"The world had changed . Or maybe it was her who shattered."
The glass doors hissed open with no servant in sight.
A rush of cool, perfumed air greeted her, along with the gentle hum of climate control and soft underlighting in the marble floors. Yin Lihua stepped into the apartment as though stepping into a dream—one where the walls breathed and the ceiling lights obeyed no candle, no sun, just unseen wires and will.
It was not the palace.
It was something else entirely.
Everything gleamed. Everything responded.
A low chime sounded as the elevator doors closed behind her.
Shanshan trailed a step behind, saying something about setting the thermostat and updating the security code. Lihua didn't hear most of it. Her eyes were fixed ahead.
The apartment—if that sterile word could contain something so beautiful—unfolded before her in wide, seamless planes. Pale oak floors met curved walls of floor-to-ceiling glass. The horizon outside stretched into eternity, cloaked in haze and silver skyscrapers that pierced clouds like blades. Furniture in monochrome tones melted into the minimalist space. An automated fireplace flickered against dark stone. There were no lanterns, no scrolls, no incense burners—just this quiet, blinking opulence.
"What… is this place?" she whispered.
Shanshan paused at her side. "Home."
Lihua turned to her slowly.
"This is mine?"
Shanshan smiled gently. "All of it."
Her hand hovered over the digital panel near the kitchen. When she pressed a symbol—an arrow pointing up—the sheer curtains peeled back across the windows like obedient ghosts.
Lihua flinched.
"They move…" she breathed, "without anyone touching them."
Shanshan watched her, eyebrows slightly drawn. "You really don't remember."
Lihua shook her head, taking another slow step toward the window. The city was below. A world of movement. Distant car horns. Screens blinking on the sides of buildings. Silver cranes stretching into cloud.
It wasn't beautiful in the way the palace had been.
It was breathtaking in its own language.
Later, Shanshan led her into the bedroom. The wardrobe opened with a sensor. The lights adjusted to her presence.
Dresses. Pantsuits. Custom coats. Designer heels and handbags arranged like trophies.
Every label carried her name. YIN.
"Your brand," Shanshan said. "Your empire."
Lihua touched a long black coat stitched with silk lapels. The fabric melted beneath her fingers.
She didn't remember designing it.
But something stirred in her blood.
She didn't eat lunch in the apartment. Shanshan insisted she get "fresh air."
They took a private car down to a café—sleek, glass-walled, tucked on a quiet street near her design studio.
The sign above the entrance read:
CAFÉ STILLO
Inside, it was all curves and chrome. Cold brew taps along the wall, a display of pastries that looked like sculpture, hanging bulbs of golden light that flickered like caught fireflies.
Lihua's breath hitched.
It was overwhelming—too fast, too clean, too much glass. Everyone spoke without whispers. People tapped glowing rectangles with their thumbs. A girl nearby had two tiny white beads in her ears and was speaking… to no one?
"What is she doing?" Lihua asked quietly.
Shanshan followed her gaze, then laughed. "Bluetooth call."
"Blue what?"
"You'll learn."
Lihua lowered her gaze, cheeks warming.
Shanshan led her to a booth by the window, near a pair of businessmen murmuring over tablets and cappuccinos.
She ordered for them both: iced matcha and sweet tofu buns.
Lihua stared out the window while they waited. The world outside kept moving. How did people live like this?
"How did I?" she whispered.
"Hmm?" Shanshan asked, checking her phone.
"Nothing."
Their drinks arrived.
Lihua took a sip.
Cold, green, creamy—nothing like palace teas. No bitterness. No sharp edge. Just this milky sweetness that left her more confused than refreshed.
But as she swallowed, a voice behind her broke through the static.
"Jiang Chengyan said to delay the investor dinner until next week."
She froze.
The glass nearly slipped from her fingers.
Her pulse went silent.
"He doesn't want the board to feel pressure during the quarterly reveal," the voice continued, casual, calm, completely unaware of what he'd just triggered.
Lihua turned her head, inch by inch.
At the booth behind them sat two men in suits. One with graying hair. The other—
Younger. Tall. Slate-gray jacket. Black watch. Hands folded on the table.
He was only speaking in murmurs.
She couldn't see his full face.
But the name—the name.
Jiang.
Her chest tightened like a closed fist. She leaned toward Shanshan.
"Did you hear what he said?"
Shanshan blinked. "What?"
"That name. Jiang."
Shanshan tilted her head. "Jiang Chengyan? CEO of Bluestone Consortium?"
"Who is he?" Lihua whispered.
Shanshan raised a brow. "You know him. He's one of our lead investors. He helped launch your first capsule show in Paris. Why?"
Lihua looked away quickly.
"Just curious."
The man at the next table shifted.
For a second—just one—she saw his profile.
High cheekbones. Straight nose. That faint furrow between his brows, like someone who never stopped calculating outcomes.
He hadn't aged.
He'd simply… changed.
He had no sword. No robe. No cold silver crest pinned to his chest.
But she would have known that expression in any lifetime.
Crown Prince Jiang Ye.
Alive.
Modern.
Untouched by memory.
She felt the chill first.
In her fingertips. In her throat. She curled her hands in her lap to hide the trembling.
He stood up then, buttoning his coat with one fluid motion.
He hadn't looked at her.
Hadn't recognized her.
As he turned to leave, a younger man fell into step beside him—black shirt, sharp jaw, clipped walk.
Lihua's breath caught again.
That walk. That bearing.
Wen.
Her Wen?
The man who once served as the prince's personal guard… and hers. Loyal until the end.
She leaned so hard into the seat that her spine ached.
They disappeared through the doors.
Shanshan tapped her fingers on the table. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Lihua let out a shaky breath.
"I think I have."
That night, back in her apartment, she stepped into the hall alone.
The mirror waited at the end.
She didn't rush.
She approached slowly.
Her bare feet made no sound on the floor.
She stood before the mirror and stared.
Not at her face. But at her eyes.
Still wide with shock.
Still frozen in the moment she heard his name.
She raised her hand.
And touched the glass.
Cool.
Immovable.
"I came back," she whispered.
"Not to forget."