C12 - Flight and Supper

"Lien, cease this stubbornness." My father's reprimanding tone was laced with frustration, casting a sharp glance toward my mother, whose emotions threatened to unravel completely.

The day of my departure had arrived, and we stood together in a private terminal, the jet—courtesy of Uncle Michael—waiting at the tarmac.

"Stubborn?" My mother's voice rose, trembling with concern. "And what if Lei falls ill? What if I want to see him?" Her icy glares cut through my father's patience like a blade, but he met her gaze with quiet resignation, rolling his eyes at what he considered impractical concerns.

"Mom," I spoke softly, attempting to calm her. "When you visit, you're always welcome to stay with me."

The weight of her turmoil hung heavily in the air, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. My resolve strengthened as I tried to soothe her.

In the beginning, I had two condos—one in Shanghai and another in Singapore. I had planned to keep the one in Shanghai and rent out the Singaporean unit. But fate had other designs, and I decided to keep the Singaporean condo for my studies at Arden University.

"I want a home!" my mother declared, her voice cracking, resonating with a mix of plea and desperation, echoing the weight of our impending separation. Despite the tears, I embraced my parents and kissed my sisters' foreheads. The farewell was bittersweet, laden with unspoken words, but necessary.

Stepping onto the jet, I waved a final goodbye. The hum of the aircraft's engines became the soundtrack to my new journey.

By nearly eight in the morning, we touched down in Singapore. Uncle Michael had planned a brief respite for us before the start of my academic pursuits—a leisurely meal at a place that promised to be more than just a pit stop.

A black MG Gloster awaited me at the airport, whisking me away to Lost City Palace, a grandiose five-star establishment nestled within ancient tribal remnants. The exterior exuded mystique, while the interior felt as though I had stepped into a different world—a palace frozen in time, resplendent with luxury. Every detail was meant to overwhelm the senses, leaving me in awe of its opulence.

Upon entering the restaurant, I was greeted by a circle of influential individuals, their elegance and wealth evident in every gesture. As I made my way to the farthest table, I found myself seated by a massive window with a view that framed the city like a living painting. At the table sat an elderly man, his face a blend of dignity and stoic grace, as he savored his wine. I couldn't help but smile inwardly, the impression of regal composure impossible to miss.

Uncle Michael, ever the playful guide, leaned in with a knowing grin. "Seems like the fashion designer worked her magic," he remarked, his eyes glinting with amusement.

I adjusted myself in my seat, flashing a polite smile. "I thought it best to look the part."

Before the plane had landed, I had donned a simple t-shirt and jeans, only to be swiftly transformed for dinner by Lilith. My attire now consisted of a creamy turtleneck, flowing black trousers, and sleek black-and-white patent leather loafers. An ash-grey cashmere overcoat completed the look, chosen to enhance my height and lean physique. The clothes seemed to please Uncle Michael—his approving glance did not go unnoticed. My hair, longer than before at my sisters' suggestion, cascaded naturally down my back, further enhancing the refined look.

Under Lilith's guidance, I had come to appreciate neutral and monotone colors, with black always standing out as my favorite. The only accessory I wore was a simple gold watch, its understated elegance enough to convey a quiet sophistication.

As we settled into our meal, our conversation deepened, but something shifted in the air. The clinking of cutlery accompanied the arrival of extra place settings. A new figure had entered the picture.

From the corner of my eye, I saw him—a young man, his hazel eyes seeming to hold an entire universe within them. He was dressed in an air of casual indifference, exuding an almost regal aloofness that hinted at something more. His rugged features, from dark brown hair to sun-kissed skin, made him appear like someone who had stepped out of a distant past—detached, yet strikingly composed.

Zayn's gaze lingered, drawn across the figure seated before his grandfather. He traced the smooth, snowy expanse of the nape, partially concealed by the turtleneck, then slowly shifted downward to the delicate hand that gripped the glass with an air of effortless poise. Each movement seemed deliberate, yet graceful—an intentional elegance that intrigued him.

He took his seat beside Uncle Michael, and their eyes met for a fleeting moment. In that brief exchange, I caught every detail—his eyes, his posture, the way he moved. It was an observation, a measurement of sorts. I committed his features to memory, but did not linger too long, unwilling to appear overly inquisitive. 

Uncle Michael, unfazed by the new presence, continued sipping his wine. I shifted my attention to the meal, adopting a more measured silence, content to let the conversation unfold without me for the moment.

"Not bad," I murmured, once the tension had begun to dissipate. Uncle Michael's gaze lit up, eager to share something more.

He placed his wineglass down with a small flourish and leaned forward. "Allow me to introduce you my grandson, Zayn."

At once, my focus snapped to Zayn. I offered him a polite smile, a respectful nod of acknowledgment. He met my gaze with a sharp, unflinching stare, weighing and measuring me before he spoke.

I couldn't ignore the subtle shift in the air—the growing unease that settled in my chest despite my calm exterior.

"Not bad?" Zayn's voice broke the silence, low and resonant, with a sharp edge. His words seemed more like a challenge than a comment, a subtle test of my resolve.

I held his gaze steady, offering a disarming smile. "A reference for painting."

There was a beat of silence. The air between us crackled, thick with something unsaid. His eyes flickered briefly with intrigue, then annoyance.

"Khun Pû," Uncle Michael interjected with a light laugh, trying to break the tension. "You're a choking hazard!"

Zayn's expression softened, though the energy between us remained taut. The exchange, brief as it was, hinted at a deeper undercurrent—a dynamic shifting beneath the surface.

"Shall we proceed?" Uncle Michael gestured, signaling for the appetizers to arrive. The table filled with food, but I could sense the silent exchange between the two men—conversations happening without words.

"Does his presence disconcert you?" Uncle Michael's casual tone made it clear he understood the shift in the atmosphere. His eyes were trained on me, a knowing gleam present.

I dabbed my lips with a napkin before responding. "Encountering new individuals tends to evoke discomfort."

Uncle Michael studied me thoughtfully, as if weighing something unspoken. Zayn, brow raised in subtle surprise, spoke next, his voice still laced with tension. "Discomfort?"

"Yes," I affirmed, holding his gaze. The exchange between us felt loaded—charged.

"It seems you two have hit it off," Uncle Michael remarked with a touch of amusement, but his tone suggested there was more to it than mere jest.

"Tomorrow," he continued, more serious now, "show him around."

I turned my attention back to Zayn, who was already pulling out his phone.

"May I have your number?" he asked, his voice softer now, though the searching look in his eyes hadn't faded.

I regarded him for a long moment. There was something more behind his request, something I couldn't yet place.

A pause. Zayn's gaze flickered between me and Uncle Michael, who nodded his silent approval.

With that, a bundle of papers appeared in front of me—Zaven Cove—its name heavy with significance beyond the simple ink on the page.