A week later.

Iris's call fluttered into Sophia's ear like a cheerful sparrow. "Sophia! Incredible news! The expert panel unanimously selected you to restore Wang Meng's Hermitage Scroll!"

Sophia's fingers tapped lightly on the desk. "When do I start?"

"That's all you have to say?" Iris's voice shot up an octave. "Do you know how many experts you beat? Eighteen! Each a top conservator from provincial museums—the youngest was forty-five!"

A soft chuckle escaped Sophia. "And?"

"Good heavens!" Iris gasped dramatically. "You've become the youngest stroke restoration master in antiquities history!"

"My left hand won't affect my right brushwork." Sophia shifted topics. "Arrange for hand-ground ink. Prepared ink could damage the mounting."

"Consider it done!" Iris thumped her chest. "Shall I be your personal ink-grinding assistant?"

"Deal."

The scroll's restoration entered its final phase.

Sophia wielded her brush with the focus of a meditating monk, her breaths barely audible. Iris hovered outside with tea and pastries, not daring to knock.

This was a priceless artifact—one wrong stroke, eternal regret.

Ten days flowed through her brush.

When Sophia finally set down her wolf-hair brush, the room of experts fell silent. Magnifying glasses swept the surface repeatedly, finding zero flaws.

"Divine skill!" The white-haired panel leader trembled. "Old Master Laurent would be proud!"

At the celebration banquet, elderly experts nearly overturned tables competing to matchmake.

"My grandson has a Cambridge PhD!"

"My nephew's a Wall Street elite!"

"Step aside! I'm summoning my grandson now!"

Iris shielded Sophia. "Gentlemen, our Sophia's already spoken for!"

The antique market buzzed with activity.

Iris dragged Sophia through seven shops before stopping at a vacuum-sealed glass case. Inside lay paper fragments, the largest no bigger than a baby's palm.

"Two hundred thousand," the clerk gestured.

Iris scoffed. "You're charging this much for scraps?"

"Bada Shanren's Lotus Pond Under Moonlight," the clerk whispered. "A complete piece would fetch millions."

Sophia's fingers traced the glass. In her mind's eye, the fragments reassembled—ink gradients merging into moonlit lotuses.

"One thousand," Iris slashed the price.

After three rounds of haggling, they settled at eight thousand.

Midnight in the study.

Sophia spread fragments across the rosewood desk. When Ethan entered, he found her bathed in warm light, stray hairs framing her face like a classical beauty portrait.

He quietly closed the door.

At 3 AM, Sophia massaged her stiff neck. To avoid disturbing her husband, she slipped into the guest room.

Dawn revealed Ethan watching her, chin propped on his hand.

"Why sleep here?" Her voice still carried sleep's softness.

Ethan nuzzled her cheek. "Thought my night owl might miss me too much to sleep."

Warmth flooded Sophia's chest. She suddenly pulled him into a kiss tasting of mint toothpaste, deepening as morning light spilled across them.