Returning from their second trip to Venice was like stepping into a different reality. The first time, Wanwan had returned to a house that was a gilded cage; this time, she returned to a place that was starting to feel, impossibly, like home. Ye Tingjue's confession and her own reciprocation had not resulted in a sudden, dramatic passion, but in a quiet, profound shift. It was the beginning of learning a new language together: the language of normalcy.
For Ye Tingjue, "normalcy" was the most foreign concept of all. His life had been a series of strategic moves, high-stakes battles, and isolated splendor. He knew how to command a boardroom, but he didn't know how to navigate a supermarket. He could analyze a multinational corporation's balance sheet in minutes, but he was baffled by the simple mechanics of a movie night with popcorn.
It was Xiaoyu who became his unwitting tutor. Now fully recovered and bursting with the irrepressible energy of a teenager given a second lease on life, he refused to let the mansion's formal atmosphere intimidate him.
"Tingjue-ge, we're out of my favorite instant noodles," Xiaoyu announced one afternoon, bursting into the study where Ye Tingjue was on a conference call with his board of directors in Tokyo.
The board members on the massive screen fell silent, stunned by the interruption. Wanwan, who was reading in a nearby armchair, froze in horror. But Ye Tingjue simply held up a hand to the screen. "Gentlemen, a household emergency has arisen. Please excuse me for a moment." He muted the call, turned to Xiaoyu, and asked with complete seriousness, "Which brand?"
An hour later, Wanwan watched in stunned amusement as Ye Tingjue, dressed in a casual sweater she had picked out for him, pushed a shopping cart through the brightly lit aisles of a local grocery store for the first time in his adult life. He looked utterly out of place, a king surveying a strange and bewildering new territory. He scrutinized labels with the same intensity he applied to legal contracts and was genuinely fascinated by the sheer variety of potato chips.
"This is… remarkably inefficient," he murmured to Wanwan, observing a mother trying to wrangle two toddlers and a full cart. "Why not have a centralized, algorithm-based distribution system that delivers a pre-approved nutritional and domestic supply list directly to residences?"
"Because people like to choose their own brand of instant noodles," Wanwan laughed, tucking her arm through his. "And because sometimes, the inefficiency is the point. It's called living."
He looked at her, at the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled, and a look of dawning understanding crossed his face. He was learning.
These small forays into a normal life became their new routine. They cooked dinner together in the mansion's enormous, state-of-the-art kitchen, which had previously only ever been used by professional chefs. Their first attempt at making dumplings was a disaster, resulting in a flour-covered kitchen and misshapen lumps that bore no resemblance to the intended dish. But they laughed until their sides ached, a sound that echoed through the grand halls, chasing away the last of the mansion's sterile silence.
Ye Tingjue discovered he was fiercely competitive, even in trivial matters. A simple board game with Xiaoyu and Wanwan would turn into a strategic battle of wits, with him plotting his moves three turns in advance. He lost more often than he won, unaccustomed to games where luck was a factor, and his grumbling frustration was so out of character that Wanwan found it utterly endearing.
Their physical relationship also found a new, natural rhythm. The first time he kissed her after their return from Venice, it was not in the bedroom but in the library. She had been reaching for a book on a high shelf, and he had come up behind her to help. After he handed her the book, their eyes met, and the air grew still. He leaned in slowly, his movements hesitant, questioning. It was a kiss devoid of the demanding passion or cold efficiency of the past. It was gentle, tender, and full of a quiet, wondering affection. It was a beginning.
From there, their intimacy grew organically. It was built on shared laughter in a flour-dusted kitchen, on quiet conversations late into the night, and on the comfort of a shared glance across a dinner table. It was the intimacy of partnership, not of ownership. He learned to be gentle, to listen to her body as well as her words. She, in turn, learned to shed the last vestiges of her fear, to trust him not just with her brother's life, but with her own heart.
One of the biggest challenges was integrating their new life with his old one. The world still saw him as the formidable Ye Tingjue, Emperor of the Night Imperial Group. When he hosted a business dinner at the mansion, the atmosphere would shift, the formal mask slipping back into place.
During one such dinner with a delegation of German investors, Wanwan watched as he effortlessly dominated the conversation, switching between fluent German, English, and Mandarin, his mind sharp, his arguments irrefutable. She felt a surge of pride, but also a pang of distance. This was the man who had terrified her, the predator from The Crimson Pavilion.
After the guests had left, a heavy silence fell between them. "That was… intense," she said.
He loosened his tie, the weariness returning to his eyes. "That is the world I have to live in, Wanwan. It's a part of who I am."
"I know," she said, walking over to him. She didn't offer a massage this time. Instead, she took his hand. "But it's not all of who you are. I know the man who can't make dumplings, who gets frustrated by board games, and who takes his grocery shopping very, very seriously. And I love that man just as much as I admire this one."
He looked at her, his heart in his eyes. He pulled her into his arms, burying his face in her hair. "How did I ever live without you?" He murmured, his voice thick with an emotion he no longer tried to hide.
But the past was not entirely gone. It lingered in quiet moments. One afternoon, Wanwan received a letter. It was from Madame Dubois in Paris. Enclosed was a small, faded photograph. It was a picture of two young women, laughing, their arms linked. One was a younger, vibrant Madame Dubois. The other, Wanwan recognized with a jolt, was Ye Tingjue's mother, Jiang Jia Li.
In the letter, Madame Dubois wrote:
My dear Wanwan,
I was going through some old albums and found this. This was taken on a trip Jia Li and I took to the countryside, long before she fell ill, long before the weight of her family's history settled so heavily upon her. This is how I choose to remember her—full of light and laughter.
I know Tingjue has told you of her pain, of the grievance she carried. But I wanted you to see this side of her, too. I believe, in my heart, that what she truly wanted for her son was not vengeance, but happiness. She would not have wanted her pain to become his prison. You, my dear, have given him the key to that prison. You have not just settled an old debt; you have given her son back his future. For that, an old friend is eternally grateful.
Wanwan took the photograph to Ye Tingjue. He stared at the image of his smiling, carefree mother for a long time, his fingers tracing her laughing face. Tears welled in his eyes, tears of grief, of love, of a final, healing release. He looked at Wanwan, his expression one of profound gratitude.
"Thank you," he whispered. "For showing me all the parts of my own story I couldn't see."
It was a final closing of a painful chapter. The ghosts of Suzhou, of the Jiang and Lin families, were finally at peace.
Life settled into a rhythm that was uniquely theirs—a blend of high-stakes business and disastrous cooking experiments, of international travel and quiet evenings at home. Xiaoyu was accepted into a prestigious university, his future bright and full of promise, a constant, living testament to their journey.
One beautiful spring afternoon, a year after their fateful trip to Venice, Ye Tingjue took Wanwan for a walk through the mansion's extensive gardens. The plum blossoms were in full, glorious bloom, their delicate petals dancing in the breeze.
He stopped under the largest tree. He didn't get down on one knee—it wasn't his style. Instead, he simply took both of her hands in his, his gaze direct and full of a deep, abiding love.
"Wanwan," he began, "our beginning was a mistake. A '错撩.' It was born of desperation and rooted in a dark, misguided history. I took you, I used you, and I broke you. But you, with your strength, your grace, and your incredible heart, you took my broken world and you rebuilt it. You rebuilt me."
He pulled a small velvet box from his pocket. Inside was not a massive, ostentatious diamond, but a simple, elegant platinum band. Woven into the design, almost imperceptibly, was the plum blossom motif, set with tiny, brilliant diamonds.
"I know I am not an easy man," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "And I know a life with me will always be… complicated. But it is the only life I want. A life with you and with Xiaoyu. A life where we build our own history, our own legacy."
He looked at her, his soul in his eyes. "Lin Wanwan, my partner, my equal, my love. Will you do me the honor of marrying me?"
Tears of joy streamed down Wanwan's face as she nodded, unable to speak. He slid the ring onto her finger, a perfect fit. It wasn't a brand of ownership or a symbol of a debt. It was a promise. A promise of a shared future, built not on perfection, but on the beautiful, messy, hard-won architecture of their new beginning. The wrongful seduction had, through a labyrinth of pain and discovery, led to a rightful love, one that was stronger and more resilient than any fortress he could ever build.