Chapter 13
Chapter 13
FLORENCE UNIVERSITY – ART HISTORY LECTURE HALL
Lian clutched the leather strap of his bag a little tighter as he walked into the lecture hall. The polished floors clicked beneath his heels. Every movement, every glance, every breath in the room felt too loud.
He spotted an empty seat in the middle row and made his way toward it, head low. Don’t attract attention. Don’t trip. Don’t—
He paused.
Andy.
Sitting two seats away, hunched slightly over his sketchpad, legs crossed the same casual way Lian remembered from back then. He looked the same — messy curls, leather wristband, a silver ring he always fidgeted with when he was anxious.
Lian’s chest tightened.
He hesitated for only a second before sliding into the seat beside him.
Andy didn’t look up.
The professor’s voice started in the background — introductions, syllabus, brushwork techniques — but Lian barely heard any of it. His skin prickled. His thoughts were louder than anything around him.
He risked a glance.
Andy finally turned his head, slowly. His eyes met Lian’s, and for a split second… they softened.
And then?
Gone. Walled off.
Cold.
Lian gave the smallest nod.
Andy just blinked and turned back to his sketchpad.
No hello.
No smile.
No recognition — not the kind that mattered.
Lian swallowed.
The lecture droned on about Renaissance influences. Something about symbolism. Color. Light. But all he could focus on was the silence next to him.
Finally, Andy spoke — low, casual, like he was asking about the weather.
“So, you’re back.”
Lian didn’t answer right away.
He couldn't.
Andy’s voice was quieter now. “Didn’t think Florence had enough champagne and scandals to keep you interested.”
Lian looked away.
A beat passed.
“I’m just here for class,” he said softly.
Andy gave a short laugh — more air than sound.
“Right. Class.”
He didn’t say anything else. Just kept his pencil moving on the page. But there was tension in his jaw. A tightness that didn’t match the ease of his sketching hand.
Lian tried not to stare. But it hurt — more than he’d expected — to see Andy sitting next to him, acting like they’d never been best friends. Like he was just some girl he used to know that hates him so much.
And the worst part?
That’s exactly what Andy believed.
Lian could feel the weight of the lie pressing in.
It wasn’t Mei Andy was angry at.
It was who he thought she had become especially how she had treated him. Mei and her friends found out he was a gay and spread it around the whole campus and he got mocked.
A quiet beat passed. Then Andy’s voice again — softer now.
“You look different.”
Lian turned his head slowly.
Andy still didn’t look at him.
“Your clothes,” Andy said. “Your hair. Your… everything.”
Lian swallowed the knot in his throat.
“It’s a long story.”
Andy shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Everything with you usually is.”
They sat in silence for the rest of the lecture.
When class ended, students began gathering their things, chatting and laughing as they headed out into the corridor. Andy stood, slung his bag over his shoulder, and looked down at Lian.
“You’re not the Mei I remember, the Mei i know wouldn't stay where ever i am not to think of sit next to me.”
And then he walked off.
Lian sat there for a moment longer, hands still on his bag, eyes stinging.
He didn’t know what hurt more — that Andy was so close… or that he felt further away than ever.
Lian spotted the sleek black car waiting across the courtyard — same one as this morning. It stood out against the other cars packed there.
As he approached, the chauffeur stepped forward and opened the door.
“Miss Mei,” he said with polite formality.
Lian gave a short nod and slid into the backseat.
The leather was cool. Familiar. But today, it didn’t comfort him.
He didn’t ask where they were going — not at first. Maybe he was too tired. Maybe he didn’t want to hear it.
But as they passed their usual turn — the road that would lead them back to the villa — he leaned forward slightly.
“We’re not going home?” he asked because he was a person with retentive memory once he sees or come across something he always remember.
The chauffeur, eyes steady on the road, answered in a calm tone. “We have a scheduled stop first, Miss. A short one.”
Lian frowned. “Where?”
He got no reply — just a small glance in the rearview mirror. Then silence.
Ten minutes later, the car pulled into a quieter street. Upscale. Clean. A row of private boutiques with gold-lettered signs and crystal windows.
The car slowed to a stop.
Lian peered outside.
The sign on the glass read:
“La Fiora Sposa – Custom Bridal Atelier.”
His heart skipped.
He blinked, lips parting slightly. “What is this?”
The chauffeur stepped out and opened the door. “Your appointment, Miss.”
Lian didn’t move. “There must be a mistake. I didn’t— I wasn’t told anything.”
“No mistake,” the man said, his tone still even. “Master Cheng scheduled it himself. You’re expected inside.”
Lian stared at the boutique.
A wedding dress.
An appointment for him.
Arranged by Cheng.
Lian sat frozen as it dawned to him.
He swallowed hard.
“Do I have to go in?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
The chauffeur didn’t respond. He just held the door open patiently, like there was no other option.
Lian finally stepped out, feeling the warmth of the cobblestone under his shoes.
He straightened his shirt. Smoothed a hand over his hair.
And walked toward the glass doors.
A bell chimed overhead as he stepped inside. The air was scented with soft florals and silk. One of the consultants beamed.
“Miss Rodriguez!” she said warmly. “Right on time.”
Lian stared at her, stunned.
Right on time for what?
Another woman approached, holding a garment bag. “Master Cheng was very specific. He said to let you choose whatever makes you feel beautiful.”
He felt something twist in his chest.
Beautiful?
He wasn’t even sure who he was anymore.
Lian gave a tight smile — the kind you wear when cameras flash. “Let’s just… get this over with.” he thought.
Lian stood still in the middle of it, hands folded in front of him, trying not to fidget. His throat felt dry. The last time he’d stepped foot in a bridal boutique, it had been with Mei — years ago, for a joke, a dare, something ridiculous. And now here he was… the bride.
The consultant unzipped a bag and revealed a sleek, modern satin gown with a plunging neckline and low back.
“This one’s from Milan,” she said, clearly proud. “Minimalist. Bold. Mr Rodriguez said you'd appreciate something elegant but not overly traditional.”
Lian blinked. He picked it?
He stared at the dress like it was a snake.
Elegant. Bold. Modern.
It was perfect — not for Mei exactly, but for someone like her. The public version of her. The one that fit neatly beside a man like Cheng Rodriguez.
He turned slightly to avoid the consultant’s eyes. “Can I… have a moment to breathe?”
The woman smiled, polite. “Of course. Take all the time you need. Dressing room is just through there. Champagne if you'd like?”
He nodded without speaking.
Once she stepped away, Lian walked toward the tall mirror near the back, his heels soft on the plush carpet. He stared at his reflection for a long time.
Same eyes.
Same cheekbones.
Same hairline, makeup, body shape — near identical to Mei’s. Except he knew where the differences were. The subtle way his shoulders squared, the way he held himself, how his fingers gripped the edge of the mirror frame like he was bracing for impact.
He swallowed thickly. Can i really do this?
The door chimed again. Not loudly. Just a soft, distant ring.
Lian turned slightly. “Sorry, I’m not ready yet—”
He froze.