She still left her hand hanging in mid-air: "Honey, Mr. Bo, big brother, old man, at your service."
The wife you marry, the one you spoil rotten, what can you do? Just have to endure it. Bo Yan, still having his foot stomped on by her, trembles as he reaches out his hand to let her place hers on his arm: "Please, go ahead."
"That's more like it." Xia Siyu, satisfied, pulls back her foot and walks inside confidently with her head held high.
After all, though she, like everyone else, is afraid of aging, afraid of becoming ugly, more than becoming old and ugly, she's worried that when she reaches fifty or sixty, nearing the end of her life, looking back, she'll realize that despite her fame hitting the peak, she has no signature work, no award.
Beauty fades with time, but a signature work doesn't. It remains fresh for years, like her mom, even after being deliberately hidden for thirty years, there's still someone who remembers her.
