Su Wan lived with the Ling family for ten years, always reminding herself that she was an outsider. Every night, Ling Chen measured the distance between them with his gaze, but never once crossed the line. Then she discovered the hair ties, old fountain pen, and even a withered succulent he had hidden in the attic.
“A collector?” she sneered, tearing up the marriage contract Ling Chen held out to her. “Too bad I’m not something to collect.”
On a stormy night, she disappeared with her suitcase. Ling Chen smashed the entire collection room.
Three years later, they meet again on a street in Paris. She is holding the hand of a little boy who looks just like him.
Ling Chen drops to his knees in the rain, eyes red. “Now it’s my turn to be yours. For the rest of my life.”
