Chapter 27: Have You Ever Considered My Feelings?
Later, as he lay in the hospital bed with a high fever, he could only hear Lin Qiuwan’s voice in a muddle, yet he couldn’t catch a single word clearly.
She seemed to be telling him not to hold a grudge against his father, that she didn’t want them to turn against each other. At other times, she seemed to hope he would get well soon so she could take him to the amusement park and many other places.
In truth, he resented his father. He resented the man’s hypocrisy, his extremism, and his chauvinism. From childhood to adulthood, his father had oppressed him, never giving him a shred of freedom.
Yet, he also had to thank his father for forcing him to develop such a cold, ruthless, and inscrutable character.
Although his childhood was unfortunate, his mother had healed his entire youth, preventing him from becoming a cowardly person plagued by an inferiority complex and a lack of security.
Since Lin Qiuwan’s death, the rift between father and son had only grown. They hadn’t shared a meal at the same table for years, nor had they spoken a word in peace.
Terminating his train of thought at this moment, Ji Songting lightly massaged his brow. Coming back to his senses, he realized it was already dark; he had been lost in thought in this room for quite a while.
He hung the oil painting back onto the easel, took his car keys, and walked toward the door. The moment he opened it, he saw Jian An sitting by the entrance, half-asleep.
A few smudges of paint stained the youth’s delicate cheeks. He was clutching a painting in his arms, his slightly curled eyelashes trembling like the wings of a butterfly.
From the angle of the man looking down, there was an inexplicable sense of tenderness and pity.
Just as the trembling eyelashes were about to open, Ji Songting immediately stood up as if nothing had happened. He kicked Jian An’s body with his foot and questioned him in an irritable tone:
“Why are you still here? Didn’t I tell you to get lost? You really are thick-skinned.”
Jian An blinked blankly at first, then realized the man was beside him and was slightly stunned.
He stood up unsteadily and handed over the oil painting he had worked on all day, saying sincerely:
“I accidentally dirtied your painting this morning. This one is to compensate you. Will you… take it?”
Hearing this, Ji Songting impatiently wanted to refuse, but his gaze unintentionally fell upon the youth in the oil painting.
His expression changed instantly, and a light of disbelief flickered in his eyes.
How did Jian An know what he looked like at sixteen?!
He never had the habit of taking photos growing up. Occasionally, Lin Qiuwan would drag him to take a picture on her phone, but those were merely kept in the album and never developed.
So, where did the other man see it?
He was 100% certain that he didn’t know Jian An at sixteen, nor had they ever met.
A cold glint flashed in Ji Songting’s eyes. He grabbed the portrait and pointed at the youth—who was identical to the one under his mother’s brush—demanding a string of answers:
“Where did you see what I looked like at sixteen? Did you peek into my mother’s phone again? Is this fun for you? Do you think doing this will earn you a shred of forgiveness? This will only make me hate you more!”
With that, he crumpled the painting into a ball and threw it into the trash can without mercy.
Jian An’s lips twitched slightly. The man’s low voice rang in his ears like a clap of thunder.
The expectation on his face—the hope that Ji Songting might remember, even if only for a fleeting moment—was blown to pieces by those words. In truth, he had guessed this would be the outcome long ago.
He took a deep breath and turned away dejectedly, wanting to leave, when he was suddenly called back by Ji Songting:
“Wait. You’ve been shamelessly lingering until now, why the rush to leave?”
Hearing this, Jian An reflexively turned back to look at him, a glimmer of light rising in his weary eyes.
However, the man merely curled his lips into an ambiguous sneer, let out a cold snort, and commanded unhurriedly:
“Xiao Yan is staying over tonight. Prepare the dishes he likes, then clean up the room next to mine.”
Jian An froze for several seconds. The fingers hanging at his sides twitched before he shook his head with a vacant gaze:
“I’m tired. I don’t want to do it. Find someone else…”
He was already utterly disappointed in this man, so what was he still wishing for? Why was he still holding onto expectations because of a single word of retention from Ji Songting?
Detecting the sign of defiance, Ji Songting’s face flushed with anger. He seized Jian An’s wrist and said:
“What are you acting noble for? You’ll do it whether you like it or not!”
Jian An struggled a few times. Fortunately, the man didn’t use full force, yet he still had to put all his effort into pulling his arm back. For the first time, the thought of resistance took root in his heart.
He suppressed the bitterness, his slightly raspy voice carrying a light tremor: “Songting, we haven’t divorced yet, but you’re bringing someone else home. Have you… ever considered my feelings?”
Ji Songting seemingly hadn’t expected him to say this. He was startled for a second, followed immediately by mockery:
“You still have feelings? When you killed my mother and still had the gall to enter the Ji family, disgusting me for three years with that ugly face—did you ever consider my feelings?”
He had heard these words too many times, yet they still cut deep.
Jian An gazed at him with teary eyes, silent. Through the thin mist of water, a blurred face was reflected.
This face he loved so deeply was still the same as in his memory, except it didn’t belong to him.
He used the last of his strength to turn around. The final spark in his heart was completely extinguished as he walked further and further away.
Ji Songting froze on the spot. His heart felt as though it had been pricked, neither lightly nor heavily, by those extremely gentle eyes that were now filled with shattered tears.
Inexplicably, there was a sense of deja vu.
He lightly shook his head to dismiss the feeling, narrowing his eyes as he watched the thin figure in the hallway.
That man is best at bewitching hearts, isn’t he?
I was almost fooled!
Ji Songting glanced down at his watch. It was nearing 6:00 PM; he still had to drive to pick up Shen Chuyan.
Just as he was about to pull the door shut, his peripheral vision caught the painting in the trash can. He lost himself for two seconds.
After a brief, disdainful internal struggle, he nonetheless bent over and picked up the crumpled ball of paper from the trash.
The youth on the paper, covered in creases, had the corners of his mouth slightly raised and his eyes bright. He actually radiated a spirited aura.
It was a far cry from the person he was now.
Only he knew that his mother never painted him looking cold or mature; it was always the optimism, innocence, and vitality of a youth.
But how did Jian An know his mother’s habits when he only had less than half a figure painted by Lin Qiuwan to go on, before he even had time to add the emotions?
Even as a student, he shouldn’t have learned such details.
Ji Songting looked at the oil painting in his hand and gradually furrowed his brows. His gaze held a bit of confusion and a bit of anger.
Perhaps Jian An had tried every means possible to secretly learn it while Lin Qiuwan was still alive.
The man knew he missed his mother intensely, so he deliberately finished a painting his mother left behind to stir his affections. Such meticulous planning was truly burdensome.
Little did he know that in Ji Songting’s eyes, this behavior was undoubtedly a provocation—a naked insult.
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