Hua Jing was wheeled into Yellow Garden like a sleeping queen.
The gates had long since closed behind them, sealing the outside world away.
Inside, the estate was vast—staggering in its quiet majesty.
Polished marble floors stretched endlessly across a foyer large enough to host an entire gala. The chandeliers, imported crystal, glittered like stars in daylight. Golden-trimmed columns supported archways carved with roses. And from beyond the hallway, the scent of fresh jasmine and honeysuckle drifted in softly.
The garden inside the walls of the estate was... alive.
Petals in every color bloomed like brushstrokes across the earth. Trees swayed gently above, filtered sunlight scattering over stone paths. There was a stillness here—a careful curation of beauty. No dust. No cobwebs. Nothing out of place.
Fu Jing Rong had been in a coma for a year…
Yet this place was still pristine.
Still perfect.
Still his.
