**Chapter 73 – The First Move**
The bouquet arrived just after breakfast. Syra had just finished drying the last tea cup when the doorbell chimed. Her mother called from the foyer, "Azizam, it's for you."
Syra wiped her hands on her apron and stepped into the front hall, where a suited man stood, straight-backed, holding a long box wrapped in silk-textured paper. He said nothing, simply bowed slightly and offered the package. By the time she reached the door, he was already turning to leave.
Her brows furrowed.
She untied the ribbon carefully, almost absently, until the paper gave way to a field of white tulips. Twenty-seven stems, elegant and quiet, bundled with thin gold twine. Not a single sprig of baby's breath. No excessive leaves. Just clean, precise beauty. There was no note. No signature.
She smiled and sniff the flowers her heart blooming thinking they were sent by Lou Yan.
Later, she placed them in a tall glass vase near the piano, to cherished them.
The next morning, the second message came.
A black envelope in their mail box, this time with a seal—a waxed monogram, X and R entwined. The handwriting on the card was smooth, confident.
"I don't know if it was your work or your presence that moved me more.
Either way, I left the gallery unable to stop thinking about both.
Let me see you again."
Rhett Xie
Syra held the card between her fingers, read it twice, then she realized those flowers were sent by this person not Lou Yan.
She remembered him now, the man in the shadows that night at Chen Gallery. Tall and sleek. She had felt his gaze back then, the way it lingered like a scent, but she had dismissed it.
And now, this. She exhaled slowly and returned to her easel.
---
That afternoon, she texted Lou.
"Someone left me white tulips and a letter.
Rhett Xie."
She didn't say more. She didn't need to.
A minute passed. Then two. Then three.
Her phone vibrated.
"Where are you?"
She smiled faintly, thumb hovering over the screen.
"My studio.To collect some few things."
Another pause. Then:
"I'll be there in twenty."
She put her phone down, heart steady. Not racing. Rhett Xie might have been the kind of man who made women blush, who swept into rooms like fire, who sent tulips and invitations scented with privilege. But for Syra, he stirred nothing. Not warmth. Not curiosity. Not even annoyance. Because the only person who could make her feel anything at all was already on his way.
The studio door creaked faintly as Syra entered, her steps slow and deliberate. Dust motes floated in the late morning light, suspended like time itself. The room smelled faintly of linseed oil, dried paint, and memory. She hadn't been here since the day Lou Yan had helped her rewrap the canvases, his hands careful, his silence soft. That day had lingered in her chest like perfume. The wonderful memories they have created together and her heart ached for those days when she can hold him and touch him to her hearts content. But she knows good things await those who persevere, and Lou Yan is definitely worth it.
She moved quietly through the space, brushing her fingers over the edge of her desk, the stool, the tall window ledge where she used to sit and think before the world rearranged itself around him. There was a vase still holding dried roses from months ago. She hadn't tossed them. They were brittle and brown now, but they reminded her of that first evening he sat with her—calm, close, and unrushed.
Syra had just begun packing away a row of sketchpads when she heard the soft, distinct sound of footsteps outside. Firm. Even. Her heart didn't leap; it settled. That was the difference. The door opened before she could stand. Lou Yan stepped in without a word, dressed simply in a black cashmere coat over a gray turtleneck, eyes sweeping over her in that quiet, monastic way of his—like he was looking not just at her, but into her.
She straightened. "You didn't have to come this fast."
"But here I'm." His voice was calm, but laced with steel. "You said his name."
She tilted her head. "Are you upset?"
"No." He stepped closer. "But I needed to see you. To be sure you were okay."
"I'm fine," she said. "He sent tulips and a card. It wasn't… threatening."
"No," Lou agreed. "But that's not the point."
He stopped a few feet away, eyes narrowing slightly, his tone shifting from calm to careful. "Rhett Xie doesn't do polite gestures. He does possession. Performance and Control."
Syra watched him. "You know him."
"We've crossed paths." A pause. "He enjoys pursuing the impossible. And he's not used to being denied."
She turned toward the window, her voice quieter. "He won't get what he's chasing."
Lou took a breath, slow and deep. "You should've told me the moment he came near."
"I did," she said softly. "The moment it mattered." He stepped forward then, close enough that she felt the heat of his presence even through the chilled air. His hands didn't reach for her. They hovered, respectful and reverent, as always. "You're mine," he said gently. "But not because I say it. Because you've made it so. And I've never taken that lightly." Syra's throat tightened. She nodded once, eyes stinging.
"I wasn't afraid," she whispered. "Not of Rhett. Not even a little. But the thought that you might think I entertained it… that frightened me." Lou's expression cracked, just slightly, like the surface of a still pond disrupted by a single drop.
"I know who you are, Syra," he murmured. "And I trust you. But I also know men like him. They mistake light for weakness. And if he looks at you again like something he can buy, I'll remind him, gently that some things are sacred." She smiled then, that soft, trembling smile she gave only to him. "So… monk or not, you'd fight for me?"
"I'd go to war."
She stepped into him at that, chest pressing to chest, arms looping gently around his middle. "Then let's go home," she whispered. "I've packed enough." He brushed a kiss to her hair. "Yes. Let's go home."