The Remaining Warmth Of Fog Harbor Chapter 13
byUndercurrents of the Heart
On Tuesday afternoon, on the top floor of the investment bank building, the long discussion in the conference room had just ended. Executives left one after another, leaving Lu Wanheng sitting alone in the head seat, rubbing her aching temples. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Wugang was wrapped in a grayish-white mist. The river view was blurred into a single mass, much like her disciplined life over the past ten years—precise and efficient, yet cold and rigid, without a hint of unnecessary emotion or color.
The assistant knocked lightly and entered, placing a document on the corner of the desk and handing over a linen drawing bag rolled into a tube. With a slight smile, the assistant said, President Lu, Miss Shen just had this delivered via flash courier. She said it is the painting you have been looking forward to and specifically asked that you open it yourself.
Lu Wanheng’s movements froze. Her tired eyes brightened instantly. The irritability brought on by days of high-pressure work dissipated the moment she heard the name Miss Shen. She reached out to take the bag, her fingertips brushing the rough texture of the linen. A long-forgotten nervousness actually welled up in her heart, like a student waiting for exam results or the cautiousness of touching a cherished object for the first time.
Over the last decade, she had handled art collections worth tens of millions—famous paintings from auction houses, unique pieces by sculptors, and installations by contemporary artists. She had seen countless works of exquisite technique and immense value, yet nothing had ever made her feel this unsettled.
She dismissed her assistant and locked the office door, shutting out the intrigue and data reports of the financial world. She left the entire top-floor space to this painting from the old studio. Lu Wanheng laid the bag flat in the center of her large desk, slowly untied the cotton cord, and pulled the paper out bit by bit.
When Cold Light was fully revealed before her eyes, Lu Wanheng’s breath hitched. Her grip on the edges of the paper tightened, her knuckles turning white from the force.
She had never seen herself like this.
In the painting, she stood amidst the thick fog of Wugang. The coldness of her ink-blue suit was precisely outlined in ultramarine and charcoal black. Her shoulder lines were sharp as blades, and her long hair fell with an air of detachment that warned others to stay away. The curve of her jawline was hard and rigid—the standard image of an investment banking elite in the eyes of the world: powerful, calm, and impeccable, like a sculpture carved from ice, without warmth or weakness.
Yet, in the eyes and pupils, Shen Zhiyi had used extremely faint warm orange and moon white to create a layer of fragmented light.
That light was not flashy or intense; it was like a star on a cold night or a lamp in the fog, hidden beneath a hard shell. It rested at the corners of her eyes and brushed over her jaw, vividly portraying the softness, restraint, heartache, and secret fluttering of her heart that she had never shown to the outside world. These were details only Shen Zhiyi could capture—the gaze they shared in the car, the concern during an anonymous act of help, the certainty when protecting her at the gala. It was her tender flaw, buried for ten years and never understood by anyone until now.
The fog in the background was layered, gray-blue and moon-white intertwining like the hazy, unspoken feelings between them, or like the hard shell she used to wrap herself in. That speck of warm light pierced through the thick mist and reached straight for the heart, allowing the painting to clash cold with warmth and weave strength with softness, giving it the power to strike the soul.
Lu Wanheng leaned in close to the painting, her fingertips hovering a few centimeters above the paper. She hesitated to touch it, fearing she might damage the delicate watercolor texture or disturb the gentleness that belonged solely to her. She could see the direction of every brushstroke and feel the focus and heartbeat Shen Zhiyi had poured into the creation. She could read the gratitude, attachment, and unspoken love hidden within.
This painting was not a display of technique or a commercial pander; it was the most authentic version of herself, painted with Shen Zhiyi’s entire heart.
Her heart began to beat uncontrollably. The softness sealed away for ten years was completely awakened at this moment, like a frozen lake cracked open by the warm sun. A warm current spread through her veins to her limbs, dispersing years of indifference and restraint.
Lu Wanheng’s life had been meticulously planned by her family since she was eighteen. She had given up her passion for painting to study finance, entered the family investment bank, and rose through the ranks at precise intervals. She used a cold exterior to combat the schemes of the business world and used restrained emotions to hide her inner desires. Her previous relationship had been forcibly broken by her family on the grounds of mismatched status and defying social norms. After her lover left, she closed her heart entirely, locking all emotions away and living as the world expected—impeccable, yet without joy or sorrow.
She thought she would walk this path forever, moving through the digital jungle of finance and growing old in a cold office building, until Shen Zhiyi appeared.
The girl who guarded her brushes in the old studio, the girl who remained pure despite being exploited by her family, the girl who understood her softness at a glance—with one painting, Cold Light, she shattered the ice Lu Wanheng had built over ten years. She reawakened the forgotten tenderness, the suppressed heartbeat, and the stifled love for art.
Lu Wanheng’s eyes grew slightly warm. For the first time in ten years, she felt the urge to cry. It was not sadness or grievance; it was the emotion of being completely understood, the shock of a flower blooming in a desolate heart. She finally realized that her repeated offers of help and her deliberate attempts to get closer were never just about appreciation or sympathy. It was attraction, it was falling, it was the suppressed emotions of many years finally finding a place to call home.
She solemnly hung Cold Light on the most prominent wall of her office, directly facing her desk so she could see it the moment she looked up. Amidst the cold financial texts and industry reports, this watercolor painting became the only warm color, like a beam of light illuminating her dark, rigid office space and her long-dried heart.
Standing before the painting, Lu Wanheng took out her phone. Her finger hovered over Shen Zhiyi’s WeChat chat box. Her past restraint and detachment had vanished, leaving only one thought—contact her, right now.
She no longer waited for Shen Zhiyi to report in. She no longer deliberately maintained the safe distance between client and artist. The awakened softness and surging heartbeat pushed her to take the first proactive step.
I received the painting, Zhiyi.
I have never seen a work that understands me better than this.
Thank you for painting me so beautifully.
Three messages were sent in succession, without the reserve of an elite or the detachment of a superior—only the most direct praise and emotion. Almost instantly, Shen Zhiyi’s reply popped up, carrying a young woman’s nervousness and joy: I am glad you like it. I was afraid I could not capture even a fraction of your grace. I stayed up late for several nights revising it.
Looking at the words on the screen, the corners of Lu Wanheng’s mouth curled into a gentle arc. This was a relaxed smile she had never shown in the investment bank building. No longer satisfied with text, she pressed the voice call button. The ringtone sounded twice before the other side picked up.
Wanheng… Shen Zhiyi’s voice carried a slight tremble. There was the background noise of watercolors; she was clearly still working in the studio.
Painting? Lu Wanheng’s voice was extremely soft, carrying a newly awakened tenderness that was a world away from her usual sharp tone in meetings. Don’t work too hard. Get some rest. Smelling paint for too long is bad for your health.
The direct concern slipped out without preamble or pleasantries; it was the most direct expression of the softness in her heart. Shen Zhiyi was stunned for a moment, her cheeks flushing as she whispered back, I am working on a new draft for the Wugang series. It is not hard. I am very happy.
When the new draft is finished, take a photo for me immediately. I want to be the first audience member. Lu Wanheng leaned back on the sofa under the painting, looking up at the warm light in Cold Light, her tone carrying an expectation that brooked no refusal. Are you free tonight? I booked a private kitchen in the Old Town District. It is very close to your studio and the food is light. I will pick you up after work.
Proactively inviting, proactively approaching, proactively breaking the distance—this was a side of Lu Wanheng that had never existed. Past social interactions were always utilitarian, but this time, it was purely because she wanted to see her, hear her voice, and be in the same space to feel that clean warmth.
Shen Zhiyi was overwhelmed and agreed repeatedly. When she hung up, her palms were slightly sweaty. She could clearly feel that Lu Wanheng had changed—she had become proactive, gentle, and no longer distant. All of this change stemmed from that painting, Cold Light.
From that day on, Lu Wanheng completely broke her past restraint. She began to contact Shen Zhiyi frequently. Constant greetings and invitations filled Shen Zhiyi’s daily life and Lu Wanheng’s own work breaks.
At seven in the morning, Shen Zhiyi would punctually receive a message: I bought hot soy milk and whole wheat bread and left them with the studio security. Remember to eat; don’t paint on an empty stomach.
At ten in the morning, during a break in an investment bank meeting, Lu Wanheng would steal a moment to send a message: I just looked up and saw Cold Light and was stunned again. How is the progress on the new draft?
At three in the afternoon, she would have her assistant deliver fresh fruit and non-alcoholic drinks with a handwritten note: Smell less turpentine. If you are tired, stand by the window and look at the fog.
At six in the evening, she would ask punctually: Are you off work? I am waiting for you at the alley entrance of the studio. I will take you to that dessert shop you mentioned.
At eleven at night, she would send a reminder: Don’t stay up late to finish drafts. Your health is most important. If you have any pressure regarding the work, you can tell me.
From work and creation to daily life, Lu Wanheng’s care permeated every corner of Shen Zhiyi’s life—detailed, appropriate, and gentle. Like the eternal warm light in Wugang, it lifted her completely out of the shadow of her family. Lu Wanheng was no longer the one passively waiting for a response. Her awakened softness made her willing to set aside all reserve and protect this girl who understood her in the most direct way.
During lunch breaks, she would decline unnecessary business dinners and drive to the Old Town District. She would sit quietly on a folding chair in the studio, watching Shen Zhiyi paint. She did not disturb or rush her; she just stayed with her, occasionally handing her a glass of warm water or softly praising a brushstroke. She would stay for the entire afternoon.
While Shen Zhiyi painted, she would take out her phone and quietly snap photos of the girl’s focused profile, saving them in a separate album named My Artist. When she was tired from work, she would open it, and all her stress would vanish.
On weekends, she would proactively plan trips, taking Shen Zhiyi to the riverside to see the fog, to galleries for exhibitions, to creative markets to buy brushes, and to old alleys for local snacks. She would naturally take the heavy painting equipment from Shen Zhiyi, drape her coat over the girl’s shoulders when the wind picked up, and gently hold her wrist when crossing the street. Every bit of intimacy was just right—gentle yet restrained, making the sensitive Shen Zhiyi feel deeply at ease.
Colleagues and friends at the investment bank noticed Lu Wanheng’s change. The Vice President, who always had a cold face and never smiled, now often smiled at her phone. A niche watercolor painting hung on her office wall, and she constantly spoke of my artist. The indifference in her eyes was replaced by tenderness, and her entire aura had softened.
Chen Zhou teased her on WeChat: Wanheng, you have completely fallen. The ten-year iceberg has finally been melted by a little artist.
Lu Wanheng did not deny it. She simply replied with a photo of Cold Light and a caption: It is she who understood me. It is she who saved me.
She knew clearly that it was not she who had redeemed Shen Zhiyi, but rather Shen Zhiyi who, with Cold Light, had redeemed the self that had been sealed away for ten years. She had awakened the softness and heartbeat she had long forgotten, teaching her how to love again, how to express herself, and how to shed her icy exterior to embrace warmth.
Late Friday night, Shen Zhiyi finished the last painting of the Wugang series. She took a full set of photos and sent them to Lu Wanheng with the caption: All finished. Dedicated to you, and to Wugang.
Lu Wanheng was working overtime on reports for an overseas project. Seeing the message, she immediately put down her documents and dialed a video call. Shen Zhiyi’s small hands, covered in paint, appeared on the screen, along with the sparkling smile in her eyes.
They are all done! Look, every painting has fog, and every painting has light. Shen Zhiyi held up the drafts, showing them one by one to the camera.
Lu Wanheng leaned back in her chair, looking up at Cold Light on the wall and then at the person on the screen. The softness in her heart surged like a tide, her voice so gentle it could melt: They are all wonderful, Zhiyi. You always manage to surprise me.
She paused and spoke proactively, her tone firmer than ever before: I have cleared my entire schedule for next week. I will take you to the seaside to sketch. Away from Wugang, away from all troubles. Just painting, just relaxing, okay?
Proactively planning the future, proactively integrating into each other’s lives, and proactively writing her into her own life—this was the most solemn promise Lu Wanheng could give.
Shen Zhiyi nodded vigorously, tears instantly welling up as she smiled and agreed: Okay, I will wait for you.
After hanging up the video, Lu Wanheng walked to Cold Light once more. Her fingertips lightly touched the warm light in the eyes of the person in the painting. Her smile was gentle and long-lasting. The softness sealed for ten years was fully awakened, and the frozen lake of her heart had completely thawed. She knew she could never return to that past of no joy or sorrow. For the rest of her life, she would hold onto this girl tightly and give her all her tenderness and favoritism.
The phone screen lit up. It was a message from Shen Zhiyi: Wanheng, you are my cold light, and also my warm sun.
Lu Wanheng’s fingers moved slightly as she replied seriously: Zhiyi, you are my redemption, and all my tenderness and longing for the rest of my life.
Outside the window, Wugang was still shrouded in thick fog, but the top-floor office was brightly lit by the warm glow of Cold Light. The proactive greetings, frequent contact, and thoughtful companionship were all the truest proof of Lu Wanheng’s awakened softness.
She no longer suppressed her heartbeat or deliberately kept her distance. She would face the wind of Wugang and walk toward the girl holding the paintbrush, delivering all the tenderness hidden beneath her hard shell.
Cold light enters the eyes, and secret tides rise in the heart. Ten years of ice, melted in a single day.
From then on, the world of the investment banking elite no longer consisted only of numbers and reports. There was also the scent of watercolors from the old studio and a girl named Shen Zhiyi, who became her lifelong obsession and light.