Old Master Ji was a man who adored flowers.
He bought seven or eight pots of orchids and chrysanthemums, only stopping when Ji Yanting couldn’t carry any more.
Qiu Sang had arranged an elegant Chinese lunch nearby. After the meal, they drove straight to the Mathematics Research Institute.
Parking the car, Qiu Sang said, "I still have some work to finish, so I’ll wait outside for you."
Old Master Ji gave her an approving glance.
He admired her sense of propriety—thoughtful and never overbearing. No wonder she had been Ji Yanting’s manager for so many years.
Stepping into the institute’s exhibition hall, the first thing that caught the eye were the portraits of pioneering mathematicians lining the walls. From the Republican era onward, Chinese mathematics had gradually caught up with the world, with one brilliant mind after another emerging to contribute to its advancement…
Rong Yu spotted her mentor.
It was this very teacher who had once pointed her toward her path, inspiring her to study abroad.
She also saw the faces of seniors who had graduated years before her—many long gone.
And then, among her peers, she found her own portrait.
She rarely took photos; the few she had were with her husband, hardly suitable for such a solemn place.
This one, however, was an oil painting.
"This was painted by Uncle Tang when the institute was renovated. It took him three months," Old Master Ji said softly. "It looks exactly like how I remember Mom—so young, so brilliant. How could she have left so suddenly? I wasn’t the only one grieving. The uncles and aunts at the institute were heartbroken too…"
Tears streamed down his face.
Witnessing his mother’s death in a car accident at eight years old had left a shadow over his life.
He often wondered: if only he had thrown a tantrum that day, begged her to stay home and play with him—maybe the accident wouldn’t have happened…
"I’m here. Mom’s here, right here," Rong Yu pulled him into an embrace. "She’ll never leave you again. Never. Don’t cry, my dear…"
But Old Master Ji only wept harder.
Ji Yanting’s nose tingled with emotion, but the sight of a seventy- or eighty-year-old man sobbing in the arms of a young woman was… bizarre, to say the least.
He quietly slipped away.
At the entrance, standing on the steps, he saw Qiu Sang by a patch of wildflowers, taking pictures.
Her profile was bathed in sunlight, her neck slender and fair like a swan’s. Seemingly pleased with a shot, she pressed her lips together in a restrained smile.
Ji Yanting couldn’t resist pulling out his phone to capture the moment.
His movement was too obvious. Qiu Sang turned immediately. "Why are you taking my picture?"
"Because you’re beautiful," he said, walking over. "Want to see?"
Her relaxed expression stiffened.
She took his phone, deleted the photo, and said flatly, "You’re a superstar. Having a woman’s photo in your phone is inappropriate. Better gone."
Ji Yanting’s mood soured instantly.
Qiu Sang didn’t give him a chance to respond, tugging his mask up. "This is a research institute. Too many people around. Keep it on—unless you want to be recognized."
He grabbed her hand. "Qiu Sang, age isn’t a barrier between us. Give me—give us—a chance."
"Let go!" Her face flushed. "Yan Ting, if you keep this up, I will resign…"
As they stood locked in tension, a man suddenly charged toward them from the street.
"Li Chunhua! Finally found you, you bitch!"
The man, face twisted in rage, lunged at Qiu Sang, seizing her wrist and swinging a slap.
She froze, stunned.
Ji Yanting stepped in, blocking—but his pampered hands were no match. The blow struck his jaw, knocking his mask off.
"So you’re cheating on me, you slut!" The man roared, throwing a punch at Ji Yanting. "Who the hell do you think you are, touching my woman? I’ll beat you to death!"
"Stop! Don’t hit him!" Qiu Sang snapped out of her daze, throwing herself between them. "Please, stop!"
The commotion drew a crowd.
Some tried to intervene.
The man brandished his fists. "This bastard’s sleeping with my wife! Anyone gets in my way, I’ll smash them too!"
"Wait… doesn’t that ‘bastard’ look familiar?"
"Hey, isn’t that Yan Ting? The actor who’s huge across Asia?"
"No way—my idol’s a homewrecker?"
"With that face? What’s the point…"
When Rong Yu and Old Master Ji emerged, they found a mob at the entrance. At its center, Ji Yanting was pinned beneath the man, his handsome face bruised, Qiu Sang desperately shielding him—to little avail.
Rong Yu shoved through the crowd and kicked.
The man toppled backward.
Ji Yanting had never been more grateful for his great-grandmother’s reflexes. Shielding his face with one hand, he groped for his mask with the other.
Before today, he’d never considered himself vain. But now? The humiliation of being photographed mid-beating was unbearable.
"Who the fuck are you, you meddling whore?" The man scrambled up, swinging at Rong Yu.
Old Master Ji whacked him with his cane, eliciting a howl.
Rong Yu twisted his arm, slamming him onto the pavement. "Someone call the police."
"No—wait," Qiu Sang cut in, her cheek flaming red. Her voice wavered slightly before steadying. "Too many videos are being taken. It’ll damage Yan Ting’s reputation. Let’s not involve the police yet. I’ll talk to him first, get him to clarify. Please, Miss Rong?"
"Li Chunhua! Think changing your face fools me?" The man spat, cheek pressed to the ground. "Now that I’ve found you, I’m dragging you back!"
Qiu Sang’s fingers clenched, but her tone was ice. "My name isn’t Li Chunhua. You’ve mistaken me for someone else."
