The days after the engagement ceremony passed quietly. Too quietly.
Syra still woke early. Still brewed her tea the same way. Still opened her studio windows to the morning air. But everything felt heavier now, like the world had tilted slightly while she wasn't looking.
No announcements had been made, but the news traveled through the right circles like smoke through old walls—private clubs, guarded dinners, the places where names carried weight. She could feel the shift in how people looked at her.
She painted harder, longer, losing herself in the work. It helped. The familiar rhythm of brush against canvas kept her grounded when her mind wandered—to Lou, to the garden where they'd knelt together, to the eight endless weeks stretching ahead.
Eight weeks without his touch.
Eight weeks of perfect composure.
Eight weeks of preparing to wear a life that still felt like someone else's.
The afternoons ached the most. That was when she missed him—not the CEO, not the monk in a suit, but the Lou who sat cross-legged on her studio floor drinking terrible tea without complaint, the one who silently handed her fruit when she forgot to eat.
Now even seeing him required restraint.
---
Lou was drowning in work.
Meetings. Contracts. Foundation boards. He moved through his days like a man preparing for war, tying off every loose end that might dare distract him when Syra finally became his completely.
But he still found ways to remind her he was waiting.
A driver with the exact tea leaves she liked.
New brushes left at her studio door.
A book on her table with a note tucked between pages:
*One day closer.*
He didn't visit. Not unless protocol demanded it. And never alone.
The discipline cost him.
Sometimes at night, when the city slept, Lou stood on his rooftop with cold tea in his hands, thinking of her laugh, her steady gaze, the way his life had quietly rearranged itself around her.
The future was clear: Syra walking fully into his world. Syra wearing his name.
But not yet.
Fifty-six more days.
---
They saw each other once—a dinner at Madam Yan's estate.
Tradition dictated everything: the seating, the dishes, the distance between them. Three chairs apart. Close enough to catch glimpses, far enough that speaking would break decorum.
When their eyes met, it was brief. Controlled.
But Syra saw the tension in his hands.
Lou noticed the way she held her chopsticks too tight.
When the meal ended, they bowed like strangers. No lingering. No stolen moments. Just promises passed silently between glances.
---
That night, Syra sat on her couch listening to the city hum.
She thought of what waited ahead—fittings, appearances, the careful performance of becoming a Yan bride. It would test her patience like nothing before.
But she wasn't afraid. The only thing that scared her was the growing ache in her chest, the hollow space where his warmth should be.
Still—
She would wait.
Because love demanded patience.
Because loyalty required sacrifice.
And because Lou Yan was worth every silent second.
---
The second visit to Liang Couture felt heavier.
When Syra first walked through the glass doors weeks ago, everything had felt like a dream. Now, the air hummed with unspoken rules. This wasn't just a shop for dresses—it was a stage where every stitch held meaning, where silk could armor or betray.
The same woman in black silk greeted her. "Miss Alizadeh-Li. Your fitting suite is ready."
Syra followed, aware of the eyes tracking her—assistants, seamstresses, clients sipping tea in velvet chairs. They didn't see an artist anymore. They saw Lou Yan's choice.
The suite waited, quiet and cool. Three gowns hung on the rack, each more exquisite than the last.
The lead designer—a woman with a steel-gray bun and sharper eyes—nodded to her team. "We'll start with the first."
Syra stepped behind the silk screen, slipping into the gown with help from attendants. The fabric whispered against her skin, gold threads glinting like secrets. When she emerged, the room stilled.
The dress was perfection. Muted gold embroidery, pearls sewn like constellations. Not flashy, but undeniable.
Seamstresses swarmed, pins flashing. Syra stared at her reflection—a woman others might envy, a woman who looked like she'd always belonged here. But I didn't, she thought. I earned this.
The door clicked open. Lou Yan walked in. He wore a traditional jacket, black and perfectly tailored, his hair slightly tousled as if he'd rushed from a meeting. Every head turned—not just because of who he was, but because he moved like a storm contained. Sharp jawline, eyes dark and steady, his presence cutting through the room like a blade.
The women across the hall leaned closer, whispers rising. Syra caught fragments:
"..people call him Shuài Fó... Handsome Buddha..."
"...look at his shoulders... like he's carved from jade..."
"...never seen a man so... flawless..."
Lou didn't notice. He never did.
His gaze locked on Syra. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to her reflection in the mirror and he forgot everything —her hair swept up, the plum blossom pin gleaming, the dress hugging her curves like a second skin.
He didn't smile. Didn't step closer. Just stared, as if memorizing the way gold lit her edges. Syra held his gaze, chin high.
He bowed slightly, respectful, restrained. Still keeping his vow.
The designer cleared her throat. "The hem needs adjustment, Mr. Lou. Otherwise, it's perfect."
"She is," he said, low and certain. Not the dress. Her. Syra's spine straightened.
Across the hall, partially hidden by a decorative screen, a group of three women lingered—customers, no doubt from one of the city's old elite families.
She recognized one immediately.
Wen Yaling. Their eyes darting between Lou and Syra like hungry sparrows.
"...thinks she can just replace Meilin..."
"...look at him... like she's the only woman alive..."
"...should've seen him at the charity gala... even in a crowd, he..."
Their eyes met briefly. Yaling's smile was brittle, more a baring of teeth than warmth.
Syra turned back to the mirror calmly. She had no need to respond.
Let them watch.
Let them whisper.
She wasn't here to win their approval.
She was here to marry the man who chose her, without apology.
Lou spoke softly to the designer, then glanced at Syra. "I'll wait outside." He said softly, just for her to hear. " Take your time. "Syra gave him a small, almost invisible nod.
He left as quietly as he'd come, unaware of the women's stares trailing him—the way they leaned forward when he passed, the flush on their cheeks.
Outside, Lou stood by the car, hands clasped behind him, posture relaxed but alert. The afternoon sun caught the precise cut of his jacket, the crisp line of his collar. Even waiting, he looked carved from marble—impeccable, untouchable. The women lingered near the courtyard fountain, pretending not to watch.
"...heard he meditates three hours a day... that's why he's so...perfect "
"...skin like that... unfair..."
"...if he looked at me like that, I'd..."
Lou didn't react. His eyes stayed fixed on the fitting room door.
Inside, Syra stepped out of the last gown, the weight of silk lifting from her skin. The designer nodded, satisfied. "We'll make the final adjustments."
Syra dressed, her fingers steady. When she walked out, Lou turned, his gaze sweeping over her plain clothes as fiercely as he'd admired the gown. The women by the fountain stiffened, but he didn't glance their way. He opened the car door for her, his hand brushing hers—brief, deliberate.
As the car pulled away, Syra caught Wen Yaling's reflection in the window, face tight with envy. Lou didn't notice.
But Syra stored it all—the whispers, the hunger in their stares, the way he stood unwavering in the storm of want he never saw. She leaned back, smiling faintly. Let them call him Handsome Buddha. Let them ache. He was hers.