Chapter 9

Su Qingci thought he’d spoken the words aloud, only realizing the next morning that he’d merely murmured them within his heart.

It wasn’t that he was putting on a show—those words truly flowed like molten lava through his throat, scalding his voice until it bled.

Pei Jingchen was gone. It was nearly nine; he must have gone to work.

In the dining room, Su Qingci found the breakfast Pei Jingchen had left for him: an egg and ham sandwich and a carton of chilled fresh milk.

After eating the tasteless meal, he rinsed the dishes clean, dried them, placed them in the dish rack, tidied the table, and left the house.

He slid into the driver’s seat, his hand instinctively reaching for the center console where he found the medicine bottle.

Su Qingci froze.

His pale fingers tightened around the bottle before suddenly releasing it.

Like a butterfly trapped in a spider’s web finally abandoning futile struggle.

Su Qingci gave a self-deprecating chuckle and tossed the bottle back into place.

When he arrived at the art museum, Annelise was already there a minute early, waving at him across the street.

Su Qingci’s solo exhibition was set to open here on New Year’s Day. With less than a week to go, all promotional efforts were in place, and the invited media were poised and ready.

Su Qingci had come today to familiarize himself with the venue and procedures under Annelise’s guidance, and to meet the director and other relevant personnel.

Not a social butterfly, Su Qingci had developed his own approach for such occasions. Keep words to a minimum—begin with “I’ve long admired your work” and conclude with “You flatter me.” He’d stuck to this formula all these years.

The museum director was ecstatic, bowing low before Su Qingci and showering him with adulation: “Hosting your solo exhibition, Mr. Su, is a blessing beyond measure—a fortune earned over ten lifetimes. Forgive my excitement.” Tears streamed down the director’s face as he spoke, leaving the crowd both amused and moved.

After touring the venue, Su Qingci examined the portfolio Annelise handed him.

From initial preparations to publicity, Annelise had overseen every step, and Su Qingci trusted her completely.

By the time they left the museum, it was already afternoon. Working nonstop, Annelise was exhausted, her eyelids drooping. She pointed to the lavishly decorated café across the street and said, “Wulin, this one’s on me.”

Su Qingci: “…”

Upon entering the shop, Annelise tapped furiously at the electronic display with her diamond-studded Christmas-themed nails. She ordered three Americanos in one go, downed two in one gulp, and let out a long sigh: “I’m alive again.”

Annalise had rushed straight to the museum after landing, too busy to even grab a bite of bread. She’d worked tirelessly and deserved every bit of praise. Su Qingci, feeling genuinely grateful, offered her a coconut latte: “You’ve been working so hard.”

Annalise froze: “Huh?”

Could such ivory words actually come from the mouth of Su Dog, known for his dark and sharp personality? How terrifying!

Su Qingci said, “This is my last exhibition. You don’t need to come find me again.”

“Ahem!” Annelise choked on a mouthful of American coffee. “Wh-what do you mean?”

Su Qingci opened his lips, but to avoid Annelise’s relentless questioning, he amended his words: “I’m tired. I want to rest.”

Annalise’s pale blue eyes widened in shock. Su Qingci recalled his earlier words—they did carry a distinct “we’re done” vibe. True to his suspicion, Annalise was so flustered she could barely string her native language together.

After listening for a while, Su Qingci grasped the gist: “What did I do wrong? Why are you rejecting me? We’ve worked together happily for nearly five years. Which seductive bitch seduced you behind my back? I’ll tear her apart with my bare hands!”

Su Qingci couldn’t help but laugh bitterly as he stirred his coffee with a spoon. “No, I just want to take a break, travel around, and gather some inspiration.”

Annalise suddenly understood. “Writer’s block? Just say so! You scared me! Are you sure it’s for sketching outdoors and not just quitting?”

Only after asking did Annelise realize how pointless her question was. She knew many artists, but none were as obsessed with painting as Su Qingci. Painting wasn’t a hobby or a job for him—it was his reason for living, his interpretation of life.

Life goes on, painting never stops. Su Qingci would never put down his brush.

Su Qingci pressed the service bell, ordering one of Wulin’s winter specialties—the “Caramel Hazelnut Swiss Roll”—to reward his famished agent.

After parting ways with Annelise, Su Qingci had intended to head home. Then he suddenly remembered that the roast duck restaurant Pei Jingchen loved was only five hundred meters away. His legs moved of their own accord, driven by instinct toward the restaurant. Halfway there, he spotted the long queue forming outside. A sudden realization struck him. He gave a wry smile, shook his head, and turned to leave.

Su Qingci’s heart fluttered slightly, and he instinctively turned to look.

The man the owner was laughing at and telling to “get in line” was indeed Wu Lü.

Su Qingci found himself looking away—across the street, a Koenigsegg with its window half-open was parked, and Pei Jingchen was sitting in the driver’s seat.

Su Qingci stepped into the nearest house, almost as if fleeing.

Why hide? Because he didn’t want to interrupt their reunion after more than twenty years.

Wu Lü and Pei Jingchen were childhood friends, having grown up together since they were little kids. Wu Lü was closest to Pei Jingchen. They lived on the same street—just a two-minute walk from Wu Lü’s doorstep to Pei Jingchen’s living room. Their parents got along well. Wu Lü’s family ran a fruit shop and often sent Pei Jingchen fresh produce, while Pei Jingchen frequently brought Wu Lü unsold cakes from his father’s bakery. Neighbors often teased that Wu Lu looked like a girl but was a genuine boy. They joked that since they were childhood sweethearts, they’d make a perfect pair—two families becoming even closer, a match made in heaven.

Su Qingci was jealous. Very jealous. Jealous to death.

Even though Pei Jingchen had repeatedly stated he had no romantic feelings for Wu Lu, and Su Qingci was willing to believe his “promise,” he still felt uneasy, a thorn lodged in his heart. He had met Pei Jingchen at thirteen, thinking it was early enough, yet Wu Lu had met him even earlier and shared a bond with Pei Jingchen that was immeasurably closer than his own.

Consumed by jealousy, he once again threw a tantrum, unreasonable and unreasonable, demanding that Pei Jingchen draw a line with Wu Lu and sever all contact.

Pei Jingchen was a good man, but that didn’t mean he lacked temper or boundaries. When it came to Wu Lu, Pei Jingchen refused to indulge his whims.

Truthfully, Su Qingci, this “heaven-sent” arrival, had no right to compare himself to the childhood friend. He certainly had no grounds to interfere with Pei Jingchen’s friendships. His demands to “cut ties” were merely emotional tantrums born of petulance. He never truly intended for Pei Jingchen to sever all bonds with Wu Lü. It was just his melodramatic nature flaring up, seeking self-satisfaction from Pei Jingchen that he was “more important than Wu Lü.”

Unfortunately, Pei Jingchen took things seriously and refused to indulge his “nonsense.”

His self-gratification remained unfulfilled, replaced instead by self-torment.

He spoke darkly, “Guess how long Wu Lü’s family will last in the capital after offending me?”

Pei Jingchen’s face was as cold as frost, his gaze fierce. “You can try.”

He was merely intimidating Pei Jingchen, not intending any real harm. A sliver of conscience prevented him from exterminating the innocent, kind Wu Lü family. There was also the fear that Pei Jingchen would come to hate him with a vengeance.

Wu Lü bought the roast duck—the last one in the shop. He was so happy he jumped up and down, eagerly showing it to Pei Jingchen.

Pei Jingchen watched him through the car door and smiled, saying, “You’re so lucky.”

Su Qingci felt as if stabbed.

The same act of buying roast duck, the same last piece, yet utterly different reactions.

Many people brushed past, hurrying along. Su Qingci instinctively glanced up at the temporary shelter he’d chosen—a public restroom, of all places.

As if this social parasite belonged flushed down the drain.

Su Qingci returned home utterly drained, body and soul.

At the same moment, what were Pei Jingchen and Wu Lü doing? Pei Jingchen sat in the driver’s seat, relaxed and at ease. Wu Lü would surely be in the passenger seat, chatting about the world, the atmosphere cheerful. Perhaps Wu Lü would even tear off a piece of roast duck leg to feed Pei Jingchen. Unsuspecting passersby would surely mistake them for a young couple deeply in love.

Su Qingci felt a pang in his heart. He pictured Pei Jingchen’s relaxed expression, that joyful smile, that carefree and contented demeanor.

It turns out being with Pei Jingchen was such an agonizing ordeal.

Su Qingci suppressed a choking cough, let out a bitter laugh, and rubbed his eyes again—dry and parched, no tears came.

What was this home like for Pei Jingchen? Like being behind enemy lines. No wonder he lived in constant fear, filled with bitterness and resentment.

That feeling of rather wandering the streets all night than returning home—Su Qingci understood it all too well.

Good heavens! The suffering he had endured was now being replayed, point for point, in Pei Jingchen’s life.

He professed love with every word, yet his actions were nothing but harm.

Thinking of her mother, Su Qingci felt a chill run down her spine—like maggots gnawing at her bones, a thousand cuts and a thousand tortures.

Wrong. So very wrong.

Collectors who admired Su Qingci knew he specialized in natural landscapes, never painting figures. In truth, he did paint occasionally—but only one person.

He tore open the cardboard box, pulling out portrait after portrait. Each was poured with his heart and soul. Though depicting the same face, every one was unique, impossible to replicate.

Su Qingci organized the paintings, loading them into a burlap sack and carrying them downstairs. After seven or eight trips, exhausted, he leaned against the car door, panting.

After a brief rest, he climbed into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and drove on and on until he reached an abandoned, half-finished building on the city outskirts.

Su Qingci carried all the paintings up to the rooftop of the unfinished structure.

The fading light of dusk spread a vast, desolate expanse.

The deep winter wind sliced through his lungs. Ice and snow stretched endlessly into darkness and cold.

Su Qingci poured two large bottles of turpentine over the paintings scattered across the ground. He tossed a lighter into the pile, and flames roared to life.

The raging fire illuminated the pitch-black sky, burning with abandon.

Su Qingci cradled the final painting, Sunflower, gazing at it for an agonizingly long time before finally letting go, allowing it to plunge into the liberating flames.

The flames easily consumed the sunflower. Reborn from the fire, it bloomed with fierce passion, its brilliance blazing.

The glare stung his eyes. He raised a hand to rub them, finding it wet.

Tears flowed more and more, uncontrollably.

Su Qingci finally broke down, staring at the sky filled with burning ashes, sobbing uncontrollably.