Chapter 13: Adoption and Abandonment

After a brief moment of silence, the venue erupted in a wave of hushed whispers. No one had ever imagined that the illustrious actor Shen had such a past.

“My god, they really are his parents.”

“That’s the Herberts! Famous French entrepreneurs in their youth, worth hundreds of millions!”

“Now that’s a real family of wealth.”

“But… was Shen adopted and then abandoned?”

If that were truly the case, even amid the storm of accusations, there was an unexpected flicker of… sympathy.

The greatest fear for children in orphanages is to be adopted and then given up. They hope for a merciful god at last, only to be returned to the coldest winter night.

“Seriously now, aren’t you all too gullible?”

“With all that money, even if the Herberts stopped raising him, could he really have suffered? Does Shen look like someone who’s ever known hardship?”

“Exactly. They gave him up, and yet he still uses their kindness to pave his way—what’s his real motive?”

“The Herberts flew straight to China to defend him the moment something happened.”

“Shen Jixing, you’re heartless.”

…

Fang Siqian glanced at the live comments flashing by, a smile almost imperceptibly rising at the corner of his lips.

Though the process hadn’t gone quite as he planned—he hadn’t managed to extract the real reason Shen Jixing was abandoned—the outcome was still to his satisfaction. He smiled and stepped forward to offer his arm. “Mrs. Herbert, let me help you down.”

Mrs. Herbert smoothly avoided his hand.

She remained the epitome of gentle elegance, her aged gray eyes fixed on the young Chinese man before her.

“Child, you are not sincere.”

Her gentle voice was as soft as a thousand tiny needles.

“Children who lack sincerity are never blessed with good fortune.”

Fang Siqian’s smile faltered slightly.

It was perhaps the gentlest curse ever uttered, powerless in this moment, yet sure to suffocate him in the depths of sleepless nights.

“Is that so?” Fang Siqian assisted her down the steps, his voice laced with a venomous mirth. “Perhaps he is even more unworthy than I?”

His motives were indeed impure.

He wanted to rip away that man's mask, to lay his hypocrisy bare beneath the sun, and let all the world see what sort of soul lay festering beneath the proud veneer of a god.

As if, by doing so, his own early admiration could finally curdle into something else—transform, cleanly and honestly, into hate.

“It’s you who is unworthy, not him.”

Mrs. Herbert shook her head in disappointment. As she left, her words were tinged with a sorrowful sigh. “He is the best child in the world.”

Fang Siqian could only respond with a cold laugh.

In the distance, dark clouds pressed low against the sky, thunder rolling ominously overhead.

Reporters hastily packed their equipment, preparing to leave.

A female journalist answered her phone. “Hello? You’re willing to be interviewed by me? Really? …Yes, yes, I’ll wait for you backstage.”

As the victor of the day, Fang Siqian turned to leave the hall.

He hadn’t expected to see someone backstage.

That person walked toward him out of the rain, holding a black umbrella. His features were elegantly defined, almost ink-wash in their clarity. Raindrops clung to his shoulders, scattering into tiny, crystalline beads.

He lifted his gaze with cool detachment.

Fang Siqian’s heart tightened unexpectedly, a twinge of guilt rising unbidden.

The guard at the door, a YC staffer, was scrolling through Weibo, not even looking up. “No Entry, didn’t you hear me—Shen, Shen Jixing?”

He gaped in shock for two seconds, then curled his fingers in an affected pose. “Even if it’s you—”

“Tie him up.”

“What?!”

Before the staffer could react, a strong arm yanked him aside.

He found himself face to face with a familiar visage. Pei Ming sneered, “Pretty boy, I’ve had enough of you.”

Screams erupted chaotically behind them.

Shen Jixing walked past without so much as a glance, calmly folding his rain-damp umbrella.

Fang Siqian had already been waiting for him.

“Long time no see, Mr. Shen,” he greeted, arms folded across his chest, exuding composure.

Their roles were now reversed; he no longer had to tread carefully around this man.

Shen Jixing glanced at him. “And you are…?”

“…”

Fang Siqian’s composure cracked.

Seeing Shen Jixing treat him as if he were invisible, he finally broke, turning aside. “What’s with the act? You must be furious, aren’t you?”

He was the mastermind behind it all.

The nobody who had been trampled underfoot for six years had finally turned the tables.

Shen Jixing seemed to hear an unfunny joke.

He walked past with unruffled calm, his voice cold and distant, like snow dislodged from a cliff.

“You overestimate yourself. You’re not even worthy of my anger.”

“…”

Fang Siqian watched him walk away backstage, finally dropping his arms, only now realizing how painfully tight his fists had become.

“Is that so?” he scoffed. “I don’t believe it. We’ll see.”

Shen Jixing had no interest in YC’s celebration. He had come only to see the Herberts.

As he raised his hand to knock, he overheard Herbert comforting his weeping wife inside. “Oh, darling, don’t cry… This isn’t your fault—it was that child who deceived you first.”

Shen Jixing lowered his eyes, then knocked all the same.

Old Herbert opened the door. “Who is it… Nova?”

Although they hadn’t met since their parting, old Herbert had seen his face each year. At first, he’d had people inquire after him; later, he didn’t need to ask—his image was everywhere on billboards.

He had grown up well.

Old Herbert turned to call his wife, but she was already at his side. “Nova…”

Her gray eyes were reddened with tears, as if she had a thousand words but could only manage, “You look thinner…”

Shen Jixing’s gaze softened as he smiled faintly. “Perhaps.”

He entered the lounge, setting his black umbrella aside, and met Mrs. Herbert’s steady gaze. “Why didn’t you let me know you were coming to China? Is your accommodation comfortable? Most hotel sheets are polyester-cotton blend—you’re allergic to those. When you stay, you should—”

He never finished the sentence.

He was drawn into a tight embrace.

“Nova.” Mrs. Herbert’s voice broke with guilt. “I’m sorry… I never knew it would come to this.”

Shen Jixing was silent for a moment, then returned her embrace.

She always smelled of warm, comforting lavender. Old Herbert knew she loved purple flowers, so he had planted her an entire field of lavender.

“It’s all right,” he said.

Old Herbert watched quietly from the side, a faint ache in his heart.

He was still as well-behaved as ever.

Obedient, gentle, considerate.

Skin as pale as first snow, eyes deep and bright as obsidian, clutching a star-shaped plush, looking up at them with quiet hope.

Listening as they painted dreams of the future for him.

On snowy winter nights, they would light the fireplace, logs crackling warmly, while Santa Claus passed by the window, leaving a trove of colorful gift boxes just for him.

“Just like this!”

The young silver-haired man would conjure a handful of bright boxes from his arms.

“But only if Nova finishes the roast chicken Mom made first!”

The black-haired boy stared, flames dancing in his eyes.

…Mom?

Perhaps out of youthful shyness, he couldn’t bring himself to say that word then.

And afterward, he never had the chance.

The boy refused the little British-style suit and changed back into the white sweater he had arrived in, still clutching his yellow star plush, sitting quietly and without complaint in the car.

As they departed, he looked through the window at the couple, their eyes red and apologetic, and offered them a blessing drawn from the ancient romance of Chinese culture.

“May every year bring you peace and joy.”

May each year be safe and happy, free from illness and disaster.