Sophia Laurent spent three full days piecing together Bada Shanren's "Ink Lotus" painting.

The fragments were hair-thin. The painstaking work left her dizzy.

The restoration drained every ounce of her energy.

When the final stroke of retouching was complete, the artwork looked reborn—flawless, as if never damaged.

The ink-saturated lotus pond seemed to leap off the paper. Between the sparse, dry brushstrokes lingered a Zen-like tranquility. The stems stood tall as swords, the leaves swayed with grace. A few masterful strokes had captured infinite grandeur.

"Time to find a buyer," she murmured, rubbing her stiff neck.

On the phone, Iris Evans gasped. "You finished already?"

"Yes. Perfectly restored."

"My God! You're a miracle worker!" Iris's voice nearly shattered her eardrums.

Sophia held the phone away. The siblings were opposites—one calm as still water, the other fiery as a blaze.

Iris quickly replied, "Grant and Poly are Kyoto's top auction houses, packed with collectors."

"Which is closer?"

"Grant."

Under the afternoon sun, they queued in the auction house lobby. The line stretched endlessly ahead.

"Should we try the other?" Sophia massaged her aching knees.

Iris suddenly tugged her sleeve. "Look!"

Heads turned, but all eyes stuck to Sophia. Among the crowd, she moved like a living antique painting—ethereal, untouchable.

The elevator doors opened. A tall figure emerged.

A black jacket outlined broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. His close-cropped hair framed a sharply angular face. But it was his eyes that commanded attention—pitch-black, deep as abysses.

Sophia's breath caught.

Those eyes. They mirrored the ones haunting her dreams.

A sharp pain pierced her chest. Clutching her heart, she watched him vanish around the corner.

"Ms. Laurent?" A crisply suited staff member bowed. "Our young chairman requests your presence."

The office exuded classical elegance. A Zheng Banqiao ink bamboo painting hung on the east wall. By the floor-to-ceiling window, the man in black turned.

Up close, his eyes were even more familiar.

"Kyle Grant." He extended a hand, fingertips lightly calloused.

Sophia stared at his outstretched hand, momentarily frozen. Only Iris's nudge snapped her back.

When their palms met, time seemed to halt.

"Bada Shanren's original." Kyle unrolled the scroll, his gaze skimming the seals. "Twelve million."

Iris inhaled sharply.

"It's been restored..." Sophia whispered.

"I want it." His tone brooked no argument. "Account number."

When the transfer alert chimed, Sophia still felt suspended in unreality.

As they parted, a voice suddenly called from behind: "Sophia."

That voice, traversing the river of time, carried untold tenderness.

Her eyes burned instantly hot.