The distant tunnel rumbled, and the loudspeaker rolled out, “Dear passengers, attention please. Train G3258 from Yancheng to Jiangdu is now pulling in…”
A cool morning breeze lifted the soft hairs on Stella Grant’s forehead just as her phone buzzed violently.
The screen lit up with one word: “Dad”.
Stella stared blankly at it, lips pressed tight, her eyes turning red.
A minute later the call ended on its own. Her lock screen showed 52 missed calls.
Another text popped up, stacking right over the last ones.
Dad: [Stella, you worthless burden, get your ass back here! You’re just as cheap as your dead mom! If I hadn’t taken you in, you think you’d still be breathing?!]
Dad: [Listen up! Your mom’s gone, and I’m your guardian now. Come back, keep your head down, and I’ll let you stay till next year and even send you to college. If you don’t show up within the hour, die out there for all I care!]
Dad: [I feed you, clothe you, my wife even landed in the station trying to clean up after your mom’s mess. What the hell are you unhappy about?! The whole Grant family treats you well, and you dare run? I’ll break your legs and lock you up at home. Let’s see where you think you can go then!]
Stella’s hand shook so hard she could barely hold the phone. Grievance and fury swelled in her chest with nowhere to go. Her nose stung, and a tear splashed onto the screen.
Not good to her? Every part of her life was a nightmare.
Helena Grant had destroyed her family, sped through a red light, and killed her mother.
Victor Grant was willing to “take care of her” only because her heart was a perfect match for Vivian Grant’s congenital defect.
In their eyes, she was nothing more than Vivian’s spare heart, a body waiting to be opened on an operating table.
Good? How could any of this be good?
The train eased into the station. Stella scrubbed her eyes hard with her sleeve, biting down, forcing down the helplessness crashing over her. She yanked out her SIM card and tossed it straight into the trash bin.
After her mom’s accident, she’d been dragged into Victor Grant’s home. She thought she could last one year—just one—until exams were over. But she hadn’t even survived a full week before she was pushed to run, wandering her way toward Danli Town to find the only person in this world who might still care—her grandmother.
Her seat was by the window, a two‑person row. Two minutes before departure, someone stepped into the space beside her.
Across the narrow seat gap, Stella caught a faint whiff of tobacco.
In her line of sight appeared a pair of black cargo pants, cuffs cinched at the ankles, the bone there sharp beneath the skin, veins tracing up—an oddly ascetic kind of beauty.
Right after, the man dropped into the seat beside her. His legs stretched out in a loose, careless way, the shape of his knees sharp beneath the fabric. The folds of his cargo pants draped down and somehow looked effortlessly striking.
Stella Grant stared blankly at those messy yet oddly good‑looking lines of fabric. Out of nowhere, her phone rang, and she jolted, shoulders trembling.
From the corner of her eye, a long, clean‑boned hand slid into a pocket and pulled out a phone. The veins on the back of his hand stood out faintly, like they were holding a quiet breath.
“Spit it out if you’ve got something to say. Don’t waste my time.”
His voice was cool and edged with impatience, the air around them seeming to buzz the moment he spoke.
Whatever the person on the other end said made him let out a short, mocking laugh. “Cut the crap. Am I blind or broken? I don’t need you picking me up.”
“…”
“Alright, eight tonight. Don’t slack off. Watch the shop and take care of Grandma.”
“…”
He ended the call without waiting for a reply, thumb tapping off the screen like he was swatting away a fly.
Stella lowered her gaze, sniffing lightly as her foggy mind slowly clicked back into motion. Eight tonight. That was her arrival time too.
She blinked. So… were they going to the same place?
Danli was a small county town. From Jiangdu, the provincial capital, she still had to transfer—get off at the city high‑speed rail station, then catch two different buses before finally reaching Danli.
She did the math. Around eight.
Her eyelashes were long, and when her eyes drooped, they fluttered like light fans brushing against someone’s heart. Her pale lips pressed together in tiny, uneasy movements. If they were headed to the same place… could she follow him?
Hugging her backpack tighter, she let out a long breath and leaned her head against the cabin wall, slowly closing her sore eyes.
The train sped on, summer wind howling against the windows. The girl rested there, brows slightly drawn.
Ashton Blake glanced at her, expression unreadable, the dark of his eyes sharp and distant. After barely a second, he looked away, going back to his phone.
-
Stella woke with a start, yanked out of a nightmare. She’d dreamt again of her mother lying in that pool of blood. Tears streaked down her face before she even realized it.
Waking up, she found the sunlight blazing outside the window, leaving a soft, slanted glow across the sill.
She wiped at her tears without much care, then straightened up. Once her breathing steadied, the urge to go to the restroom hit her, so she snuck a glance at the man sitting beside her.
He was deep into a shooting game. His hands were almost distractingly good-looking, the phone pinned between them as his index fingers pressed along the edges and his thumbs flew over the controls on both sides of the screen. Fast, smooth, ridiculously skilled.
While he was focused, Stella Grant opened her notes app, tapping the screen with her fingertips. She finished typing, then waited—half an hour—before his game finally ended.
Ashton Blake was wearing a loose black T-shirt, the sleeves stopping just above his elbows, revealing clean, defined lines of muscle along his forearms.
Stella poked him through the thin fabric. Her fingertip met solid muscle, startlingly firm.
She looked up just as Ashton turned his head, their gazes crashing together.
Only then did she get a clear look at him.
A buzz cut, almost to the skin. Dark, thick brows. Thin single eyelids. Slightly sunken eye sockets. A tiny dark mole at the corner of his right eye.
His pupils were pitch black, like hard riverbed stone. When he looked at her, there was confusion there, but it couldn’t drown out the wild sharpness underneath—like a predator that had never been tamed. That dangerous energy pressing straight toward her.
Stella’s heartbeat stuttered. Her back went rigid. She opened her mouth, wanting to explain, but instantly forgot she couldn’t speak—no sound came out.
Her face flamed. Panic and embarrassment flooded her as she ducked her head, fumbling to pull up the note on her phone and lift it for him to see.
A short line sat at the top of the screen:
[Could you please move a little? I need to step out for a moment.]
Ashton raised an eyebrow, studying the girl who looked like she wanted to fold herself in half and disappear. A low, amused snort slipped from his throat, dripping with attitude.
“You can’t talk?”
Stella’s shoulders went stiff. Her fingers tightened around the phone, knuckles whitening. Shame and helplessness clamped over her, keeping her head bowed.
After a long moment, under the weight of his sharp, invasive stare, she finally gave a tiny nod.
Outside, under the burning sun, green mountains blurred past in a rush. Hot wind scraped against the train like a drawn-out wail.
In those two seconds of silence, the whole world seemed to stop.
Only her—ugly, weak, exposed—left out in the scorching wind, feeling her heart ache like it was burning.
Thankfully, Ashton didn’t push her any further. He stood up from his seat and stepped aside into the aisle.
Stella Grant stood up in a hurry, shoulders dipping slightly toward him in a quiet thank‑you before she headed down the aisle toward the restroom at the end of the car.
Ashton Blake held his phone loosely, leaning back against the side of his seat with that lazy posture of his, one long leg bent. His sharp gaze followed Stella’s retreating figure.
He’d noticed her the moment she got on. His seatmate was pale, skin almost peach‑tinted, but the kind of thin and fragile pale that made her look like a breeze could knock her over.
Her face wasn’t even the size of his palm. Those clear, doe‑like eyes of hers looked like they’d turned watery from one rinse, all red and glossy, full of nerves. She kept her head ducked the whole time, like she spooked easy. And whatever she dreamed about earlier had clearly rattled her—she’d woken up with her nose all pink from crying.
Ashton’s fingers, resting along the seam of his pants, tapped out a slow rhythm. After a moment, he came to a conclusion:
This girl was sensitive, insecure, and scared of pretty much everything outside her shell.
Judging by the vibe, she’d probably been PUA’d by some jerk, got dumped, and was now running away from home to hunt the guy down and demand an explanation.
He clicked his tongue quietly. In his head, he muttered, young and already picking up bad habits. Pretty face, zero brain cells. Soft and clueless.