Her features were striking, bold and relaxed.
Hers was a kind of beauty that came as an attack, a declaration rather than a subtle invitation.
But when her demeanor cooled, the contours of her eyebrows and eyes also took on a chill, exuding an extreme sense of detachment.
Yu Yao hesitated for a moment.
He had never seen Si Fuqing look at him with such eyes—cold, aloof, and tranquil.
Her pitch-black pupils were like dark, icy pools, and the naturally upturned corners of her eyes held not even the pretense of a smile.
Back when he had been studying abroad, he had occasionally run into Si Fuqing but had never given her a second look.
After all, three years ago, she had always been heavily made-up and overweight.
There was nothing about her that had warranted his attention.
Later, he heard from some socialites that Si Fuqing had fallen seriously ill at the age of 16.
