Knowing that the child who accepted his fate so calmly was internally burning to ashes.
Knowing too well that he had built the largest walls around himself for protection.
How could a child, born with the divine command to kill his own father and become the Emperor, resent anyone?
Thus, Ricardo never met Pola and Gerald’s eyes.
He refused to hear a single word of warmth from a father he might one day have to kill. What would he do with his life after hearing such a word?
So, the couple also refrained from approaching their son rashly.
Using the excuse that the child did not want it.
“But we are still parents… we can’t give up.”
“Do you think you can, being a daughter of the Fennel family?”
“I’m not sure, I can’t be certain. But.”
It was the first time Ricardo showed emotion.
In front of red and white flowers blooming.
Because of a certain woman, whose cheeks were redder than the flowers.
Because of that woman who painted thousands of pictures without any memory of it.
Ricardo, who had returned, cried through his paintings. He only smiled, got angry, and frowned in his paintings. As if he saw the world only through that child.
Ricardo, who had lost his memory, barely managed to live.
Until he put on a perfect and beautiful mask like now.
I carefully examined the room, as large as our house in Resotia.
One room was like a huge exhibition hall.
In the frames on the walls, on the easels scattered on the floor, I was in all the paintings.
No, to be precise, it was young Lienne Lowi Fennel.
I remembered Ricardo walking towards me without faltering from a distance, the day he came to find me in Resotia.
Ricardo’s low voice rang out like a warning as I blankly looked at the paintings.
“Don’t get any strange ideas.”
I stepped into the room and replied.
“What strange thought did I have?”
He did not even attempt to stop me from entering rashly.
“Do you mean to say I shouldn’t attach meaning to something I have no memory of?”
In the paintings, I was mostly smiling. Most of the moments that were only in my memory and not in Ricardo’s were like that.
On the night of the lightning, after I woke up from death, I wasn’t very sad. Ricardo was there when I opened my eyes, looking at me with an unharmed and unscathed face.
I smiled like this in his eyes. Always with such a foolish face.
Some days, I was smiling with a face full of wounds; in other paintings, I was smiling while frowning deeply.
There were some where I was crying, but they didn’t look particularly sad.
As I walked past easels lined up in a row, a painting of Ricardo’s room appeared. It felt as if that time unfolded right before my eyes, and I traced the air above the painting with my hand.
In the bed in the room, I was lying. But there was no Ricardo, who shared warmth with me.
Just as he said, he had even erased himself from the fragments that remained only in scenes.
Pathetically.
“Right.”
“Who… said what?”
I looked straight ahead and saw the largest frame covered by curtains. It was the painting hung in the center of the wall facing the door.
“Can I look at this? Since it means nothing.”
He was silent for a moment but soon answered dismissively.
“Go ahead.”
Ignoring the fine breaths touching my nape, I reached out to draw the curtain. But no matter how much I tiptoed, my hand couldn’t reach the top.
Suddenly, his large body approached and pressed against my back. I stood awkwardly frozen. His long arm passed by my ear and grabbed the curtain of the painting. Ricardo’s body heat was much hotter than I remembered.
“Just… certain scenes suddenly came to mind. There has never been a case in Dermaier’s history where a Rochester remembered their past in fragments.”
As I carefully drew back the curtain, my heart raced uncontrollably. I couldn’t even twitch a finger.
“I was just curious about it.”
The space was so silent that even my breathing seemed intrusive.
The brief coolness when his skin detached from my back was dizzyingly intense.
For a moment, I wondered if I should ask him not to pull back the curtain. I feared that seeing what was behind it might make me feel more pitiful.
He was like a still lake, undisturbed no matter how many stones were thrown into it.
Impulsively, I grabbed his hand that was holding the curtain. Why did I feel so wronged?
Many words swirled in my mouth when his hand was caught. I wanted to say I missed him a lot, that I needed assurance that he was doing well. But I suppressed them. Because there was no meaning between us.
As I let go of his hand, he moved again. Each of his movements brought a surge of heat up my throat.
“So, I wanted to record it. So, you know…….”
“It doesn’t mean anything, right?”
Overwhelmed by his low voice in my ear, I slightly twisted my body to get away from him. He hesitated as if in a delusion, but his following action to lower the curtain was fluid.
The painting was fully revealed before my eyes.
“Ah…….”
I couldn’t help but let out an exclamation. Ricardo was still a genius painter.
〈You… like me?〉
Male lead first thought she played hard to get, only to realize she
really disliked him
Short intro:
What she can’t stand the most is the streets full of effeminate men, especially that so-called top beauty whom she avoids at all costs.
Shen Yaoxing looks at Jiang Mingyue, who keeps approaching her with coy shyness.
Shen Yaoxing: Bro, don’t be like this, I’m really about to throw up!
She fears nothing in heaven or earth, except for him getting close to her.
*
At first he thought she was just using the trick of feigning indifference to attract his attention. Later, he learned that she truly despised him.
This dealt a heavy blow to Jiang Mingyue, and he vowed to make her, like everyone else, fall at his feet in worship!
***
Synopsis:
Before transmigrating, Shen Yaoxing only wanted to find a reliable man to spend her life with. Who knew that after transmigrating, she would become a reliable woman herself…
A forced misandrist, highly skilled, and reliable female lead
vs.
An initially aloof and arrogant, later morbid, obsessed male lead
_____
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