s eyes, Xia Xiqing always possessed a unique aura—a delicate fragility. When still, he resembled flawless white porcelain, beautiful yet fragile. Yet, as he himself had once said, even a shattered artwork remains an artwork; every broken edge glimmered with its own beauty.
“Why did they marry?” Zhou Ziheng leaned against the doorframe. “A business alliance?”
Marriages between the art world and business circles weren’t uncommon in these circles. Though artists often held themselves aloof, unable to see through the money-grubbing merchants, economic foundations determined the superstructure. The art world, with its insatiable appetite for funds, couldn’t function without capital support.
“No, my grandfather wouldn’t have looked twice at Xia Yunkai back then.” Xia Xiqing stared at the vanity table. Instead of cosmetics, it held numerous palm-sized, exquisitely crafted ornaments. What should have been a symmetrical display was now somehow disarranged. He methodically placed each piece back in its corresponding spot. “I heard my mother married Xia Yunkai against everyone’s wishes. Her discerning eye only worked for art pieces—she was utterly blind when it came to people.”
After speaking, he turned, leaning against the vanity with one hand as he regarded Zhou Ziheng. “Think about it—she was the darling of the art world, looking down on everyone. She poured her heart into one man, nearly severing ties with her family. And what did she get?” Xia Xiqing lowered his head and smiled wryly. “She watched him chase one woman after another, each one inferior to her.”
For someone born with such pride, it was like being tortured to death.
“When she was pregnant with me, my mom went back to her parents’ place. On her way back, she accidentally walked in on Xia Yunkai and some other woman messing around in their bedroom—caught them red-handed.” Xia Xiqing shrugged. “She probably hated me in there along with him.”
He always delivered these stories with such casual ease that Zhou Ziheng couldn’t help but be exasperated.
“So… what happened then?”
“Then?” Xia Xiqing exhaled. “Later… she developed postpartum depression. She became a completely different person. Yet she still had to put on that dignified, composed facade in public. Once home, she’d smash things and throw fits. Sometimes she’d fight with Xia Yunkai until the house shook. Other times she’d hold me and cry. And sometimes she’d hit me, just like Xia Yunkai did.” He gave a faint smile, pointing upward. “Several times, she held me against the rooftop railing, saying she’d take me with her to die.”
Seeing that smile, Zhou Ziheng felt as if his heart had been stabbed by something sharp.
He stepped forward, coming to stand before Xia Xiqing. Reaching out to touch his face, he was dodged. That evasion made Zhou Ziheng’s heart ache even more. Yet the next moment, Xia Xiqing pressed his head against Zhou Ziheng’s shoulder and sighed so softly it was barely audible.
Zhou Ziheng stroked the back of his head and kissed Xia Xiqing’s crown. Born into a loving family, he could scarcely fathom the hardships Xia Xiqing had endured. People often spoke of empathy, but to Zhou Ziheng, it felt like empty rhetoric. Without firsthand experience, so-called shared feelings were merely pretty words numbing one’s own kindness.
“You’re starting to pity me now?” Xia Xiqing leaned against him, his voice cold as thin ice. “This is just the tip of the iceberg.”
Xia Xiqing was like a reckless child, relentlessly tearing open his wounds before Zhou Ziheng. With each brutal rip, he’d grin and ask, “See? Is this pretty?”
“Is this utterly rotten?”
“Is this terrifying?”
Zhou Ziheng gently pinched the back of his neck. “Saying I don’t feel sorry for you would be a lie.” His fingers held a soothing warmth. “I like you so much that even if you got scratched by a twig, I’d feel sorry for you, feel your pain. That’s just how I am—I sympathize with anyone I care about.” He embraced Xia Xiqing. “You’re the one I care about most. Tell me, do you feel sorry for me?”
“You’re just a logical genius anyway.” Xia Xiqing couldn’t be bothered to argue.
But hearing Zhou Ziheng say these things, he suddenly didn’t want to continue. Telling him those things would be too cruel.
“I’m curious—you must look a lot like your mother, right?” Zhou Ziheng reached out, cupped his chin, lifted his face, and gently kissed the tip of his nose.
This time, Xia Xiqing didn’t curse him. He simply stepped out of his embrace, took his hand, and led him into an inner suite. Inside was a cabinet. Xia Xiqing pulled open the third drawer and retrieved a photograph.
Zhou Ziheng had assumed it was a photo of Xia Xiqing’s mother. When he took it, however, he saw it was actually an oil painting, seemingly photographed at some art exhibition.
It depicted a woman seated elegantly. Her jet-black hair was swept to one side, her features exquisite and her bearing dignified. A string of luminous pearls adorned her fair neck. What surprised Zhou Ziheng was how much the woman in the painting resembled Xia Xiqing—even more so than he had imagined.
“If you added a mole on her nose, I’d believe it was you,” Zhou Ziheng remarked, feeling a sense of familiarity that seemed inevitable—she looked almost identical to Xia Xiqing. He reached out to wrap an arm around Xia Xiqing’s shoulder, gently tracing his ear. “A woman like this has every right to be proud.”
Just as you have every right to be proud.
Zhou Ziheng took the photograph from his hand, squinting to examine it closely. He noticed a small label beneath the painting bearing a name. A look of surprise and delight spread across his face. “You painted this?”
“Yes.” Xia Xiqing’s eyes lingered on the painting within the photograph. “I painted this when I was fifteen. It was also my first painting to be auctioned off. By then, she had been gone for five years. I painted it entirely from memory.”
Even with no artistic background, Zhou Ziheng could discern the tenderness and affection hidden within the brushstrokes. Despite all the pain this mother had caused him, in Xia Xiqing’s eyes, she remained his mother.
“Why a photograph?” Zhou Ziheng asked. “Where is the painting now?”
Xia Xiqing shook his head. “I don’t know. This painting was bought at my mother’s gallery. I asked around—apparently it was an ordinary collector. Later, it was sold overseas through various hands, and then it vanished.”
As a skilled storyteller, Xia Xiqing lifted his head. “Want to know how my mom died?”
Zhou Ziheng froze, his gaze softening.
Xia Xiqing wrapped his arms around Zhou Ziheng’s neck, a faint smile playing on his lips. “It’s nothing. If you want to tell me, just say it all.”
“Have you told anyone else about this?”
“I’m not the kind of jerk who exploits so-called tragic experiences to win sympathy.” He shook his head with a smile. “Alright, I am a jerk—but I earned it.”
After saying this, Xia Xiqing felt Zhou Ziheng’s finger poke his forehead. He laughed, captured Zhou’s finger in his hand, and kissed it lightly.
He truly didn’t want to speak it aloud. But this was Zhou Ziheng—and he didn’t want to hide it. After all, someone with his past needed to be honest, giving Zhou Ziheng room to choose.
He truly didn’t want to say it. But this was Zhou Ziheng—he didn’t want to hide it either. After all, someone with his past needed to be honest, giving Zhou Ziheng a choice.
Let him consider after hearing it—whether to accept someone with such flaws.
“Xu Qichen doesn’t know. He only knows I used to get beaten by Xia Yunkai all the time. There’s no way to hide that—he was my deskmate.” He tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Xia Yunkai, to save face, never hit my face. He’d use that thin, long golf club to beat my back mercilessly, tying me up first so I couldn’t run away.”
He described it vividly, his eyes stubborn. “After he beat me, I still had to get out of bed and go to class. One time during lunch break, Xu Qichen suddenly shook me awake.” He suddenly laughed at this point. “You know, he usually doesn’t show much emotion. I can still picture his wide-eyed, panicked expression back then.” Xia Xiqing mimicked Xu Qichen’s tone, “Blood seeped through your back, staining your uniform.”
“Then I couldn’t hide it anymore. He’s smart—who gets beaten that badly in a fight?” Xia Xiqing sighed. “But I still couldn’t bring myself to tell him anything else. Otherwise, two pitiful souls together—every day would be too miserable.” After speaking, Xia Xiqing chuckled softly, placed the photograph back in the drawer, and led Zhou Ziheng out of the collection room, walking through the long gallery.
“My mother died from drug abuse,” Xia Xiqing stated as if it were no burden at all. “Her postpartum depression worsened relentlessly. She relied on medication daily just to maintain appearances in public. Frankly, she was an angel outside the home, but a madwoman inside. After constantly switching between these two states, she eventually lost the ability to switch roles freely.“ At this point, he suddenly stopped, looked intently at Zhou Ziheng’s profile, and asked, ”Tell me, do you think my talent for acting is also hereditary?”
With that, he chuckled softly, gripped the banister, and continued up the stairs.
Zhou Ziheng’s hands were ice-cold.
For the first time, he felt his own warmth was so insignificant, so trivial. Could emptying himself warm Xia Xiqing’s heart?
He wasn’t sure.
“She poured her heart into building an art museum, naming it after me as my tenth birthday gift. She specially invited a French pastry chef to craft my birthday cake into a sculpture—a replica of Ma Zhu Hanmohe’s renowned work ‘Motherly Love.’ Everything was so dignified.” Reaching the final step, Xia Xiqing paused, as if waiting for Zhou Ziheng.
“And then, that art museum…”
“Then she died on the very day the museum opened.” Xia Xiqing continued walking forward, his voice utterly unruffled. “Her body convulsed, collapsing before me and my cake.”
Zhou Ziheng stepped forward, taking his hand. His fingertips were ice-cold, jarringly out of place in this humid, warm midsummer night.
“I didn’t think much of it at the time. Everyone was panicking, but I said, ‘It’s okay, Mom does this at home all the time. She’ll be fine in a moment.’” Xia Xiqing smiled. “Then she never got better.”
Xia Xiqing’s footsteps halted before a deep blue door, and he stood silent for half a minute.
“I never got to eat a single bite of that cake. What a shame. No one will ever make such a beautiful cake for me again.”
It wasn’t really for me, but for herself.
His hand gripped the doorknob, fingers tightening. The moment he pulled it open, hesitation struck.
Zhou Ziheng sensed the shift in his emotions almost instantly. His shoulders began to shake, trembling harder and harder, like a patient afflicted with some severe illness, his body slipping beyond control.
“What’s wrong?” He embraced Xia Xiqing, his voice hesitant. “What… what is this room?”
Xia Xiqing kept his head bowed, clenching his molars tightly to suppress the shaking. He’d believed he could face these memories easily now, that the past had faded enough to cease tormenting him in nightmares.
Pandora’s box had to be opened eventually.
“This is my room.” Xia Xiqing fought against the chill, straining to turn the doorknob. Just then, a warm, dry palm covered his own. Zhou Ziheng’s voice was equally warm, like a pool of young, soft spring water slowly flowing over the fragile ice layer.
“If you truly can’t overcome it, it’s okay.” Zhou Ziheng’s thumb brushed the back of his hand with his usual tenderness. “I can’t bear it.”
He couldn’t bear to watch him walk into pain with his own eyes. It was agony for him.
Xia Xiqing drew a silent breath, pressing his lips together.
“No, I need you.” He lifted his eyes to meet Zhou Ziheng’s. “If you weren’t here, I’d never dare step inside. Since you had the courage to collapse the superposition state…” He curved his lips. “I can too.”
With that, Xia Xiqing opened the door.
Inside, pitch darkness reigned. Nothing could be seen. The heavy blackness swallowed everything whole, yet memories crashed in like a tsunami, devastating and overwhelming.
Xia Xiqing forced himself to stay calm as he flipped the light switch. The room finally brightened, revealing nothing more than an ordinary childhood bedroom: deep blue wallpaper and ceiling, a small desk, and a solitary single bed. The only difference was the walls plastered with Xia Xiqing’s childhood drawings.
Zhou Ziheng noticed iron bars installed on every window and balcony.
It resembled a miniature prison.
“I remember you asked me during Truth or Dare why I was afraid of the dark,” Xia Xiqing’s voice was heavy, like a stone gently placed on a lake’s surface, sinking silently and profoundly.
“Ever since I can remember, whenever they argued, I’d cry. Maybe it affected them, so they’d lock me in my little room, shut the door, turn off the lights, and make me reflect in the darkness. But I didn’t understand anything back then—I just knew fear.”
He slowly walked to the balcony railing, gripping it and shaking it twice. “Still sturdy.”
“Another time, guests came over. They’d just finished arguing, and I was still crying nonstop, so naturally I got locked up again. But I was so scared, I ran out onto the balcony and cried loudly. The guests seemed to hear me.” Xia Xiqing leaned against the railing and sat down on the floor. “To prevent such an embarrassing incident from happening again, they locked the balcony—once and for all.”
Zhou Ziheng could scarcely imagine the twisted family environment Xia Xiqing had grown up in.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” Xia Xiqing slipped off his shirt with one hand, then pointed down at the old scar on his waist. “You’ve seen this before, right?”
“My mother went mad at home once, telling me it was all because of my birth that her life had turned to misery.” Xia Xiqing’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. “If only I didn’t exist.” His hand clenched as if gripping a blade, stabbing it into his own body. “She drove it in herself, pulled it out, then locked me up here.”
“She used to hold me and say I was the only work of art she’d ever created in her life. But later, she accused me so painfully, saying I was the root cause of her miserable existence, that she had to destroy me.”
“But I—” Xia Xiqing finally broke down, sobbing uncontrollably, “I only wanted to be her child.”
Zhou Ziheng was on the verge of collapse. He stepped forward and held Xia Xiqing tightly. This person had finally merged with the one who had once cried silently in his arms—just as raw, just as tormented.
“I was so young then, only five years old. Behind that door, my hands covered my wounds, bloodied, screaming ‘Daddy, Mommy’ with all my heart. No one came to save me.”
“The room was so dark, no sound, just me. Only me.” Xia Xiqing trembled all over, tears falling like beads from a broken string. “If only someone had come to save me then.”
I once yearned for love.
I tried my hardest to showcase my bright spots, learning to be a child who wouldn’t embarrass them.
But later I realized, what I needed wasn’t a luxury like love at all.
I just needed someone to open this door for me when I was afraid.
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