On the rooftop of a small, cozy building sits the small frame of a girl, with a white cat in her lap. Her face is diamond-shaped, with long curled lashes, a small structured nose, plump pink lips, and midnight-black hair cascading down her back.
"Your fur is soft and fluffy for a bratty cat, Snowbean," she said, rubbing his fur. He purred in response, giving her a gentle glare.
She smiled. "Let's go back into the house. I don't want Mom yelling."
As if on cue, her mother's voice rang out from below, sharp and familiar.
"Lianlian!".
"Coming!" she called, hurriedly jumping to her feet and making her way back into the house.
"On the rooftop again? A secret boyfriend? A lover?!" her mother scowled, arms crossed.
"Come on, Mom, I was just getting a breath of fresh air," she retorted.
"Hmph, whatever. Let's go eat dinner—your dad is waiting at the table." She took her hand, and the two walked toward the dining area.
They sat down at the modest wooden table, where steam curled up from a spread of home-cooked dishes.
There was a bowl of tomato and egg stir-fry, a plate of twice-cooked pork, and a pot of lotus root soup gently simmering. A basket of steamed white rice sat in the center, flanked by small dishes of pickled radish and garlic sautéed green beans. The room filled with the soft clinking of chopsticks and the warmth of quiet, familiar love.
"Dad, when is Brother Wenbo coming home?" Li Lian asked the quiet, serene man sitting across from her.
Li Chenghai finally looked up from his food, a small smile appearing on his face.
"Soon, Lian. He's a little busy with work—probably before the month ends."
Li Lian watched her father for a moment, a sad smile hidden behind her palm as she lifted her chopsticks to her mouth.
Life hadn't been the same since the Li family became a fallen phoenix.
The name Li—once enough to make people rise to their feet—had slowly, almost silently, crumbled. Like burning wood turned to ash.
Her parents hid it well, but the weight lingered.
"Mom, Dad," she began softly, "don't you think it's time for me to start working too?"
"…Why?" Li Chenghai raised a brow. "Is there something you want to earn money for? I can get it for you instead."
"…Dad… I need to learn how to earn things for myself too. I'm not a kid anymore—I'm a graduate, you know."
"But… my daughter—"
"Please…" she cut in gently, her voice soft but firm, eyes lowered. "Let me try, just once."
Seeing that she won't give in, Li Chenghai sighed. "Okay, when Wenbo comes back you'd follow him back to the city".
"Thank you daddy".
Meanwhile
Xiamen city, Yunjing villa.
All employees stood assembled in front of a tall, well-furnished building, their posture straight and eyes alert, as a black Maybach rolled smoothly into the driveway.
The moment the car came to a halt, a man stepped out—a dark suit fitted cleanly beneath a windbreaker that shielded him from the cold. His polished black shoes struck the pavement with quiet authority.
His hair was brushed back, though a few rebellious strands fell over his brow. A sharp jawline framed his structured face, eyes unreadable beneath the morning light.
"Welcome back, Young Master" the head butler, Old He, said with a respectful bow.
The man walked forward, shrouded in quiet authority, his presence turning heads without a word. He gave a subtle nod in return, then disappeared into the mansion without breaking stride.
A few steps into the mansion, and he encountered his seated parents. He paused briefly, eyes unreadable, then walked on in silence—only to be stopped by his father's voice.
"Just a few years abroad, and you've gotten brattier. Can't even greet your parents now?"
A brief silence lingered before he finally looked at them.
"…You both have been… living well."
Just a statement—cold, distant, and final.
Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked up the stairs, ignoring the sharp voices rising behind him as his footsteps faded.
"Qin Lihua, just look at the brat we raised!" Zhao Jingyuan fumed, turning toward his wife in frustration.
"Leave him be, Jingyuan," she said softly, her eyes still on the stairs. "He just got back."
Zhao Yifan finally reached his room and headed straight for the bathroom after slipping out of his clothes and into a bathrobe, he stepped into the shower. A quiet sigh escaped his lips as the cold water hit his skin, easing the tension in his shoulders and the pounding in his head.
A few slow, deliberate scrubs, and he was done.
When he stepped out of the bathroom, already dressed in his pajamas, his phone rang.
He glanced at the screen, saw the name, and answered—his tone cool, professional, speaking briefly with a business client.
The moment the call ended, a knock sounded at the door. He rubbed his damp hair with a towel.
"Come in."
"Young Master Yifan, Madam Zhao has called you for dinner," the maid said politely.
"…Bring it to my room instead."
"Yes, Young Master," the maid bowed, then quietly took her leave.
Calm settled over the room again—but it didn't last long. The door opened once more, this time without a knock.
"…Yifan."
Just the sound of her soft voice made him sigh. "…Hmm."
"You didn't even greet your father and me when you came in," she said, her tone soft but firm. "And now you don't want to have dinner with us? We haven't seen each other in a while, you know."
Though her voice remained gentle, a frown lingered on her face.
"Okay." He stood and walked out, leaving his mother to shake her head with a quiet sigh.
At the dinner table, the soft clinking of chopsticks and the occasional clatter of wine glasses filled the silence.
No one spoke.
His parents watched him in between bites, their gazes lingering with concern.
Zhao Yifan had always been distant—even before he left for England six years ago. But now… he seemed colder. Sharper. Almost unreachable.
Unable to hold it in any longer, his father spoke.
"Zhao Yifan."
"Yes?"
"You won't even talk to your parents? Did we do something wrong?"
"No," Yifan replied coolly, lifting his wine glass to his lips. "There's just nothing necessary to talk about."
"Are you being serious right now?" Zhao Jingyuan's voice hardened, a deep frown settling on his face.
"Oh, yes. There is something to be said."
Yifan set the glass down with a soft click, followed by his chopsticks.
"I'll be moving back to Zhaoyue pavilion. tomorrow."
"Beijing? Yifan?!" His mother's frown deepened.
"Zhaoyi Holdings' main branch is in Beijing. I can't keep traveling back and forth from here."
His gaze was sharp as it landed on them—unyielding, unwavering. He wasn't asking. He was informing.
"You just came back. There's no need to rush into work, Yifan."
Qin Lihua leaned in, gently touching his cheek, her voice soft with concern. But all he did was stare—expression unreadable.
"…I'll leave for Beijing tomorrow."
With that, he rose from his seat and walked upstairs without another word.
"Ai—Elder Zhao, do something about your son," Qin Lihua said helplessly, turning to her husband.