The Remaining Warmth Of Fog Harbor Chapter 16
byDistance Created by a Title
The preparation for the exhibition hall at the Riverside Art Center entered its final stage. Lu Wanheng had booked the entire main exhibition floor to set up Shen Zhiyi’s solo illustration exhibition. From the wall colors to the lighting angles, from the frame selection to the flow of the layout, she handled everything personally, wishing she could offer the very best of everything to Shen Zhiyi.
Shen Zhiyi spent her days in the exhibition hall, sketching layouts against the blank walls. Her brush never stopped, and a faint smile always hung on her lips. Su Man’s provocations and testing had mostly been washed away by Lu Wanheng’s constant favoritism and protection over the past few days. She was gradually becoming certain that she was the one firmly chosen, and she even began to quietly look forward to what role Lu Wanheng would stand by her side as on the day of the official opening.
A partner, a lover, the light that illuminated her life.
This expectation fermented in her heart, adding a touch of tenderness even to her color mixing. The cool white lights of the exhibition hall fell upon her drafts. Cold Light was placed in the center position, complementing the Wugang series. Every stroke was a testament to her feelings for Lu Wanheng. Lu Wanheng stood right beside her, helping her adjust the height of the easel. Their fingertips occasionally brushed against each other; even the slightest touch made the tips of Shen Zhiyi’s ears turn red, sweetness spreading through her heart.
She thought the thin veil between them had long since become transparent, needing only a formal confession and a candid public declaration. But she forgot that Lu Wanheng existed within the world of investment banking, carrying the weight of family and capital. The emotional trauma from ten years ago was like an invisible thorn stuck in her heart, making her never dare to easily lower her guard in public.
On Friday afternoon, the person in charge of the art center brought several investors and media personnel for an inspection. They were all heavyweights in Wugang’s art and capital circles, as well as Lu Wanheng’s long-term partners. The group, dressed in suits and leather shoes, spoke with refined elegance. The flash of cameras and the sound of conversation intertwined, adding a sense of formal gravity to the empty exhibition hall.
The person in charge walked quickly to Lu Wanheng and shook her hand warmly. His gaze swept over Shen Zhiyi, carrying a natural curiosity. President Lu, is this Miss Shen, the lead artist for this exhibition? We’ve heard that you spent a fortune to book the main hall for this rising illustrator. We’re all very curious—who exactly is Miss Shen to you, that you would go to such great lengths?
As soon as these words were spoken, everyone’s eyes focused on them—some with curiosity, some with scrutiny, and some with amusement. The media’s cameras were quietly aimed at the two, waiting for Lu Wanheng’s answer.
Shen Zhiyi’s heart instantly leaped into her throat. The brush in her hand hung in mid-air, her fingertips tightening slightly. She subconsciously looked up at Lu Wanheng, her eyes full of expectation, like a child waiting for a prize, longing for the definition of her status she had craved for so long.
She wanted to hear lover, girlfriend, or someone I care about. Even a simple someone very important would have made all her insecurities vanish. The shadow cast by Su Man and the inferiority complex brought by the class gap would have dissipated entirely with this public recognition.
But under the focus of everyone’s gaze, Lu Wanheng’s body stiffened for an imperceptible moment.
She subconsciously avoided Shen Zhiyi’s burning gaze and turned to speak with the person in charge. Her tone maintained the standard decency of an investment banking elite—distant and professional, without a hint of her private tenderness. This is Miss Shen Zhiyi, my collaborative artist and the lead creator of this Wugang series illustration exhibition. For the center’s subsequent youth artist support program, we will also prioritize collaborating with Miss Shen.
Collaborative artist.
Those four words, spoken so casually and officially, were like a cold scalpel, precisely carving open the sense of security Shen Zhiyi had just built and dragging her ruthlessly from the clouds back to the ground.
No favoritism, no special treatment, no definition beyond a business partnership. All the heart-fluttering moments, the companionship, and the protection between them were simplified into a cold relationship of capital and creation. It was as if she were merely a project in Lu Wanheng’s investment portfolio, just one of many ordinary collaborative artists, nothing special at all.
The smile on Shen Zhiyi’s face froze instantly. The brush in her hand fell onto the carpet with a thud, the cap rolling far away, mirroring her shattered mood. The surrounding gazes remained on her, but she felt the curiosity in those eyes turn into mockery—mocking her for being sentimental, for mistaking a business partnership for genuine affection.
The person in charge and the investors came to a sudden realization, nodding politely. So she’s a collaborative artist. Miss Shen is young, but her work is full of spirit. She has a bright future. President Lu has a unique eye. Supporting rising artists is also a contribution to Wugang’s art scene.
Polite praise filled the air. Lu Wanheng handled it with ease, chatting and laughing with everyone about investment layouts, the art market, and exhibition operations. Throughout, she maintained the posture of a professional elite, never looking at Shen Zhiyi again, as if she truly were just an inconsequential partner.
Shen Zhiyi crouched down, her trembling fingers picking up the brush and cap. Her fingertips were icy, and a chill seeped into her very bones. Even though the air conditioning in the hall was set to a comfortable temperature, she felt cold all over. The familiar cedar scent from Lu Wanheng drifted over, but now it felt strange and distant.
She remembered Lu Wanheng’s firm she’s mine on the street when Su Man provoked them; she remembered their embrace on a rainy night and Lu Wanheng’s forehead against hers as she said, my future only has you; she remembered their brushes moving together in the studio and Lu Wanheng’s gentle our paintings, our future.
Those confessions and promises made in private seemed so pale and powerless in the face of a public title.
It turned out that all that tenderness and favoritism could only be hidden in an empty studio, in mist-covered old alleys, or in a car with no outsiders. Once placed in the sunlight, once facing the gaze of capital and social circles, she could only be a collaborative artist—an existence that could not be publicly acknowledged.
Disappointment flooded her like a tide, spreading from her chest to her limbs, pressing down until she couldn’t breathe. Inferiority and insecurity came rushing back. Su Man’s words echoed in her ears again—Things that don’t belong to you will slip away no matter how tightly you hold them and She is the one who is a match for Lu Wanheng.
Perhaps Su Man was right. She and Lu Wanheng were never from the same world. Lu Wanheng had her social circle, her family, and her capital concerns, while she was just a struggling illustrator who couldn’t be presented to the world, someone who couldn’t see the light and could only hide behind Lu Wanheng’s halo as a collaborative artist.
Lu Wanheng caught a glimpse of Shen Zhiyi’s pale face and trembling fingertips out of the corner of her eye, and her heart wrenched with guilt and heartache. She wanted to stop the conversation, walk to her side, and hold her hand to say don’t overthink it, but she was surrounded by investors and media. The rules of investment banking, the eyes of her family, and the trauma from ten years ago were like invisible shackles, firmly binding her feet.
Ten years ago, it was precisely because she went public with her relationship with Su Man that her family forcibly tore them apart on the grounds of disgracing the family and affecting capital layout. She was stripped of all resources and nearly forced out of investment banking. That unforgettable lesson made her walk on thin ice regarding public identity. She could pour all her favoritism into Shen Zhiyi in private, but she didn’t dare to easily label her as a lover under the gaze of capital and family.
She was afraid of history repeating itself, afraid that her public recognition would instead bring gossip to Shen Zhiyi, afraid that her family would intervene again, and afraid that she wouldn’t be able to protect this pure girl. She wanted to wait until the exhibition ended successfully, until she had completely escaped her family’s control, and until she had enough power to withstand any storm before bringing her before everyone and declaring her belonging.
But she couldn’t speak of these hidden thoughts and considerations in front of everyone. They could only turn into a cold collaborative artist, forcing all her tenderness and love back into her heart.
Miss Shen, would it be convenient for you to introduce your creative concept to us? A media reporter held a microphone in front of Shen Zhiyi, breaking her internal struggle.
Shen Zhiyi snapped back to reality, forcing a decent smile. Her voice was dry and hoarse, lacking its usual vibrancy. My creations revolve around the mist and light of Wugang, using urban emotions as the core. I use watercolors to record the marketplace and tenderness. I am grateful for the platform provided by President Lu and for the support of the art center.
A standard official answer, like a memorized script, devoid of personal emotion—a world away from the tender sincerity in her paintings. Hearing this, Lu Wanheng’s heart tightened with pain, but she could only nod in cooperation, adding, Miss Shen’s creations have a very personal style. This exhibition is also a key project in our company’s cultural investment sector, and we will continue to empower it in the future.
Throughout, she referred to her as Miss Shen, echoing the title of collaborative artist and creating a profound sense of distance.
The inspection team toured the hall, with Lu Wanheng accompanying them and providing explanations. Shen Zhiyi was left at the back of the crowd like an insignificant ornament. She looked at Lu Wanheng’s back—the same back that would drape a coat over her, brew ginger tea for her, and shield her from the wind and rain in private. Now, dressed in a sharp suit, she was composed and proper, yet so strange that Shen Zhiyi didn’t dare approach.
Someone passed by Cold Light and praised the excellence of the work, asking about the inspiration. Lu Wanheng simply said, It is Miss Shen’s original work, fitting the theme of this exhibition. Again, she made no mention that the prototype for this painting was herself, nor did she mention the heart-fluttering moments and bonds hidden within it.
Shen Zhiyi leaned against an easel in the corner, her hands tightly clutching her clothes. Her nails dug into her palms, leaving deep crescent marks, but the physical pain couldn’t compare to a fraction of the ache in her heart. She looked at Cold Light in the center. The Lu Wanheng in the painting, with light in her eyes, gradually overlapped with the distant, official Lu Wanheng before her, then gradually tore apart.
It turned out she could paint Lu Wanheng’s coldness and light, but she couldn’t read the worries and shackles in Lu Wanheng’s heart. What she thought was a mutual journey was, in the face of reality and social circles, merely a one-man show that couldn’t see the light of day.
Half an hour later, the inspection team finally left. The exhibition hall returned to silence. The flashes and conversations faded, leaving only a floor full of loneliness. Lu Wanheng walked quickly to Shen Zhiyi, wanting to reach out and touch her cheek, wanting to wipe away the tears in her eyes. Her voice carried undeniable guilt. Zhiyi, I…
President Lu. Shen Zhiyi spoke first, deliberately emphasizing the title to echo the Miss Shen she had been called, creating a cold distance. She took a step back, avoiding Lu Wanheng’s touch. Keeping her head down, her voice was as calm as a pool of dead water. Thank you for accompanying the inspection. I will follow up on the remaining arrangements; I won’t delay the exhibition’s progress. Please rest assured.
President Lu. Collaborative artist. You.
These three titles were like three chasms lying between them, completely cutting off all intimacy and tenderness.
Lu Wanheng’s hand froze in mid-air. Guilt and heartache surged like a disaster. She wanted to explain, to speak of all her restraint, her worries, and the trauma from ten years ago. But looking at Shen Zhiyi’s pale face and red-rimmed eyes, the words reached her lips but she didn’t know where to start.
Zhiyi, listen to my explanation. It’s not what you think. I just…
President Lu, during working hours, we should only talk about the exhibition. Shen Zhiyi interrupted her and finally looked up. Her eyes no longer held their usual attachment and tenderness, leaving only a dead silence of disappointment. I am your collaborative artist. Doing my job well is my duty. I won’t think about anything else, nor do I dare to.
She deliberately emphasized the words nor do I dare to. Every word was like a needle stabbing into Lu Wanheng’s heart.
Shen Zhiyi stopped looking at her. She turned around, picked up her brush, and continued sketching the layout on the wall. She pressed down hard, leaving deep marks on the paper as if venting the grievances and disappointment in her heart. Her back was to Lu Wanheng, her shoulders trembling slightly, yet she never let her tears fall.
She told herself she shouldn’t cry or show weakness. Since she was only a collaborative artist, she had to keep to her place—no overstepping, no expectations, no sentimentality.
Lu Wanheng stood there, looking at her stubborn back. Her heart felt as if it were being squeezed tightly by a giant hand, making it impossible to breathe. She knew that the phrase collaborative artist had completely broken this sensitive and pure girl. She knew Shen Zhiyi’s disappointment and insecurity, her inferiority and self-doubt. Yet her restraint and protection had become the sharpest knife, wounding the person she most wanted to protect.
She wanted to go forward and hug her, to repeat all her promises, and to tell her all her worries. But the glass doors of the exhibition hall reflected their figures—one standing distantly, the other stubbornly turned away, like two lines about to cross but forced apart.
Outside, Wugang was covered in thick mist again, creeping against the floor-to-ceiling windows and condensing into fine droplets of water, like the tears Shen Zhiyi was holding back. The cool white lights of the hall shone on Cold Light. The warm light in the subject’s eyes now seemed exceptionally ironic.
Shen Zhiyi held her brush, her vision blurring. The paint spread into a chaotic mess of colors on the paper; she could no longer mix the tenderness of the past. She told herself over and over that she shouldn’t have had expectations in the first place, that it was just a collaborative relationship. Lu Wanheng helping her through her difficulties and organizing the exhibition was already the greatest favor. She shouldn’t ask for more—not public recognition, not a definition of her status.
But the disappointment in her heart grew like wild vines, wrapping around her heart and choking her.
She thought of the breakfast every morning, the late-night reminders, the hugs on rainy nights, the gazes in the car, and those tender confessions in private. It turned out everything could only be hidden in the mist, unable to see the light. Once exposed to the sun, only the cold collaborative artist remained.
Lu Wanheng slowly stepped forward and stood behind her, just a step away. Not daring to get closer, she spoke softly, her tone carrying a humble plea. Zhiyi, give me a little time. When the exhibition is over and I’ve handled everything, I will give you an explanation—a public, open, and honest one.
Shen Zhiyi’s brush paused. Tears finally broke through her eyes and splashed onto the paper, blurring into a light blue water stain like the unyielding mist of Wugang. She didn’t look back or respond. She simply continued to paint, hiding all her disappointment, grievance, and insecurity within the cold brush.
She didn’t know how long Lu Wanheng’s a little time would be, whether the so-called explanation would ever come, or how much longer she could endure in the role of a collaborative artist.
The exhibition hall was so quiet that only the sound of the brush rubbing against the paper remained. The cool white light enveloped two silent people, a step apart yet separated by ten thousand mountains. A deliberately avoided title had shattered all expectations and peace of mind. The mist fell silently, and the heart cooled without a trace. Shen Zhiyi’s disappointment permeated the entire hall like thick fog, impossible to disperse.
Lu Wanheng stood behind her, looking at her trembling shoulders, her heart full of guilt with nowhere to voice it. She knew her restraint and worries had caused Shen Zhiyi the deepest harm. She also knew that Su Man’s shadow, the class gap, and the family’s shackles were slowly tearing apart the trust between them.
She clenched her fists and vowed in her heart to break free from all constraints as soon as possible. She had to protect this girl openly by her side, so she would never have to hide behind a halo as a collaborative artist again, and so she could become her only, public, and universally recognized light.
But at this moment, no amount of vows could heal the scars in Shen Zhiyi’s heart. Only that cold phrase, collaborative artist, echoed repeatedly in the empty hall, becoming the sharpest thorn in both their hearts.
The mist outside grew thicker, obscuring the river view, the lights, and the once-clear future between them.
Banxia Novel, lots of happiness.