Chapter 22: The Unspoken Secret

Lin Siqing’s face was etched with a mixture of frustration and indignation. He shot Zhang Chenxi a fierce glare, his eyes seeming to bore two holes right through him.

Then, with a vigorous flick of his sleeve, a sweeping motion that appeared meant to cast all his displeasure far into the ether, he turned sharply and strode away. The ground thudded beneath his footsteps, each step carrying the weight of his burning anger and unwillingness to yield.

His retreating figure stood out starkly amid the crowd, his straightened back embodying a last vestige of stubborn pride, while his slightly trembling shoulders betrayed the turmoil within.

Zhang Chenxi watched Lin Siqing disappear from sight, a knowing smile curling at the corner of his lips, his gaze laced with teasing amusement.

Only after Lin Siqing had vanished completely did Zhang Chenxi slowly shift his attention to Fu Siqiao.

At that moment, Fu Siqiao stood by her art stall, bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun, as if draped in a delicate veil of light.

She wore a traditional, elegantly antique cheongsam that clung gracefully to her slender figure, perfectly accentuating her gentle curves.

The intricate embroidery on the dress shimmered subtly under the sun, the woven blossoms seeming to exude a faint, enchanting fragrance.

A few playful strands of hair framed her cheeks, swaying gently in the breeze, accentuating her captivating beauty.

Her eyes, bright and spirited like countless stars hidden within, were lowered slightly as she meticulously tidied her brushes and paints on the table.

Her cheeks bore a soft flush from a day’s toil, reminiscent of the evening glow resting tenderly upon her face, lending her a shy yet alluring charm.

Her lips, full and rosy like ripe cherries, were gently pressed together, carrying a faint hint of quiet defiance.

Zhang Chenxi approached with his signature captivating smile, his eyes filled with admiration and affection, his steps light as if dancing a silent waltz.

“You little liar, you look stunning today. Especially in that cheongsam.”

His voice was warm and magnetic, like a gentle spring breeze brushing softly past Fu Siqiao’s ear.

His gaze never left her form, as though he wished to imprint this very image onto his heart.

Fu Siqiao lifted her head slightly, her eyes calm and indifferent, as if Zhang Chenxi’s praise were but a passing breeze, vanishing without consequence.

Her delicate features were cool and refined, her skin pale as snow, glowing faintly in the sunset’s rays. The few strands of hair beside her cheeks did nothing to soften her aloof grace—instead, they highlighted her solitary dignity.

She pressed her lips together lightly, the color like pale cherry blossoms, utterly still, standing quietly as she continued to methodically pack away her painting tools.

She was well aware that Zhang Chenxi harbored a secret within his heart—a mysterious presence, like an invisible shadow standing between them.

Fu Siqiao had never sought to probe it; she guarded her dignity and clarity within her own world.

She was not one to sink into emotional quagmires or willingly become a substitute.

Seeing Fu Siqiao’s cool reaction, a subtle trace of disappointment flickered in Zhang Chenxi’s eyes.

His posture was upright and elegant, his simple attire worn with an effortless charm.

“You’re different today, little liar. You’re very different.”

“Hm?”

“Fu Siqiao, why do you keep everyone at such a distance?”

Zhang Chenxi’s voice held a touch of helplessness and melancholy as he took a tentative step forward, his pace hesitant, as if afraid to disturb her.

Fu Siqiao paused, lifting her gaze to meet his steadily.

“Zhang Chenxi, if you have nothing else to say, then leave.”

Her tone was calm, without the slightest wavering, yet resolute and unquestionable.

Her eyes bore no anger, no grievance—only a profound clarity and detachment.

She gently placed her brush inside the box with practiced ease and closed the lid softly, as if drawing a definitive end to their conversation.

Zhang Chenxi said nothing, watching her pack up with a tender, lingering gaze, utterly charming.

But Fu Siqiao offered no response to his warmth, not even a basic courtesy, and so the two simply stared at each other in silence.

Unable to remain silent, Fu Siqiao set down her brush, sighed softly, and spoke resignedly, “Zhang Chenxi, I know you have your secrets, but I am not your second choice, nor do I wish to intrude into your world.”

Fu Siqiao thought to herself that Ashui must be a very good woman, the only one who could make someone as fine as Zhang Chenxi so unforgettable.

Zhang Chenxi feigned ignorance with his trademark smile, lightly curling the corner of his lips.

“Little liar, you don’t know what you mean to me.”

Fu Siqiao was dumbfounded, her eyes filled with disbelief. In that fleeting moment when she looked at him, she seemed to understand something—perhaps Zhang Chenxi never saw her as a mere substitute; he was simply exhausted.

Someone who could offer him temporary solace was his only possible salvation.

Fu Siqiao chose not to speak, just as Zhang Chenxi preferred to feign ignorance.

Then let it be unsaid.

* * *

Lin Siqing stood beneath a sturdy tree, his bloodshot eyes blazing with fury like a cornered beast.

Veins bulged on his forehead, twisting and writhing like tangled worms with every clenched fist.

His teeth bit down hard on his lower lip, leaving deep marks that bled faintly.

His fists cut through the air with a whooshing sound, pounding the tree trunk with such force that bark splintered and scattered.

His body shook violently, releasing the pent-up resentment and unwillingness that churned within.

Zhao Jiaren approached cautiously, his face a mix of flattery and concern.

He stole nervous glances at Lin Siqing, his steps slow and tentative, as if afraid to touch the man’s proverbial sore spot.

“Brother Lin, don’t be angry. It’s just that little Fu Siqiao rejected you, no need to ruin your health over it.”

His voice was gentle, tinged with sycophancy, trying to soothe Lin Siqing’s mood with words.

Lin Siqing snapped his head around sharply, his eyes shooting two icy lasers straight at Zhao Jiaren.

“Get lost!” he roared, his voice thunderous, echoing through the air and rustling the leaves nearby.

Zhao Jiaren trembled in fear, his face turning deathly pale.

Instinctively, he stepped back several paces, his eyes wide with terror.

Without daring to utter another word, he spun on his heel and fled the scene, his hurried steps frantic, as if pursued by demons.

At that moment, Zhang Chenxi arrived at a leisurely pace.

A faint smile played on his lips, his eyes reflecting a complex array of emotions.

His posture was graceful, his steps light and assured, every movement exuding calm.

The breeze tousled his hair naturally, a few strands falling over his forehead, adding a touch of rebellious nonchalance.

Seeing Zhang Chenxi, Zhao Jiaren seemed to find a savior and hurriedly approached.

“Brother Zhang, you’re here. Please talk some sense into Brother Lin.” His eyes brimmed with hope, his hands nervously rubbing together, betraying his inner anxiety and unease.