That weekend, Blaze's mother, Ivanka, summoned him home for dinner. Without thinking much of it, he drove straight back to the estate.
Ivanka, a professor of music, had always carried herself with an elegance that set her apart from ordinary people. Even in her fifties, she was radiant—fair-skinned, her jet-black hair swept up and fastened with a jade hairpin. Regal, yet never losing her artistic grace.
The weather was brilliant that afternoon, and mother and son sat in the garden's glasshouse for tea. But something was off. Ivanka seemed distracted, her gaze drifting again and again toward the gates, as if she were waiting for someone.
Before long, the butler appeared. "Madam, Miss Blair has arrived."
Ivanka's eyes lit up. She nodded eagerly and ordered the guest to be brought in.
Blaze raised a brow, sipping his tea in silence. He wasn't sure what game his mother was playing this time.
Moments later, Blair entered. Barely over five feet tall, dressed in a pale yellow dress, her long hair curled softly with bangs that nearly hid half her face—she looked more like a child than a woman.
Blaze barely registered her appearance. What he did notice was that in this near-freezing weather, she was baring her legs. Didn't she feel the cold?
Cecilia used to do the same, reckless in her outfits. He had punished her harshly for it more than once.
The thought of her tugged a faint smile at the corner of his lips.
Ivanka caught that fleeting smile instantly and misread it, assuming Blaze was already pleased with Blair. She hurried to introduce them. "This is my student, Blair Gwyneth. Just call her Blair."
Blaze pressed his lips together, then rose to politely pull out a chair for the young woman. But when he addressed her, it was with deliberate formality: "Miss Gwyneth."
Such a simple courtesy was enough to make Blair's cheeks burn red. She lowered her head, too shy to meet his piercing gaze.
"Thank you, Mr. Diego. We've met once before—at the university's recital concert. You were the patron of that event. Do you remember?"
Blaze didn't. He had attended countless events for charity; one small recital meant nothing. But he still offered her a polite compliment. "Your performance was remarkable."
Her smile blossomed further, and she dared to look up. "If not for your support back then, I wouldn't have been able to continue my studies. I owe you everything."
Ivanka quickly seized the chance to pile on. "Yes, Blair's family was going through hardship at the time. It was thanks to you that she pulled through."
The implication was painfully clear—Ivanka was trying to match them. "Blair is an upright girl," she went on, "my most gifted student. She excels at the cello…"
But no matter how much she said, Blaze only listened quietly, courteous yet distant, his expression giving nothing away. The indifference in his eyes made Ivanka restless.
After Blair was finally sent off, Ivanka could no longer hold back. "Well? What do you think of Blair? Do you like her?"
"No." Blaze didn't hesitate. "I know exactly what you're trying to do. Don't invite strangers into this house again."
Her brows pinched, and then she asked sharply, "Are you still thinking about that girl from the Spark family? That's all in the past. You should forget her!"
At the mention of Cecilia, Blaze lifted his teacup halfway, only to set it back down again. His voice was low, steady, but carried an unshakable weight.
"Don't trouble yourself, Mother. I know my own heart."
On Monday, B.C. was hit by the worst blizzard in a century. Temperatures plunged below minus ten, snow piled up as high as car tires, and going out was nearly impossible. With her commute blocked, Cecilia decided to work from home.
To her surprise, when she stepped into the living room, Blaze was already there—sitting by the window, laptop open, clearly not planning to leave either.
"You're… not going to work?" she asked.
Dressed in coral fleece pajamas, a mug in one hand and her laptop in the other, Cecilia's messy curls still carried the warmth of her blankets. That lazy, drowsy look of hers unexpectedly put Blaze in a good mood. He nodded. "No."
"Oh… I see."
Having nothing more to say, she tilted her head and sat on the sofa, deliberately turning her back to him as she opened her computer.
The new investment had bought MAPLE CO. some breathing room, but reversing its years of losses meant Cecilia needed more clients. She focused intently on her emails, never noticing that Blaze's gaze lingered on her the whole time.
Sometimes he wondered—if only time could turn back three years.
If they had never separated, never betrayed each other. If they had married smoothly, moved in together, and simply lived their lives side by side.
The thought softened his expression. For a fleeting moment, the picture before him felt too warm, too perfect. Until a delicate hand tapped his forehead, snapping him back.
"Blaze? Blaze?" Cecilia's face loomed closer, her faint fragrance brushing against him. "What are you thinking about?"
"Nothing," he said curtly.
Almost without thought, he caught her cool fingers and tucked them into his pocket. A familiar gesture, one they used to share.
Cecilia flinched. Startled, she yanked her hand back, retreating with wary eyes. "What are you doing?"
The air froze, as if someone had hit pause. Blaze's pupils cleared, and then his lips curled with a mocking smile. Foolish. There was no turning back time.
When he didn't reply, Cecilia broke the silence. "The S.T. Chamber is holding a small-and-medium enterprise exchange. I might have to go on a business trip for a few days. I won't be home at night…"
Strictly speaking, she didn't need his approval. But since she would be away for three to five nights, her tone unconsciously carried a hint of seeking permission.
"S.T.?"
She nodded quickly.
Blaze glanced back at his screen, tapped the trackpad a few times, and then nodded faintly. "If you're prepared, go."
It was the answer she had expected, yet his approval still steadied her heart.
That evening, her assistant booked tickets, and by morning Cecilia was off with several managers to attend the conference in S.T.
Having lived abroad for years, she had little local network to rely on. She couldn't fall back on family ties for investment—this exchange was her best chance. She threw herself into building connections, negotiating with representatives, and to her surprise, everything went smoothly. Too smoothly.
It was as if someone had cleared every obstacle in advance, leaving only the contracts for her to sign.
Since when did MAPLE CO. become so popular?
"It's our honor to work with MAPLE CO.," one partner said warmly, clinking glasses with her.
"You flatter me," Cecilia replied with a polite smile. "I'm looking forward to our cooperation as well."
But before the toast could land, a drawling, mocking voice came from behind her.
"Well, well… isn't this Cecilia?"
Someone was calling her name.
Cecilia turned, confused—then froze. Her grip on the wine glass tightened instinctively.
Bruno.
And with him, of all people, was Jackson—the very man who once tried to corner her at that banquet. The memory of Blaze's furious intervention that night still haunted Jackson. So now, when his eyes landed on Cecilia, the arrogance was gone, replaced by a thin layer of unease.
"Cecilia? Wait… maybe I'm mistaken?" Jackson muttered.
Cecilia pressed her lips together, impatient. "Sir, you must have—"
But Bruno cut her off, his smirk widening beneath his rough stubble. "Haven't introduced her to Mr. Diaz yet, have you? This, gentlemen, is none other than Vincent Charlie's ex-wife—Cecilia!"
The revelation dropped like a bomb. A collective gasp swept through the group, eyes snapping toward her in disbelief.
Vincent's brief marriage was whispered about in hushed tones—an old man's so-called May-December romance with a beautiful young wife. But no one outside the Charlie circle knew who that mysterious woman was. And now… it was her? Cecilia?
"Bruno, are you done yet?" Cecilia lifted her gaze, her voice sharp with warning.
Jackson, quick to smooth things over, chuckled awkwardly. "you must be mistaken. Cecilia's barely in her twenties—how could she possibly—"
Bruno arched a brow, his tone dripping with mockery. "I worked for the Charlies myself. How could I mistake her? Perhaps Vincent's vigor impressed our Miss Spark here so much that she couldn't resist. Isn't that right?" His eyes raked over Cecilia shamelessly.
She was tall, strikingly slender, her skin pale as porcelain—enough to catch any man's attention. Yet the thought that Vincent had once had her made even Jackson's stomach churn.
"Done yet? You really like bringing up the past, don't you?" Cecilia set her glass down, her spine straightening as mocking eyes closed in on her. "Shall I help you fill in the details? Maybe we should start with how you feed off your own people?"
The color drained from Bruno's face before a sneer twisted his lips. He leaned closer, voice low and vulgar. "Vincent dumped you, and you still defend him? Why not come to me instead? I'll take you."
Her patience snapped. "One more word, and I'll have security throw you out. Get lost!" With that, she flung her champagne in his face.
Bruno blinked in shock, liquid dripping down his chin. Rage flared, his eyes turning predatory. "You? You're nothing but some old man's leftovers. A secondhand toy, cheaper than—"
He didn't finish.
With a dull thud, his knees buckled as a brutal kick sent him crashing down. Gasps rippled through the onlookers.
A tall figure loomed behind him.
Blaze.
Dressed in a black suit beneath a dark overcoat, his expression was a storm—cold, merciless, dangerous. His eyes, shadowed with fury, cut through the silence like a blade.
"What," Blaze drawled, his voice laced with lethal amusement, "did you just say?"
No one in the room had ever heard anyone insult his woman in front of him—and live to talk about it.
Bruno's lips trembled as he tried to rise, but Blaze's assistant kicked him down again, the impact rattling through the floor.
The crowd exchanged uneasy glances. Not a single person dared to intervene. The way they shrank back only confirmed one thing—whoever this man was, he was someone untouchable.