Feng Yan pulled a pair of scissors from the pen holder and handed them over.
His mind was entirely occupied by those two letters.
LS.
What a coincidence—the man’s initials were the same as hers.
An invisible net tightened around his heart, squeezing inch by inch.
It suffocated him.
After a long silence, he lowered his gaze.
His fingertips pressed against the edge of the glass, lifting the thick sheet just enough to create a narrow gap. The veins on his forearm protruded slightly from the effort as he pulled out the class schedule.
"Expired schedule. Should I throw it away?"
His voice was flat, unreadable.
Sang Lu, who had been sitting on the floor carefully applying tape, looked up. "Throw it."
The moment the "th" sound left her lips—
Feng Yan’s slender fingers pinched the paper.
The old schedule crumpled into a tiny ball in his palm.
Then landed in the trash bin.
Sang Lu stared blankly at his retreating figure, frozen for several seconds: ???
Was it her imagination, or had Feng Yan seemed wrapped in an icy aura just then? Unnervingly calm, as if his soul had been drained away.
What was wrong with him?
Sang Lu tapped her chin, lost in wild speculation.
As the saying goes, princesses have their princess syndromes—so wouldn’t it follow that CEOs had their own CEO syndromes?
Her train of thought was admittedly eccentric.
But upon reflection, the logic seemed oddly sound.
The usually fastidious Ice Prince, unaccustomed to tidying up, might be physically rebelling?
Sang Lu stood and walked over to Feng Yan, suddenly reaching up to press a hand against his forehead.
Feng Yan stiffened under her touch: "...?"
Sang Lu muttered, "Good, no fever."
No physical protest, then.
Probably just an emotional issue.
As long as he didn’t do chores, he’d be fine.
Sang Lu—self-proclaimed unlicensed quack—diagnosed his odd behavior with absolute confidence in her heart.
For a moment, Feng Yan’s expression turned complicated.
What on earth went on in that naturally curly head of hers…
"Food’s ready, come eat—"
Lin Yueyin’s voice rang out as she appeared in the doorway.
Spotting Sang Lu’s gesture, her eyes widened dramatically. "Oh my! What’s this? Is A-Yan feeling unwell?"
She strode forward in concern, looking up at her son-in-law, who towered over her.
Feng Yan’s previously cool and inscrutable face now bore a hint of bewilderment.
Before he could speak, Lin Yueyin tugged his arm, pulling him toward the door.
"With all these flu viruses going around lately, especially for workaholics like you, you can’t afford weak immunity. Come, drink some banlangen to prevent it..."
Sang Lu pushed Feng Yan from behind, nodding eagerly.
"Yes, yes, brew him a packet."
Feng Yan: "..."
And just like that, he was whisked out of the room.
Under his mother-in-law’s watchful gaze, he downed a cup of banlangen.
Sang Lu, full of energy and exempt from the herbal remedy, returned to the room after ushering Feng Yan to the living room.
She finished packing the last of the clutter.
After sealing the cardboard box with tape, she returned the scissors to the pen holder.
Her gaze drifted over the desk, and her movements slowed. A flicker of confusion crossed her face.
Huh?
There were several outdated schedules left—why had Feng Yan only taken one to throw away?
How strange.
Recalling his odd expression earlier, Sang Lu grew increasingly puzzled.
Her eyes shifted to the trash bin.
It was nearly empty, save for that lone crumpled ball.
She retrieved it and unfolded the paper.
Her expression froze.
Scrawled messily across the wrinkled schedule were the words: "Beloved ■■."
A sudden realization struck her.
Could it be…
That Feng Yan’s soul-sucked look was because of this?
Sang Lu stared at the crumpled schedule in her hand.
A distant memory surfaced—
It was a break during their sophomore year. She and her classmates had been chatting when her deskmate pulled out a stack of decorative schedule cards from her bag.
"Just got these from the stationery store this morning. One for each of you!"
Someone gasped. "Wow, these are pretty! The owner’s taste has improved since last year."
Another girl patted the deskmate’s shoulder. "Your calligraphy’s great—fill mine in for me. And don’t forget to add my future ‘boyfriend’s’ name!"
"Got it," the deskmate smirked. "Initials, as usual?"
The girl grinned and nodded vigorously.
After finishing one, the deskmate turned to Sang Lu.
"Sang Lu, want me to fill yours too?"
At the time, Sang Lu had been too busy inhaling the scent of her new textbooks, eyes closed as she replied, "Sure."
It wasn’t until that evening, when she took out the card to place it under her desk glass, that she noticed the extra line in ornate script: "Beloved LS."
She had laughed dryly.
Seriously? Her deskmate was clearly behind on gossip.
Her awkward crush on Lu Sheng had ended ages ago.
So, she blacked out the "LS" and scribbled in her actual husband’s name before happily pressing it under the glass.
"Lu Lu, come eat—"
Her mother’s call snapped her back to the present. "Coming!" she replied, tossing the crumpled paper back into the bin before leaving the room.
...
Sang Changfeng was a culinary master.
He had prepared the king crab two ways: half steamed, half stir-fried with crispy garlic.
During the meal, Lin Yueyin chatted with Sang Lu about the latest historical romance drama, while Sang Changfeng engaged Feng Yan in a lively discussion about global affairs.
The table buzzed with conversation, but both Sang Lu and Feng Yan seemed distracted.
After dinner, Sang Changfeng and Lin Yueyin walked them to the building’s entrance.
Sang Changfeng handed Feng Yan a takeout bag.
"Since you’re heading to the old house later, I packed a separate portion for Old Master Feng. Let him savor my skills."
He smiled nostalgically.
"Next time, I’ll visit the old man properly—bring some braised pork knuckles and share a drink."
Old Master Feng and Grandpa Sang had been wartime comrades. Sang Changfeng had often been taken to the Feng family estate as a child, where Old Master Feng had even taught him to fish. After his father’s passing, visits became rare, but in Sang Changfeng’s heart, Old Master Feng remained a revered elder deserving of filial respect.
"Visiting the old man is only right, but skip the pork knuckles," Lin Yueyin interjected. "He’s advanced in years, and so are you. Heavy food isn’t suitable anymore."
"Fine, fine, I know…" Sang Changfeng waved her off, privately dismissing her concerns. At their age, shouldn’t they indulge freely?
(He wisely kept that thought to himself.)
After a few more words of advice from Lin Yueyin, the couple watched their daughter and son-in-law drive off.
...
The black sedan headed toward the Feng family estate.
The afternoon sun slanted sharply through the window, glaring against their faces.
Wind whistled through the cracked glass, tousling Feng Yan’s fringe.
His expression remained calm, eyes dark and unreadable.
The roads were congested.
Red light after red light stretched ahead.
As he watched the countdown on the traffic signal, he wondered how to broach the subject.
Sang Lu’s mood was equally unsettled.
An inexplicable guilt gnawed at her—as if she’d been caught red-handed in some marital betrayal.
In just ten short minutes, she had stolen several glances at the silent man in the driver's seat.
The car was too quiet.
The atmosphere was subtle.
A red light ahead.
The car came to another forced stop.
The man stared absently at the road ahead, his gaze gradually sharpening.
His grip on the steering wheel tightened abruptly, and as he turned his head, he happened to meet Sang Lu’s eyes—already fixed on him.
Feng Yan: "I..."
Sang Lu: "You just..."
They spoke at the same time.
Their gazes locked in the air.
Both paused.
