The Secret (Dedicated to Yi Yi for the Diamond)

With a soft beep, the phone indicated that all data transfer was complete. She saw Young Master Ye looking down at the message, his figure momentarily stiff. She did not know what he was thinking at that moment; she only felt a sudden, profound sense of relief.

"Thank you," he said.

Ye Shenghan slowly lifted his eyes. Behind her, the night sky bloomed with magnificent fireworks, the explosions unfurling like golden autumn chrysanthemums, one after another, endless and brilliant. Despite the splendor of the night, he stood as a solitary figure in the night breeze. Her hands were tucked into the pockets of her coat, her frame slightly curled—a sight that was indescribably heartbreaking.

He was dazed, a surge of warmth welling up in his eyes. He fought to suppress it, the words trapped in his throat yearning to burst from his lips: *I love you, Linglan!*

That feeling had become so intense it was beyond description. He thought of her every day; the bone-deep longing had long since made it impossible for him to focus on his work. He loved her kindness, her intelligence, her affection. As he realized how deep his love had grown, he knew he would eventually regret it. But, Linglan, in this world, besides you and Bai Yuchen, who else can I trust?

He watched her, yearning to hold her, to kiss her. The more he craved her, the deeper his desire grew. Finally, he watched as she waved at him, calling out loudly, "Young Master Ye, you should go back now..."

But his feet felt so heavy he could no longer take a step. He could not put that feeling into words. The heat in his eyes gradually blurred her figure. Gripping his phone tightly, Ye Shenghan dialed her number. Seeing her slightly startled expression, he said, "You don't need to go to 'Tiancheng' anymore." His voice was resonant and firm against the night wind.

Unexpectedly, she looked lost.

Their gazes locked in the cold night air. Linglan felt her heart soar toward the clouds once more; she took a sharp breath, trying to ease the tightness in her chest. This time, it was truly a farewell to Mo Zhicheng.

Three days later would have been the end of their one-month agreement. Let it end, she thought, let it just end. With the information exposed, her departure from Tiancheng meant her identity would be revealed, though she hadn't expected Young Master Ye to call a halt to it early.

Although he hadn't taken down the Ye Corporation, Mo Zhicheng’s private investigation into high-ranking officials in Nanjiang, his collection of indecent videos of Young Master Qin, and his gathering of evidence against Secretary Qin made it clear to the outside world that there was a conflict of interest. To seize power, this financial titan had stopped at nothing, exposing such scandals. Tiancheng would experience earthquake-like repercussions, and the investment in the 'FS' Hotel next year would be left in a precarious dilemma.

Linglan breathed deeply, having already anticipated the heavy consequences. The only thing she dared not imagine was what Mo Zhicheng would think of her. Her eyes dimmed, and her long lashes trembled in the night wind. She did not look at Young Master Ye’s gaze, but replied softly, "Alright, I will not return to Tiancheng." After this vacation, she would never go back.

Ye Shenghan finally received her definitive answer, his heart lifting. "You go upstairs; I'm heading back too."

"Mm." She smiled.

"And one more thing," he paused, "Happy New Year!" His melodic voice, despite the explosions of the fireworks, seemed to pierce through to her ears again and again: "Happy New Year."

Her expression was somewhat dazed, as if she were hearing another low, familiar voice. She remembered the rattan swing, the sparse starlit sky; it was as if he were holding her, singing into her ear: *Loving you, loving you!*

A faint smile bloomed on her lips, like ink spreading on a stone. Ye Shenghan whispered, "Je t'aime."

She didn't understand the last phrase, but she still smiled and asked, "What was that?"

"Je t'aime."

...

She tried to mimic his pronunciation, repeating it, "Re-dai-me?" She smiled slightly.

Ye Shenghan laughed too: "Mm, Je t'aime."

...

Je t'aime.

...

Je t'aime.

...

Though Linglan did not understand what the phrase meant, she could hear the joy in his voice even from that distance, and she could see the curve of his lips. At that moment, she thought he must be happy. As long as he was happy, that was enough. It was what she had wished for countless times—to be happy with his happiness, to be blessed by his blessings. This was the love she had hidden in her heart for seventeen years—the Bellflower.

Linglan waved and said into the phone, "Goodnight." She stepped back and finally turned to leave. Ye Shenghan stood where he was, watching her fading figure for a long, long time.

She looked at the phone in her hand, which fell back into the silence of sleep.

Linglan leaned tightly against the pale wall of the corridor, the orange lamplight casting a slanted shadow. She was lost in thought, looking at the dark, ink-black shadow at her feet. She could barely recognize it as her own, just as she could not disentangle her own chaotic thoughts—a tangled mess that only grew more knotted the more she tried to unravel it.

She couldn't help but wonder, that man hadn't contacted her for two full days. Where was he now? What was he doing? He had given her two days off, asking her not to be there—was it because of Leng Tingyu?

Was he with Tingyu tonight?

If they were alone, would they be like she had seen before, wrapped in each other's arms, sharing intimacy? Would he kiss that woman the way he kissed her? Would he...

She dared not continue the line of thought, but vivid, agonizing images filled her mind. Her breathing became ragged and uncontrollable. She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling as if it were being pierced by countless thin needles. Her body slowly, helplessly slid down the wall, and she hugged herself, her slender arms unable to contain her trembling frame.

Imagining him pressing against another woman, kissing and caressing her—she could not bear the thought of him showing affection to someone else. Those scenes of intimacy played through her mind like a fast-forwarding film.

Finally, she jolted back to reality.

It was only nine o'clock at night, and she didn't want to be alone at home. The wind had picked up. Stepping out of the residential complex, Linglan pulled her coat collar tight. On New Year's Eve, even the weary birds knew to return to their nests. The streets, usually bustling and vibrant with music, were quiet and deserted tonight, as if the world had returned to its primordial stillness.

The cold winter wind was like an icy blade, scraping against her face. Only a few taxis sped along the wide roads, seemingly in a rush to return home for a reunion with their families.

The force of the passing vehicles blew away large swathes of yellow leaves at the street corner, and the dark, empty road seemed to stretch to the ends of the earth.

Linglan looked up and saw clouds like fish scales, spreading across the night sky in a state of panic, illuminated by the fireworks. She closed her eyes, as if she could hear the sound of the wind and clouds sweeping past.

She did not know that, far behind her, a black car was submerged in the sea of night, tailing her at a distance.

Ye Shenghan watched her from the shadows, his hand gripping his phone tightly, as if waiting for something. But the ringtone he expected never came.

Linglan sighed softly. The call on the other end went unanswered. She only wanted to say one thing to that man: "Happy New Year!" But there was no reply.

Snow, light as goose down, began to fall from the sky—the last of the year. The icy sensation touched her cheeks. Beneath the streetlights, the swirling snow felt like a bleak and resolute pantomime.

She walked in a trance, the streets beginning to turn white.

Yet, as if driven by a ghost, she spent two hours walking to the seaside villa. Everything before her was pitch black, suggesting that the owner of the villa was not home.

But she still remembered the password for the door. Within a moment, she pushed it open and entered. She was already familiar with the layout of the villa and could navigate the darkness without turning on the lights.

Linglan walked up the solid wood spiral staircase, step by step, feeling memories rush out, uncontrollable.

He really wasn't home, Linglan thought with a soft, bitter laugh. She intended to go to the third-floor balcony, but as she passed the study, she was surprised to find the door ajar. She froze, stunned. That was Mo Zhicheng’s forbidden zone. Why?

Unable to suppress her curiosity, she pushed the door open softly, stepping inside as if entering Pandora's box.

She used the dim light from her phone to survey the room. The study’s decor was somewhat archaic, with nothing particularly unusual.

A cold wind howled outside, whistling through the cracks. She looked over in astonishment; the glass window of the study was wide open, and the curtains were black against the night. As the gale swept through, the curtains billowed like giant waves or reaching, jagged claws, resembling a scene from a horror movie.

It felt as if something were about to tighten around her throat, leaving her unable to breathe. Linglan gasped, retreating in fear. In the night sky, the colorful light of fireworks flickered, bright and dark like a lightning strike, illuminating a corner of the study. She caught sight of the silhouette of a man leaning in a swivel chair.

She was startled, but for some reason, at that moment, she forgot her fear. Ignoring his prohibition, she stepped closer. Only when she saw clearly that it was him—Mo Zhicheng!

The leather swivel chair was turned toward the window. Snow had blown in with the wind, covering the floor in a thin layer of slush.

Linglan gasped, staring almost dumbfounded at the man with his eyes closed. He wore only a thin black shirt, blending into the surrounding darkness. He held a stack of old photographs in his arms, and others were scattered on the floor, lifted by the wind in melancholy arcs. She reached out to catch a photo.

*Whoosh!* Fireworks erupted in the night sky. *Bang!* A deep red chrysanthemum bloomed. Light and shadow overlapped, falling upon the man’s face. His stoic features were etched with a desolate sorrow. As she looked, she saw moisture under his lashes, glistening with a cold light in the brilliant glow.

He was crying. The man she had once thought invincible was here tonight, locking himself in his study, shedding tears in the dark.

A bitter, sour feeling rose in Linglan’s throat. Her lips trembled, unable to make a sound. She flipped over the photo in her hand—a family portrait of three, smiles gracing everyone’s lips, the old image tinged with a faint, faded yellow.