C2 He is back
A stunning villa stood proudly in M Country, its extravagant décor making it the most expensive residence in the nation—so exclusive, even the wealthiest could only dream of owning it. The villa symbolized power, prestige, and status. Its name was etched in gold at the gates: “The Dream of Heart.”
Inside, opulence reigned.
Glittering chandeliers hung from the ceilings, priceless paintings lined the walls, and every corner glowed with colored ambient lights. The villa’s grand hall was alive with luxurious sights: tables draped in elaborately embroidered linens, floral arrangements flown in from around the world—saffron crocus, orchids, white lilies, and moonflowers.
The party was in full swing. Men in bespoke suits and women in exquisite evening gowns mingled with laughter and clinking glasses. Tuxedoed waiters moved gracefully through the crowd, serving vintage wine and delicacies. Smiling hostesses in elegant skirts greeted every guest with warmth and formality. The air was filled with a soft, natural fragrance, enhanced by the fresh flowers and the gentle notes of a world-class pianist accompanied by a live string ensemble.
Yet none of this—the music, the elegance, the fragrance—was the true center of attention.
Everyone was waiting for one man.
Reporters from across the country crowded outside the gates. Inside, guests whispered impatiently. All eyes were on the entrance.
---
At the heart of the gathering stood a woman in a breathtaking red gown—stitched with threads of gold and platinum, studded with rare diamonds, and tailored in Paris. With a heart-shaped neckline and fishtail silhouette, the silk dress shimmered with every movement. Her hair was styled into a regal bun, and her jewelry—designed by a nationally renowned artist—glinted under the lights.
She looked like royalty. No—she was royalty, in every sense.
This woman was the mother of the richest man in the nation. And tonight, she was the envy of every woman in the room.
Yet, beneath her radiant smile, there was a flicker of concern. As she greeted guests with grace, her eyes kept drifting toward the villa’s entrance. She was waiting for him—her son, her pride.
He had promised to arrive by evening. But now, the night wore on, and still, he hadn’t shown up. She had called him over fifty times. His phone was off. Max’s too. Hours had passed since his flight landed, but there was no sign of him.
Her smile faltered. Her guests faded from her attention. Her gaze remained fixed on the door.
---
Elsewhere, in a small, old villa on the outskirts of the city, Ziyan Qing sat in a vintage living room, dressed in an impeccably tailored suit and polished shoes. He sipped his favorite tea, brewed by a woman who chattered excitedly beside him.
“You look younger and more beautiful than ever, Grandma. So, when are you bringing home my new grandpa?” he teased, a playful smile tugging at his lips.
She laughed, eyes twinkling. “I’ve started seeing a beautician, you know! I’ve been following all her advice—look at me!”
She reached out and pinched his cheek with love.
“Ow—Grandma, that hurts,” he said, feigning irritation.
“You mischievous boy. Tell me, why are you worrying your mother like this?”
“I’m not a child anymore,” he muttered, rubbing his cheek.
“I missed you, Grandma.”
“I missed you too, naughty boy.” Her voice was thick with affection.
Though tired and aging, her eyes sparkled with joy. They spoke for hours, and despite her exhaustion, she refused to go to bed.
Ziyan noticed how frail she had become—how difficult it was for her to sit for long. “You need to rest now, Grandma,” he said softly, helping her up.
After gently putting her to bed, he stepped out of the old villa.
His driver opened the door of a sleek Rolls-Royce. Even as he settled quietly into the seat, his mere presence exuded power—the kind of calm dominance only earned through years at the top. His face was unreadable. No joy. No sorrow.
No one could ever tell what he was thinking.
“To ‘The Dream of Heart,’” he instructed.
---
Back at the villa, the celebration continued.
“Mrs. Qing, this party is in honor of your son. But… why isn’t he here yet?” a woman asked, swirling her wine glass.
Before Mrs. Qing could respond, her smile widened—and her eyes fixed on the entrance.
The hall fell silent.
Time seemed to stop.
Women gasped. Some even fainted. A ripple of awe swept through the room.
He had arrived.
Ziyan Qing, President and CEO of the Qing Group. The man who ruled the business world with silence and steel.
Tall—6’4”. Skin pale but glowing with strength. Eyes deep and enigmatic. His face, chiseled and cold. Dark hair, thick and immaculately styled. Every line of his body radiated masculine elegance.
But it was his aura—cold, regal, untouchable—that commanded every heartbeat in the room.
He walked in like a king who didn’t care for his court. As though this grand celebration meant nothing to him.
And yet…
A young girl, around fourteen or fifteen, suddenly appeared. She ran barefoot through the grand hall, her long hair flowing, her dress fluttering like a princess in a storybook. Her face was hidden, but her presence was unforgettable.
Ziyan’s hypnotic eyes locked on her.
He knew her.
He didn’t need to see her face.
He just… knew.
His frozen expression began to melt—just slightly. His lips lifted into a faint, delicate smile.
And then—
She stumbled.
His entire expression changed.
Panic flashed in his eyes.
He moved—fast, instinctively—two steps forward. But before he could reach her, a teenage boy, maybe eighteen or nineteen, rushed ahead with fear in his eyes.
