The memories of her past life clenched Su Wan's chest like a vice, the pain still fresh.

After uncovering the truth, she stormed to the hospital, brandished her clean bill of health in Zhou Ziming’s face, and demanded a divorce.

Twenty years of deception—surely now she could break free.

But she underestimated the depths of Zhou Ziming’s ruthlessness. He accepted every consequence except the one she wanted: freedom.

In the end, even his well-connected uncle in the government was pulled into the fray, scheming to keep her trapped in the marriage.

Su Wan was so furious she nearly choked on her own rage.

Why wouldn’t he let go? they were already shattered beyond repair—why cling to misery?

That’s when an old name surfaced in her mind.

Ye Zhen.

The good-for-nothing delinquent from their old courtyard.

Back then, he was just a useless punk.

Now? titan of industry—his face plastered on magazine covers, his name whispered in boardrooms, even city officials scrambling to curry favor.

He’d been abroad for years, only returning two months ago.

No way Zhou Ziming’s uncle could stand against him.

The only question was whether Ye Zhen would even remember her after all this time.

Swallowing her pride, Su Wan dialed his number.

She braced for rejection—forgetting, dismissal—but Ye Zhen agreed without hesitation.

Within a week, her divorce from Zhou Ziming was finalized.

Overwhelmed with gratitude, Su Wan decided to thank him in person.

She handmade a batch of mi hua tang (puffed rice candy)—the same treat Ye Zhen used to covet as a child, always eyeing her portion with longing.

She knew he’d laughed at her once for bringing expensive gifts to thank him. "What do you take me for? I’ve seen the world. Money can’t buy sincerity."

So she’d skipped the extravagance and put her heart into something simple instead.

Now, clutching the box of candy, she boarded the bus bound for Ye’s family home.

But fate had other plans.

Before reaching her stop, the bus lurched to a halt.

Su Wan blinked and looked up—the terminal.

The bus had arrived at Meitan Road, on the city’s outskirts.

To the left, a ten-minute walk led to the Third Bus Company. To the right, the same distance took her to the Steel Factory.

The Su family’s courtyard sat just outside the factory’s walls.

Though technically suburban, the area buzzed with life.

Dozens of interconnected courtyards sprawled across the neighborhood—nearly ten in total—originally built as housing for coal plant workers. When the plant relocated, the steel factory took over, constructing new dormitories inside the city and leaving these older structures to the local district.

The courtyards were spacious by city standards, some even with private yards, but their location branded them as "the sticks."

When Tang Jiangying called her a country girl, she wasn’t entirely wrong—everyone did.

But so what? Did that make her less than?

In her previous life, during the divorce battle, these very courtyards had faced demolition. Zhou Ziming’s refusal to let go hadn’t just been about possession—it was also greed. The Su family stood to receive relocation compensation, and he wanted his cut.

Lost in thought, Su Wan turned down the familiar stone path.

The courtyard gate loomed ahead—unchanged from her childhood.

Gray bricks, black tiles, wooden beams. A rusted sign on the left wall read: "Coal Plant Lane 3, Courtyard 6."

Everything was exactly as she remembered, save for the absence of moss in the cracks—less weathered, somehow newer.

Then, the sound hit her: the rhythmic clatter of a wok.

Her father’s cooking.

Tears blurred her vision as she imagined the frail, paralyzed man from her past life.

Her steps quickened.

The two-story building loomed ahead, their family’s unit tucked into the left corner, accessible via a narrow staircase just inside the gate.

Emotion surged so powerfully she nearly tripped—tears streaming freely now.

But just as she rounded the staircase, a figure materialized before her.

Unprepared, she slammed into his chest, nearly toppling backward.

Strong hands steadied her.

"Ow—!" She clutched her nose, tears flowing harder.

Through the haze, she made out a tall silhouette: white shirt, black pants, a cigarette dangling from his fingers as he stared down at her.

"Huh?"

She rubbed her eyes, clearing her vision.

Ye Zhen.

Nineteen-year-old Ye Zhen.

Young, vital, with those signature peach-blossom eyes, a straight nose, and lips just cruel enough to be captivating.

He studied her with unreadable intensity, his usual roguish charm replaced by something darker, more dangerous.

"Ye Zhen, what are you doing here?" she snapped, swiping at her face. "You nearly broke my nose."

Her red-rimmed eyes glistened like a doomed rabbit’s—a pitiful, resentful gaze that scratched at something primal in him.

His expression darkened further.

"Since when is this your territory?" he bit back. "Didn’t you bump into me?"

His voice carried the rough edge of his upbringing—the uncultured drawl of a street thug.

Back then, Ye Zhen was exactly that: a neighborhood delinquent.

The kind of kid who lounged around with a gang of hooligans, doing god-knows-what for money.

No one respected him. Su Wan had always avoided him.

The late ’70s and early ’80s were an age of blind faith in state jobs—no one could predict the coming economic storm.

Yet Ye Zhen had seen it.

That’s why, decades later, he’d rise from obscurity to become the undisputed head of the Ye family empire.

When magazines and TV interviews hailed him as a genius, people finally understood: Of course it was him. Even as a teenager, he’d been different—sharp, defiant, impossible to ignore.

Now, his past misdeeds were forgotten.

Even the shit he’d once taken under their courtyard tree seemed to smell like roses.

Because success rewrites history.