Volume One, Chapter Eleven: The Memorial Ceremony

Zhong Li had barely stood in the greenhouse for two minutes when Commander Zhong called her, summoning her to a matchmaking meeting. She had already stood the other party up four times, and Commander Zhong bluntly warned that if she didn’t go this time, her financial support would be cut off.

With no other choice, Zhong Li reluctantly agreed to the appointment.

Jiang Yihuan pulled her suitcase and entered the villa.

Almost nothing inside the villa had changed from the way she remembered it. After her mother’s suicide years ago, Shen Qiming, disgusted that the manor was tainted by death, sold it off. Later, Zhou Jingmo bought it back and had it renovated and redecorated according to memories, though none of the original furnishings remained.

As for her mother’s belongings, Jiang Yihuan had not kept a single item.

She had been too young then, powerless to protect the Jiang family.

But it didn’t matter. From now on, she would destroy the Shen family bit by bit, just as Shen Qiming had ruined the Jiang family.

Jiang Yihuan took a shower in the bedroom and changed into black clothes. Alone, she made her way to the manor’s backyard.

The backyard was a vast lawn bordered by several ancient oak trees. Underneath the trees stood a few exquisite wrought iron tables and chairs, mostly buried under thick snow.

Jiang Yihuan truly despised winter. For her, this season was like an inescapable nightmare. Each falling snowflake felt like fate’s merciless mockery.

They fell in torrents, turning her entire world into a bleak white wasteland. She stood there all alone, like the snow-covered tables and chairs—lifeless and forgotten.

Every cold morning, she would silently pray for spring to arrive swiftly.

Because in winter, she had no warmth, no hope—only endless loneliness and the unbearable pain of losing her mother.

Before coming, Jiang Yihuan had picked a bouquet of snapdragon flowers.

Clutching the bouquet, her gaze settled on a patch of snow-covered earth at the far end of the backyard. That was all she had left.

She stepped carefully through the thick snow until she reached that corner forgotten by time. Slowly, she knelt down and gently brushed away the cold, heavy snow with delicate fingers, as if caressing a fragile memory.

Gradually, a square tombstone emerged beneath the snow.

The tombstone lay flat on the ground, its surface mottled and weathered; the inscriptions had faded from years of wind, frost, rain, and snow—just like her mother’s face in her fading memories.

In her mind, those memories had grown distant and blurred.

She only remembered that on New Year’s Eve when she was eight, she was standing by the manor’s fountain setting off fireworks when suddenly there was a muffled ‘bang’ behind her.

She stiffly turned around and saw her mother lying on the ground in a strange posture. Her once neat hair was disheveled, strands soaked with blood clinging to her pale face. Her eyes were half-open, vacant and frozen.

Jiang Yihuan stood there motionless, expressionless, staring at her mother’s lifeless body, her eyes dry and tearless.

It was then she realized that in the depths of the greatest pain, one cannot cry.

After the funeral, she found a letter in her mother’s bedroom—a note left for her.

It was brief, containing only one sentence:

“Yihuan, Mommy loves you, but Mommy was too hurt. You must live strong.”

How laughable.

To love her but still abandon her.

If even her own mother rejected her, what meaning was there for her to keep living?

Jiang Yihuan placed the snapdragons beside the tombstone and said softly, “I’ve come to see you. Fourteen years have passed. Do you regret the choice you made back then?”

Only the howling wind answered her.

Jiang Yihuan smiled faintly and sat down on the nearby patch of ground.

Her fingers traced the cold stone. Snowflakes danced wildly around her, the chill from the tombstone creeping through her arms straight to her heart.

It was a loneliness colder than ice and snow.

Her mother’s departure had left her isolated in this world.

Her mother was everything to her. With her gone, everything was gone.

“Tell me, were you foolish or not? You sacrificed your life for a man so unworthy, and in the end, he doesn’t even remember the day you died.”

“Now he’s happily living with his family of three, while you have nothing.”

Jiang Yihuan closed her eyes to hide the sting and whispered, “I have nothing too.”

She spoke to her mother about the trivialities of the years past and her longing for her. Suddenly, a butterfly fluttered and landed gently on her shoulder.

Jiang Yihuan froze.

Butterflies did not belong in winter. She carefully reached out to touch its wings. The butterfly did not fly away.

She smiled, tears rolling down her cheeks, “Mom…”

The butterfly fluttered its wings twice.

Jiang Yihuan sighed deeply, wiping away her tears. “Mom… rest assured, I will not let the Shen family go. I will strip them bare and pave the path to the underworld with their blood, all for you.”

The butterfly flew away, settling on the snapdragons beside the tombstone.

Having paid her respects, Jiang Yihuan returned to the villa.

She did not choose to stay in her old bedroom but moved all her belongings into her mother’s room.

She took a simple walk around the villa, thinking to see what was missing so she could add to it later.

To her surprise, the living essentials were very well stocked. Even the walk-in closet was packed full of clothes, shoes, and bags.

Her fingers lightly brushed over the garments, trembling slightly. She knew all of this had been arranged by Zhou Jingmo.

The house looked unchanged from the day she left it at eight years old. Many details revealed that it had been carefully maintained all along.

Including the snapdragons in the greenhouse.

Zhou Jingmo, what exactly are you thinking?

—

At dusk, Zhou Jingmo’s car drove into the manor grounds. Jiang Yihuan was sitting by the fireplace in the living room reading.

The flames burned warmly, casting a soft amber glow that bathed the room in a cozy twilight.

Jiang Yihuan nestled quietly in the armchair beside the hearth, holding a copy of The Thorn Birds, feeling content.

Zhou Jingmo opened the door, a cold draft and his tall silhouette flowing inside.

The wind chilled Jiang Yihuan, who wrapped herself tighter in a blanket but did not look up. She had long expected Zhou Jingmo’s arrival and felt no surprise.

Zhou Jingmo closed the door, sealing out the cold air. He took off his coat, still cool to the touch, and tossed it onto the sofa before walking toward the nearby bar.

He picked up a delicate crystal glass, the clink of its bottom against the ivory countertop clear and crisp.

Jiang Yihuan still did not lift her gaze, her slender fingers gently turning the pages, her expression calm and detached, shutting Zhou Jingmo completely out of her world.

A faint smile touched Zhou Jingmo’s lips. Leisurely, he dropped a few ice cubes into the glass, then retrieved a bottle of aged whiskey from the cabinet.

The amber liquid poured in, swirling silkily around the ice. He sipped, the smoky aroma mingling with fruity notes, spreading across his tongue before fading into endless bitterness.

He leaned lazily against the bar, his dark eyes fixed on Jiang Yihuan, a complex blend of teasing and tenderness flickering within, making his thoughts inscrutable.

They had argued that very morning. Though they hadn’t spoken all day, a subtle tension still lingered between them.