The morning after the gallery, Syra woke to sunlight streaming through the curtains of Lou's penthouse, painting his sleeping form in liquid gold.
She propped herself up on one elbow, studying him—the way his dark lashes fanned against his cheekbones, the relaxed set of his mouth, the faint scar along his collarbone she'd traced with her tongue last night. This was a Lou few people saw: unguarded, soft at the edges, his breathing slow and even beneath the sheets.
Her fingers itched for a brush.
Careful not to wake him, she slipped out of bed and padded to the living room, where her sketchbook lay abandoned on the coffee table. The penthouse was silent except for the distant hum of the city below, the occasional chime of the elevator in the building's core. She curled up on the sofa, flipping to a fresh page, and began to draw.
Lines took shape—the slope of his shoulder, the curve of his spine beneath the sheets, the way his hand had curled around her waist in sleep like an anchor. She didn't realize she was smiling until her cheeks ached.
"Stealing my likeness again?"
Syra startled, nearly dropping her charcoal. Lou stood in the doorway, bare-chested, his hair mussed from sleep, a smirk playing at his lips.
"I pay you in kisses," she said, snapping the sketchbook shut. "Very fair compensation."
He crossed the room in three strides, plucking the book from her hands before she could protest. His eyes flicked over the drawing, then back to her. "You made me look peaceful."
"You were."
Lou set the sketchbook aside and pulled her to her feet, his hands warm on her hips. "I haven't been peaceful since the day I met you."
She rolled her eyes but didn't pull away. "Dramatic."
"Honest." His thumb brushed the dip of her waist. "You're chaos. And I've spent my life chasing stillness."
Syra's breath hitched. "And now?"
Lou leaned down, his lips grazing the shell of her ear. "Now I'd rather drown in you."
----
The gallery reviews were in by noon.
Syra sat cross-legged on the bed, scrolling through her phone while Lou dressed for a meeting he'd already postponed twice.
"Critic from ArtForum says my work is 'a visceral exploration of vulnerability and reconstruction,'" she read aloud.
Lou adjusted his cufflinks. "He's not wrong."
"Shanghai Daily calls it 'unflinching.'"
"Also not wrong."
She tossed her phone aside. "You're biased."
Lou turned, his gaze steady. "I'm the only one who knows how much of yourself you poured into those canvases. The critics see the art. I see you."
Syra's chest tightened. She looked away, suddenly unable to hold his stare.
"Hey." He crossed to her, tilting her chin up. "What's wrong?"
She swallowed. "What if this is it?"
"What if what is it?"
"The peak. The best I'll ever do."
Lou's expression softened. He cupped her face, his thumb brushing her cheekbone. "Then tomorrow, you'll paint something worse. And the day after that, something better. And I'll be there for all of it." And then he added. " or you can just decide to be Mrs Yan only." Syra playfully hit him on his chest while pouting her adorable lips, and they both laughed.
-----
The invitation arrived at sunset—thick cream paper, the Lou family seal pressed into wax like a brand. Syra ran her thumb over it, the edges sharp enough to prick skin.
Lou slit it open with a letter opener, his expression unreadable. Then his jaw tightened.
"Dinner. Tonight."
Syra plucked the card from his fingers. The script was flawless, the wording precise. An intimate gathering to celebrate your recent success. No mention of the screaming match two weeks prior. No acknowledgment of the ultimatum. Just... an invitation.
"She wants something," Syra muttered.
Lou's hand found the small of her back. "We don't have to go."
But they both knew they would.
---
Madam Yan's estate was a monument to control—manicured boxwoods in military rows, stone pathways swept clean of even stray petals. The air smelled of peonies and something sharper, like gunpowder disguised as perfume.
Syra's emerald gown—the same one she'd worn to the gallery—suddenly felt too bright, too loud against the muted grays and blacks of the Lou family home. Lou's hand was warm at her back as they crossed the threshold, his tailored suit blending seamlessly into the shadows.
The dining hall was lit by a chandelier dripping with crystal, the table set for four.
Syra froze.
A woman sat to Madam Yan's right—early twenties, perhaps, with the kind of beauty that came from generations of careful breeding. Her cheekbones could have cut glass. Her posture was so perfect it looked painful. She wore a high-necked qipao in imperial blue, her hair coiled into a flawless knot.
"Ah," Madam Yan said, smiling like a blade being unsheathed. "You've met Dr. Zhou Meilin, haven't you?"
Lou went rigid.
Syra's stomach dropped.
Dr. Zhou rose, her movements liquid grace. "Lou Yan," she said, her voice cultured and cool. "It's been years."
The pieces clicked together with horrible clarity. This was the bride. The contract. The woman Madam Yan had chosen a decade before Syra had ever spilled cadmium red across Lou's pristine world.
Syra's nails bit into her palms.
Lou's hand slid to her waist, anchoring her. "Meilin," he said evenly. "I wasn't aware you were back in Shanghai."
Madam Yan gestured to the empty seats. "A happy coincidence. She's just returned from Harvard. Top of her neurosurgery cohort." A pause. "Such a steady profession, don't you think?"
The barb landed clean between Syra's ribs. Artist hung unspoken in the air—volatile, impractical, messy.
Dr. Zhou's gaze flicked to Syra, assessing. "Your exhibition was... provocative."
Syra forced a smile. "That's one word for it."
"Dr. Zhou prefers classical art," Madam Yan supplied, pouring tea with deliberate slowness. "Much less chaotic."
Lou's fingers flexed against Syra's hip.
---
Courses came and went—delicate soups, steamed fish so tender it fell apart at the touch of a chopstick. Syra counted each excruciating bite.
Dr. Zhou spoke flawless French with the sommelier. Recited Tang dynasty poetry between sips of wine. Laughed at Madam Yan's dry jokes with the perfect pitch of deference and charm.
Syra, who had spent the morning with paint in her hair and Lou's teeth at her throat, felt wildly out of place.
"You're very quiet," Dr. Zhou observed during the third course.
Syra stabbed a mushroom. "I'm admiring the decor. That vase looks older than democracy."
Madam Yan's lips thinned. "Ming dynasty."
"Ah. So it's fragile too."
Lou choked on his water.
Dr. Zhou blinked, then—to everyone's shock—smiled. Just a little. "You're sharper than I expected."
"And you're politer than I expected," Syra shot back. "Given the circumstances."
A beat of silence. Then Madam Yan set down her chopsticks with a click. "Enough. Meilin is here because contracts must be honored. Because legacy matters." Her gaze pinned Lou. "You've had your rebellion. Now it's time to come home."
Lou's voice was dangerously calm. "I am home."
Dr. Zhou studied her plate. "Madam Yan, perhaps this isn't the—"
"You," Syra interrupted, turning to Dr. Zhou, "do you even want this?"
The room went still.
Dr. Zhou met her gaze. For the first time, something real flickered beneath the perfection—weariness. "It's not about want."
"Then what is it about?"
"Duty," Madam Yan snapped.
Syra stood abruptly, her chair scraping. "Then you three enjoy your duty. I have paint to spill."
---
Lou caught her in the garden, his hand wrapping around her wrist as peonies trembled in the evening breeze.
"Syra—"
She whirled on him. "Did you know she'd be here?"
"No." His eyes were dark with fury. "But it doesn't matter."
"It does." Her voice cracked. "That woman is everything your family wants. Everything I'm not."
Lou stepped closer, cradling her face. "You're everything I want."
Somewhere in the house, a door slammed.
Syra leaned into his touch, her heart pounding. "What happens now?"
Lou kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her mouth—each touch a vow.