Yingqu Liuzi was pampered by her wealthy daddy.

On Friday afternoon, Shen Yu'an's phone vibrated as soon as he finished class.

My husband sent me a message: "Are you free Saturday night?"

Shen Yu'an stood at the entrance of the teaching building, holding his art supply box, and a smile unconsciously crept onto his lips as he looked at the message. He typed back, "I'm free."

"There's a small private art exhibition tomorrow, and I'd like to take you with me."

An art exhibition. Shen Yu'an's eyes lit up. He loved going to art exhibitions and had been to almost every art museum in London, but he had never attended a "private exhibition" like this.

"Okay! What time?"

"The driver will pick you up at 5 p.m. Just wear that white shirt from last time."

Shen Yu'an looked at the words "white shirt" and remembered what she had said in the car after the last concert: "I'll wear this white shirt again next time." She didn't expect that her husband would remember it.

Her ears turned red again.

On Saturday afternoon, Shen Yu'an started preparing an hour early.

He took a shower, dried his hair, and took the white shirt out of the closet to iron it again. He changed into a pair of dark casual pants and white sneakers, looking neat and tidy, neither formal nor casual.

Standing in front of the mirror, he looked at himself from left to right, but felt that something was missing.

After thinking for a while, he pulled a small box out of the drawer. Inside was a thin silver chain his mother had sent him. It was a very simple design with a tiny star pendant. He hadn't worn it much before, but for some reason, he really wanted to wear it today.

The delicate chain clung to her collarbone, making her skin appear even whiter.

Shen Yu'an smiled at herself in the mirror and thought she looked pretty good today.

At five o'clock, the car downstairs arrived on time.

This time, Xize was in the car.

Shen Yu'an opened the car door and found Xize already sitting in the back seat. He was wearing a dark gray suit today, more tailored than usual, and a deep royal blue tie, which made his gray-blue eyes look particularly deep.

Shen Yu'an sat down, and Xize's gaze moved from his face to his collarbone, lingering on that small star for a second.

"A new necklace?"

Shen Yu'an touched the pendant, a little embarrassed: "Yes, my mother sent it to me before, but I haven't worn it."

"nice."

Two words were enough to satisfy Shen Yu'an. He lowered his head, pretending to tidy up his art supply box, so that Xize wouldn't see the corners of his mouth turning up.

After about forty minutes, the car stopped in front of a townhouse in West London.

The house looks unassuming from the outside, with gray and white stone walls, a black iron gate, and no signs. But with uniformed staff standing at the entrance and a middle-aged woman in a dress greeting guests, it's clear that this is no ordinary family.

Xize got out of the car first, then reached out his hand to Shen Yu'an.

Shen Yu'an placed her hand in his palm, and it was steadily pulled out.

The villa was much larger inside than outside. Passing through the foyer, there was a long corridor leading to a double door that opened into a spacious exhibition hall. The ceiling was high, with warm-toned spotlights hanging from it. The walls were covered with paintings, and the floor was covered with a dark carpet that made no sound when you stepped on it.

Quite a few people had already arrived, standing in twos and threes in front of the painting, chatting quietly. The men were dressed in tailored suits, and the women in elegant evening gowns, each holding a glass of champagne and behaving with impeccable manners.

As soon as Shen Yu'an entered, he felt a familiar sense of incongruity. He looked down at his white shirt and sneakers, then at the glittering people around him, and subconsciously moved closer to Xize.

Xize sensed it, lowered his eyes to look at him, and said nothing. He simply slid his hand from Shen Yu'an's palm to his wrist and gently squeezed it.

Shen Yu'an looked up at him. Xize's expression was calm, but the temperature of his hand was steady.

"Ignore them." Xize's voice was low, only Shen Yu'an could hear it. "Look at the painting."

Shen Yu'an nodded, took a deep breath, and shifted his attention away from those people's gazes to the paintings on the wall.

This is a small contemporary art exhibition featuring about seven or eight artists, each with a different style. There are abstract expressionists, surrealists, and a few realists.

Shen Yu'an looked at each painting carefully, one by one. As an artist, he didn't go to exhibitions for socializing; he genuinely came to appreciate the techniques, composition, and colors. He would stand in front of a painting for a long time, tilting his head to examine the direction of the brushstrokes or getting close to check the thickness of the paint.

Xize followed behind him, unhurriedly. While Shen Yu'an looked at the painting, Xize looked at him.

The boy looked very handsome standing in front of the painting. He tilted his head slightly, raised his chin a little, his eyes were bright, and his lips were gently pursed. Occasionally, he would stretch out his finger and trace the lines in the air, then nod or shake his head, muttering something to himself.

Xize thought he was more handsome than any painting on the wall.

"Sir," Shen Yu'an suddenly turned around, her eyes sparkling, "the use of color in that painting is amazing. Look at that blue; it's clearly a cool color, but it makes you feel warm here. How did you do that?"

Xize glanced at the painting, then at Shen Yu'an's excited expression, and his lips twitched slightly: "I don't understand painting."

"You don't know anything about painting, yet you brought me to an art exhibition?"

"I don't understand painting," Caesar said calmly, looking into his eyes, "but I understand you."

Shen Yu'an froze for a second, then his face flushed red to the roots of his neck. He quickly turned around and pretended to look at the next painting, his heart pounding like a drum.

Why is this person like this?

If you're going to talk, just say it. Why say things that are so unbearable?

Shen Yu'an wandered around the exhibition hall for about twenty minutes, looking at most of the works. He found that although the paintings here were all very good, the style was mature and steady, and the overall tone was dark, like the type that the old British aristocrats present would like.

It lacks something youthful and vibrant.

Just as he was thinking this, Xize walked over from the side and gently touched his arm.

"come over."

Xize led him through the exhibition hall and into a small booth on the side. The booth wasn't large, but it was well-lit, with white walls and no unnecessary decorations; all the focus was on the wall in the middle.

Shen Yu'an walked in and looked up.

Then he froze.

There were only four paintings hanging on that wall, two large and two small. The colors in the paintings were bright and vibrant, forming a striking contrast with the subdued tones of the exhibition hall outside.

He was very familiar with the brushstrokes used in the painting.

Those lines, those colors, those compositional methods.

It was his own painting.

Shen Yu'an's eyes widened. He took two steps forward and leaned closer to look. Yes, they were his works. The two larger pieces were acrylic paintings he had completed in his studio last month, depicting a rainy day in London, using a relatively bright style to portray the gloomy weather. The two smaller pieces were sketches he had casually drawn: one of the Thames at dusk, and the other of a red telephone booth on a street corner.

They were framed in exquisite frames and hung in the most conspicuous place, with spotlights shining on the paintings, illuminating every stroke and line clearly.

Shen Yu'an turned his head and looked at Xize.

Xize stood behind him, his expression no different from usual, still that faint, restrained calm. But there was a light in his eyes, not indifference, not aloofness, but pride.

That kind of pride that can't be hidden, that comes from the very core of one's being.

"These paintings..." Shen Yu'an's voice trembled slightly, "How did they end up here?"

"I had someone pick it up from your studio," Xize said, his tone as casual as if he were saying, "I had someone buy me a cup of coffee." "The curator liked it, so he put it up."

Shen Yu'an opened his mouth: "But why didn't you tell me beforehand?"

"If I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise."

Shen Yu'an looked at Xize, at the serious and determined light in his gray-blue eyes, and felt as if her heart was filled with something, so full that it was about to overflow.

At that moment, someone walked into the cubicle.

A middle-aged woman in a dark green dress, who appeared to be the curator or organizer, approached Caesar with a smile and said, "Mr. Leicester, our guests really enjoyed the works you brought. Especially the one about London in the rain—the colors were bold yet gentle."

Xize nodded slightly, his voice not loud, but every word was clear: "It's the work of a very important friend of mine. He's young, but very talented, and I think more people should see it."

The woman's gaze shifted to Shen Yu'an, as if she realized something, and she smiled and extended her hand: "So it's you. You paint so well, I look forward to seeing more of your works in the future."

Shen Yu'an was flattered and flustered. He hurriedly reached out and shook hands with her, his face turning red again.

After the woman left, several more people entered the cubicle. They would stop and look at the paintings on the wall for a few seconds, then ask the person next to them, "Whose work is this?" Xize always gave a brief answer, but Shen Yu'an noticed that the corners of his mouth would slightly turn up each time he answered.

It was a kind of pride that came from the heart and could not be restrained.

It's even more gratifying than signing an important contract at the negotiating table.

Shen Yu'an stood in the corner, watching Xize introduce his paintings to the men and women dressed in formal attire and adorned with jewelry. Looking at his straight back and ever-present impeccable demeanor, Shen Yu'an suddenly felt a lump in her throat.

This person hung his painting in the most prominent position at the art exhibition.

This person proudly said in front of everyone, "It is the work of a very important friend."

This person never praised his paintings to his face, but he used this method to tell the world: I think he is very good.

Shen Yu'an lowered his head and quickly wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

"What's wrong?" Xize walked up to him without him noticing.

"It's nothing," Shen Yu'an sniffed, looked up at him, her eyes were red, but her smile was very beautiful, "I just feel... why are you so good to me, sir."

Xize looked at his red eyes and crescent-shaped eyes, and remained silent for two seconds.

"Is that all?" he asked in a low voice. "What are you going to do now?"

Shen Yu'an didn't understand and tilted his head to look at him.

Xize didn't explain, but simply raised his hand, seemingly wanting to touch his hair. His fingers paused in mid-air for a moment, but he eventually withdrew them.

"Let's go," he said, his voice regaining its usual calm, "to get something to eat."

Shen Yu'an hummed in agreement and followed Xize out of the cubicle. As he reached the door, he couldn't help but turn back to glance at his painting.

Four works hung on a white wall, brightly lit by spotlights. Among a group of steady and mature British paintings, they appeared young, vibrant, and somewhat different.

Just like himself.

In this exhibition hall filled with old British aristocrats, I was dressed in a white shirt and sneakers, following a man named Leicester. I felt out of place, yet strangely fitting.

Shen Yu'an withdrew his gaze and quickly followed Xize.

When he walked up to Xize, the back of his hand touched the back of Xize's hand.

Neither of them moved.

And so, hand in hand, they walked a long way on the dark carpet.

Neither of them let go first.