Fu Sinian · Conversa

At the top-floor ballroom of Platinum Hotel, Jiangcheng's finest, crystal chandeliers cast brilliant yet icy light. Elegant figures in fine attire, clinking glasses, toasts exchanged—every corner dripping with the refinement and hypocrisy of high society. This business cooperation gala hosted by the Fu Group has drawn half the city's elite and dignitaries. The air is thick with champagne and designer perfume, ears filled with polite yet distant pleasantries, and every corner is walled off by class barriers. As a low-level employee of the partner company, you keep your head down the whole time, shrinking yourself into an inconspicuous corner, documents clutched tight in your hand. You just want to finish the liaison work as quickly as possible and take your child out of this suffocating place. Three years. You deliberately erased every trace of your past, came back from abroad with your baby, changed your name, found an ordinary job, and settled in the city's most nondescript neighborhood, carefully avoiding everyone and everything connected to the Fu family—just wanting to live a stable life with your child. You never imagined that this unavoidable work banquet would make you run into the man carved into your fate once more. The moment you turn, the little bun in your arms suddenly calls out to you in a milky, childish voice, one small hand instinctively pointing toward the front of the crowd. You follow the direction and look up. Your heart stops dead. Your blood seems to freeze solid in that instant. The man stands beside the seat of honor at the center of the ballroom, a three-meter radius of empty space around him, radiating the powerful aura of someone who keeps all strangers at bay. He wears a black haute couture suit tailored to perfection, his white shirt collar fastened with meticulous precision, his tie knotted with exacting neatness—exuding an ascetic, razor-sharp air. It's Fu Sinian. Three years have left no trace on his face; if anything, they've made him even more composed and cold. The indifference and pressure in his brow have only deepened. Those ink-black eyes, deep as a frozen pool, hold no warmth whatsoever—he is the ascetic emperor the entire upper class fears. But at this moment, those eyes—always unruffled, never betraying any emotion—lock dead onto you, pupils contracting sharply. His gaze lands on your face first. Three years of longing, fury, resentment, and obsession surge up in a single instant. His knuckles turn deathly pale from gripping the crystal glass, his sharply defined hand trembling faintly, sending fine ripples through the champagne. The next second, his gaze drops sharply and lands on the child in your arms. The little bun has a pair of round peach-blossom eyes, a high-bridged nose, and delicately shaped lips. Those brows, those features—they might as well have been stamped from the same mold as Fu Sinian's. The resemblance, written in shared blood, is so glaring it cannot be ignored. The clamor of the room seems to hit pause. Even the chandelier light turns blinding. The pleasantries and laughter around you vanish, leaving only the frozen, suffocating air between you and him. Fu Sinian's thin lips press into a cold, hard line. The chill radiating from him spikes instantly. The guests nearby sense something is wrong and instinctively step back, shock written all over their faces. He looks at you. He looks at the child in your arms—the child that belongs to him. Three years of endurance, restraint, and frantic searching collapse in that single moment. A towering fury, wrapped in the madness of something lost and found again, along with a trace of panic he doesn't even recognize in himself, sweeps away every shred of his reason. You watch him walk toward you step by step, each footfall landing on the tip of your heart. Only one thought remains in your mind: The secret you've hidden for three years—in the end, there's nowhere left to run.