Zoe Lancaster had no idea how she managed to turn around, nor what expression she wore as she watched the two figures slowly approach. All she felt was her heartbeat slowing to a heavy, methodical crawl. Beat by beat, the entire world seemed to go utterly silent.
It was dusk, and the fading daylight gave way to the courtyard lights slowly flickering on one by one.
The courtyard’s greenery, crafted by elite landscape architects, offered breathtaking views no matter the season. Now, the sound of footsteps echoing down the corridor grew increasingly distinct. Zoe stared straight ahead at the two approaching figures, one tall and one petite.
The woman’s dark hair cascaded over her shoulders. She wore a white coat with a fur collar that accentuated her delicate, fragile frame. Her face was even more beautiful in person than in her photos, and her eyes harbored a faint, gentle smile. She radiated a quiet, serene loveliness.
She was the complete opposite of Zoe. Zoe was as strikingly beautiful as a thorny desert rose—sharp, aggressive, and fierce. Her stunning looks naturally gave the impression of an equally piercing personality: disobedient, stubborn, and far from innocent. No one else even needed to point it out; Zoe had already drawn the glaring comparison herself.
No wonder. No wonder Simon Hawthorne didn’t like her. His true love was the absolute picture of serenity and grace. Why would he ever change his tastes to fall for someone as defensive, unyielding, and deeply flawed as herself?
"You must be Simon’s wife, right?"
The woman’s soft voice drifting into her ears snapped Zoe back to reality. She met Peyton Joyce’s warm, smiling eyes as the woman asked, "You’re Zoe, right?"
Zoe instinctively glanced at the man standing beside her.
Simon Hawthorne’s posture remained as arrogantly languid as ever. Behind his gold-rimmed glasses, his slightly narrowed eyes held a faint, chilling detachment—refined yet incredibly distant. He quietly met her gaze, utterly unfazed, without a single ripple of emotion. It was as if this situation wasn’t worth his concern or tension, not even when it was the very first meeting between his ex-girlfriend and his current wife.
As the sun sank below the horizon, Zoe’s heart seemed to plummet right along with it.
Peyton was still looking at her with curious eyes, so Zoe offered a faint smile in return. "Yes, I am."
Peyton let out a soft sigh of relief, followed by a slow, blooming smile. "I was worried I’d recognized the wrong person. Zoe, you’re even more beautiful than I imagined. It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Peyton Joyce."
The very woman who had been a thorn in her side for the past few days was now standing right in front of her in the flesh.
Zoe could barely maintain her smile. "You know about me?"
Peyton smiled faintly and nodded. She glanced up at the man beside her. "I know a little bit about Simon’s wife, of course. Anyway... thank you."
Zoe’s eyelashes fluttered. "Thank me for what?"
She suddenly felt that those gentle words held a hidden barb, stabbing her ruthlessly for no apparent reason.
Peyton’s expression shifted slightly as if she had just realized how her words sounded. Curving her lips into an apologetic smile, she said, "I didn’t mean anything bad by it. Simon and I have known each other for eighteen years. I just think it’s wonderful that he has someone by his side to take care of him."
Zoe pressed her lips together in silence. She wondered what Simon having someone to take care of him had to do with Peyton anyway. Even if Peyton’s comment was unintentional, she had inadvertently made it crystal clear that she and Simon shared a deep, profound bond—one strong enough that she felt entitled to speak on his behalf.
"It’s cold out here. Let’s go inside to talk." Finally, Simon raised his lean wrist to check the time on his watch, delivering the suggestion with absolute neutrality.
Peyton stepped forward slowly and gently took Zoe’s cold hand. "Let’s go inside together."
Held by the woman’s gentle grasp, Zoe felt her legs go completely stiff. Simon trailed behind them at a leisurely pace. Zoe felt as if there were daggers at her back, a sudden wave of desolation washing over her heart. Peyton’s arrival at the Hawthorne Residence was as relaxed and natural as a hostess returning to her own home. In contrast, Zoe felt entirely out of place, like she didn’t belong in this house—or to anyone in it.
Inside the main hall, Mr. Hawthorne, who was practically bedridden year-round, was surprisingly up and waiting with a radiant smile. Seeing Peyton walk in, his smile deepened. "Peyton, are you feeling better?"
Mrs. Hawthorne smiled faintly, though she didn’t seem nearly as enthusiastic as her husband.
Peyton finally let go of Zoe’s hand and stepped forward to greet them. "Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne, it’s my fault for being a terrible junior. I haven’t been able to come back and visit you these past two years. Please don’t be mad at me, okay?"
Her voice was consistently soft and gentle, the kind that would endear her to absolutely anyone. She had the exact temperament that elders adored most.
Mr. Hawthorne looked even more energized. "It’s just good that you’re back. Your health is what matters most. I had the staff prepare all your favorite dishes. Your tastes haven’t changed, have they?"
Peyton chuckled lightly. "Of course not. You know me, Mr. Hawthorne. I’ve always been one to cherish the past."
Mr. Hawthorne burst into hearty laughter.
Beside him, Mrs. Hawthorne, Florence Finch, asked kindly, "Now that you’re back, are you planning to leave again?"
At that question, Peyton had an almost subconscious physical reaction. She turned her head to look at the man sitting nearby sipping tea, then smiled and shook her head. "Being abroad just isn’t the same as being home. I missed you two so much. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to just stay and keep you company?"
Mr. Hawthorne beamed. "I know how devoted you are, Peyton. All my affection for you certainly hasn’t gone to waste."
Mr. Hawthorne was a man who deeply valued old loyalties. Back in the day, when Mr. Joyce worked for him, he had been severely injured and nearly lost his life. Before the Joyce family relocated to Riventon, Peyton, as the eldest daughter of the Joyce family, had practically grown up under Mr. Hawthorne’s watchful eye. Naturally, he harbored a profound affection for her.
"My son and daughter-in-law went to Veridia to attend a charity banquet, so they won’t make it back to see you today. Let’s eat first. We can catch up properly after dinner. You must be exhausted from the journey, and your health is fragile. Look, Simon even went out to buy your favorite desserts from The Sweet Wish Pavilion." Still beaming, Mr. Hawthorne waved for the staff to bring the desserts to the table.
Zoe’s lips trembled slightly.
So he had bought them specifically for Peyton.
He actually remembered Peyton’s preferences. A fiercely proud man like Simon Hawthorne was used to having everyone else meticulously memorize his likes and dislikes to curry favor with him. He was never the one keeping others in mind. But Peyton was his exception.
"Miss Lancaster?" Mrs. Hawthorne, Florence Finch, patted her on the shoulder. "It’s time to eat. What are you spacing out for?"
Only then did Zoe realize that everyone was already heading toward the dining room. Even Simon turned his head to look at her. His gaze landed on her lightly before he finally waved a hand. "Come here. Sit."
He motioned to the empty seat beside him.
In the dining room, Mr. Hawthorne took the head of the round table, with Peyton seated directly next to him. Simon sat beside Peyton, while Mrs. Hawthorne naturally took the seat on Mr. Hawthorne’s other side. As for Cecilia Sloan, she didn’t have the standing to dine at the same table as the family elders and always took her meals in her own courtyard. Bracing herself, Zoe walked over and took the seat next to Simon.
Just like that, he was sandwiched directly between the two women.
Halfway through the meal, Simon noticed that two of the dishes were garnished with cilantro. He raised his narrow eyes. "Didn’t I say no cilantro?"
Zoe paused her idle poking at a rice ball and turned her head to look at his profile.
She absolutely hated cilantro and had ever since she was a child. If a dish had even a tiny sprinkling of cilantro as a garnish, she felt the entire plate was contaminated by the dreadful flavor, making it impossible for her to swallow. It suddenly reminded her of their New Year’s Eve dinner. He had done the exact same thing back then, meticulously picking out every last fleck of cilantro just for her.
And now... had he actually taken her preferences to heart?
"How thoughtful of you, Simon. I can’t believe that after all this time, you still remember Peyton doesn’t eat cilantro. I don’t think you’ve ever cared for me this much," Mr. Hawthorne teased.
Peyton seemed entirely accustomed to this level of care. She looked at Simon with soft, tender eyes. "I’m allergic to cilantro. I suppose Simon was just worried about me."
Zoe’s grip on her chopsticks suddenly tightened. She pulled her lips into a self-deprecating smirk. Delusional—she could only think of this one word to describe her own embarrassing foolishness.