Chapter 23 – Remembrance
The rain pattered softly against the windowpane, its rhythm uneven—like the pulse of an old wound reopening. Yichen sat in the leather chair of the study , staring into the dark liquid in his cup. Sitting across him was his old man who quietly watched him. Zhen Yichen had not tasted the tea. His eyes were somewhere far away, back in a time he rarely allowed himself to revisit.
*The day Mu Yu left.*
It was summer, yet he remembered feeling cold.
The moment he learned the boy next door—the only one who had ever made his heart beat with that strange, unspoken fondness—was gone, it was as if someone had shut off the sun.
He hadn't cried. Zhen Yichen didn't cry. But his silence had been heavier than tears.
The door to his room had swung open, revealing his grandfather, Zhen Haoran. The old man's eyes were the same sharp steel gray as his own, though Yichen's carried the storm, and Haoran's, the ice.
"You'll forget him," Haoran had said, as if it were law.
Yichen had looked up slowly, his tone even but laced with venom. "No. I won't."
That was the beginning.
When the subject of furthering his studies came up later that year, Yichen didn't ask for permission—he announced it.
"I'm leaving for Europe," he said at the dinner table, his chopsticks set neatly beside his bowl.
The silence that followed was suffocating. His father's brow furrowed, his mother's lips pressed into a thin line. Across the table, Zhen Minghao, his elder brother, remained unreadable as always, his gaze flicking between the three of them like a spectator at a chess match.
His grandfather slammed his palm on the table.
"You will not run away from your responsibilities! Do you think you can escape your place in this family by crossing an ocean?"
"I'm not running away," Yichen replied, voice low, deliberate. "I'm leaving because I choose to live my own life."
"You are the heir—"
"No I'm not, my older brother is," Yichen cut in. "I don't want it. And stop creating discord between my brother and I. You have no say!"
... silence everyone was shocked by such words
His father snapped, "Enough! You dare speak to your grandfather like that?!.You think you can defy us? Your education, your life, everything you have—"
"—is mine to decide what to do with," Yichen interrupted again, his eyes locking on his father's. "And I've decided."
The tension stretched until it felt like the walls might crack. It was Zhen Minghao who finally spoke.
"If he wants to go, let him go," Minghao said, his tone calm but carrying weight. "If you try to chain him here, you'll only lose him completely."
Their parents exchanged looks, torn between pride and fear. Haoran looked ready to explode, but he knew Minghao rarely spoke without calculation.
In the end, it was their mother who exhaled and looked at Yichen.
"Fine. But remember—you'll have no safety net. You'll stand on your own two feet."
"That's the point," Yichen said, standing from the table. He didn't look back as he left.
The next two years were a blur of cold winters, foreign streets, and the satisfaction of building something from scratch. He had taken odd jobs at first—just enough to live—before his own ideas began to take shape. A small office. A handful of staff. Deals made through persistence rather than connections. Every brick in his new life was one he laid himself, far away from the shadow of the Zhen family.
Italy came almost by accident. A business trip turned into an extended stay. The streets were warm, alive, and the air carried the scent of espresso and fresh bread. Yet what drew him most was a small restaurant tucked away in a quieter part of the city.
The food was Chinese—authentic, flavorful, the kind that carried the taste of home without the weight of its memories. The owner was a woman named Celia.
She was nothing like him—warm where he was cold, talkative where he was reserved. She had a habit of laughing in a way that made people forget their worries, and she treated him not as a businessman or a stranger, but as if he were an old friend stopping by.
At first, he kept their conversations minimal.
But over time, he found himself staying longer after meals, listening to her stories about running the restaurant, her struggles and small victories. She never pried into his past, but there was something in the way she spoke—unguarded and honest—that made him feel the walls around his own history shift.
One evening, the restaurant was quiet. Rain tapped against the glass, much like it had on the day his memories began. Celia brought over a cup of tea, sitting opposite him.
"You always come here alone," she said casually. "Don't you ever get tired of it?"
"No," Yichen replied, sipping his tea.
She laughed. "Figures. You're the type who's fine with silence."
There was a pause. He set down his cup.
"Celia."
She raised a brow. "Hm?"
His tone didn't change, but his words landed like a stone dropping into still water.
"Can you be my wife?"
The steam from the tea curled between them, blurring the edges of her startled expression.