Syra didn't say a word the entire ride back. Not when Lou opened the car door for her, not when his hand lingered on her lower back in silent reassurance, and not when the city lights smeared across the windows like melting gold.
Her hands rested in her lap, fingers curled tightly in the silk of her dress. The peonies from Madam Yan's garden were still caught in her senses—too sweet, too staged. Like the whole evening. Like Dr. Zhou Meilin with her impeccable qipao and the kind of grace that felt like armor.
Lou hadn't let go of her hand since the garden.
Even now, as they stepped back into her studio, he kept his grip gentle but firm—as if afraid she might vanish through the cracks.
She finally let go when the door clicked shut behind them.
"I need a minute," she said, her voice frayed at the edges.
Lou nodded and didn't follow. He stood quietly near the shelves, his presence a calm tide in the space they both now called home more often than not.
Syra walked into the bathroom, shut the door, and braced her palms on the porcelain sink. Her reflection stared back at her, eyes rimmed with fatigue, lips redder than she remembered. Not from lipstick.
From Lou.
She pressed cool water to her face, trying to wash away the sting of Madam Yan's words. Too pretty. Too chaotic. Too much.
But Lou had looked at her like she was just enough.
When she stepped back out, he hadn't moved. But his eyes lifted the moment she appeared.
"You didn't have to defend me," she said, curling up on the couch.
Lou walked over and sat on the floor in front of her, resting his arms on her knees. "You didn't need defending. But I wasn't going to let them talk about you like that. Not while I'm breathing."
She exhaled. Then reached for him.
And for the first time that night, Lou laid his head in her lap. Like he was the one who needed holding now.
She stroked his hair in slow, steady patterns, feeling the tension leave his body in waves.
"Do you regret it?" she whispered.
He didn't open his eyes. "Not for a second."
She looked down at him—at the man who had once stood untouchable, distant, quiet as a storm held in check—and saw only softness.
Madam Yan may have disapproved. Dr. Zhou may have embodied perfection.
But it was here, in this chaotic, messy, makeshift studio, that Lou Yan had laid down his weapons and chosen her.
Syra leaned back into the couch, her fingers still in his hair, and let her eyes fall shut.
She didn't know what would come next.
But for tonight, they had survived.
----
The morning light crept in slowly, painting the studio in muted gold. Syra woke with Lou's arm draped heavily across her waist, his breathing deep and even against the back of her neck. She didn't dare to move.
Last night had been a quiet surrender—no words, just touch. The way his fingers had laced through hers as they lay tangled on the couch, the way his lips had brushed her knuckles when he thought she was asleep.
Now, in the daylight, the weight of Madam Yan's disapproval settled back over her like a fine dust.
Syra carefully extricated herself, padding barefoot to the kitchen. The coffee machine hissed to life, filling the silence with its familiar rhythm. She leaned against the counter, watching the steam curl upward, and tried not to think about Dr. Zhou's perfectly manicured hands.
Lou appeared in the doorway, his hair sleep-tousled, the collar of his shirt slightly askew. He didn't speak, just came to stand behind her, his arms sliding around her waist as he pressed his lips to the curve of her shoulder.
"You're thinking too loud," he murmured against her skin.
She exhaled, leaning back into him. "I can't help it."
The coffee finished brewing, its rich aroma filling the space between them. Lou reached around her to pour two cups, his movements steady despite the storm brewing beyond these walls.
The email arrived just past noon.
Syra watched as Lou read the message, his expression carefully blank. When he set the phone down, she didn't need to ask—the tension in his jaw told her everything.
"They've frozen everything," he said quietly.
She crossed the room to him, her bare feet silent on the wooden floor. Kneeling between his legs, she took his face in her hands, her thumbs brushing along the sharp lines of his cheekbones. "We'll figure it out."
Lou's hands came up to cover hers, his grip firm. "I don't care about the money."
"I know," she whispered. "But it's not just money."
It was his name. His legacy. The life he'd built outside the shadow of his family.
The knock at the door came as the sun began to dip below the skyline.
Syra opened it to find Dr. Zhou Meilin standing on the threshold, her impeccable qipao replaced with a tailored pantsuit, her hair loose around her shoulders. There were no guards, no pretenses—just a woman who looked as tired of playing this game as Syra felt.
"Can we talk?" Dr. Zhou asked.
Lou appeared behind Syra, his presence steadying as Dr. Zhou stepped inside. The studio seemed to shrink with the three of them in it, the air thick with unspoken tension.
"I owe you an apology," Dr. Zhou said, her gaze sweeping over the paint-splattered floors, the half-finished canvases, Lou's jacket draped carelessly over a chair.
Syra crossed her arms. "For what?"
"For last night." Dr. Zhou sighed, her shoulders dropping slightly. "I didn't come back to Shanghai for Lou Yan. I came back for me."
Lou's expression remained unreadable. "Explain."
Over coffee. Zhou laid out her proposition. The contract was archaic, but it was also leverage. If they both refused it, the family would have no choice but to void it.
"I don't want a marriage of convenience," Dr. Zhou said, her voice firm. "And you—" She glanced at Syra. "You deserve more than a family that can't see your worth."
Syra's throat tightened. "Why help us?"
Dr. Zhou's smile was small but real. "Because I've spent my life being the perfect daughter. It's exhausting."
After she left, Syra turned to Lou. "Do you trust her?"
He pulled her close, his arms wrapping around her. "I don't have to. I trust you."
Syra buried her face in his chest, breathing him in. The road ahead was uncertain—legal battles, family strife, a future still unwritten. But for now, they had this.