Chapter 52 Chapter 52 "Xiao Zhi got into trouble at school."...

In the evening on the Left Bank of Paris, the setting sun casts a soft glow on the balconies and gray-blue roofs of Haussmann buildings.

Wen Yanming pushed open the familiar dark grey door, and the hinges made a soft sound, like a deliberately maintained sigh.

"Lucas is back?"

My mother's voice came from the direction of the kitchen, crisp and clear, with a hint of imperceptible fatigue after handling official business, but more of a kind of programmed enthusiasm.

She emerged wearing a fine linen apron, her makeup meticulously applied, as if she had just stepped into the kitchen from a job interview with Le Figaro, rather than a long day of work. She stepped forward and gently embraced Wen Yanming. Her movements were precise, carrying the delicate scent of fig-scented candles. The strength and duration of the embrace seemed precisely calculated, perfectly balanced, never dragging.

"Yeah, I just got off the plane."

Wen Yanming smiled, and the mask of gentleness seemed to fit even more tightly at home.

Turning his gaze to the living room, he asked, "Where's Dad?"

"He's in the studio. He said inspiration struck us and told us to eat first and not wait for him."

Mother Wen's tone was calm, as if she was saying something as ordinary as "The bread was baked well today."

This is the norm in the Wen family.

Father Wen’s “inspiration” always comes first, above family dinners and above all daily order.

In the restaurant, the long oak dining table is spotlessly polished, reflecting the warm light from the highly designed chandelier above.

The table was already set with three exquisite place settings: gleaming silverware and flawless porcelain plates. In the center, a vase held fresh tulips, purchased just that morning from the corner florist, each one gracefully arranged. Everything was impeccable, like a meticulously composed still life, imbued with the abundance of material goods and the artistic tranquility unique to Paris's Left Bank.

But, it's too quiet.

Apart from the faint gurgling sound of stewing soup coming from the kitchen, the huge villa lacked the real noise of "life" - no casual chatting and laughing, no daily routine of parents bickering over trivial matters.

This kind of quietness is not peaceful and tranquil, but a slightly oppressive vacuum disciplined by high standards of aesthetics and order.

Finally, Father Wen appeared at the dining table before the soup was served.

He was wearing a linen shirt stained with a little ultramarine paint, his hair was a little messy, and his eyes had a trance-like look, as if he had been detached from the passion of creation.

"Oh, Lucas is back."

Father Wen nodded at his son with a smile on his face, but his focus didn't seem to be entirely there.

Dinner has begun.

"How was the visit to the Asian branch this time?"

Mother Wen scooped a spoonful of vegetable soup with graceful movements, and the way she started the topic was like the opening remarks of a business meeting.

Direct and efficient.

"Not bad. The new supply chain channels are basically open, but the cultural differences require some time to adapt."

Wen Yanming answered clearly and logically, as if he was giving a report.

"Well, the cost of adaptation must be taken into account. Efficiency and cost control are the core at all times."

Mother Wen nodded slightly, gave some guidance, and then changed the subject: "By the way, I had dinner with the curator of the Pompidou Center last week. They have a great project for next year. I think we can sponsor it in the name of the family foundation. It will be very helpful to enhance our brand image and cultural status. Lucas, can you follow up?"

She was speaking to her son, but she seemed to glance at her husband next to her out of the corner of her eye.

Art is the only topic that can attract the attention of both her and her husband, even though their starting points are completely different.

For her, it is investment, reputation, and social capital; for her husband, it is a pure spiritual utopia.

Wen's father was indeed drawn to the topic and snapped out of his trance. "Pompidou? What kind of exhibition is it? If it's those overly conceptual installations, I don't think there's any need to sponsor them. That would dilute the spirit of art."

His tone carried the arrogance and pickiness that are unique to artists.

"It's a retrospective of a master of figurative art, with extremely rich brushstrokes and emotions, which suits your taste."

Wen's mother responded calmly, as if she had expected her husband to ask this question.

"I'll have my assistant send you the relevant information tomorrow."

She succeeds in drawing her husband into the conversation, but it immediately devolves into a minor debate about artistic purity and contemporaneity—a high-level quibble that will never lead to anything but is enough to fill the dinner table.

Wen Yanming quietly ate the pan-fried duck breast on the plate. It was cooked to perfection and had a rich sauce.

He occasionally interjected a sentence or two, either agreeing with his mother's point of view or understanding his father's persistence, playing the role of the perfect son who bridges the gap.

The smile on his face was still gentle, and his tone was still unhurried.

But the joints of the fingers holding the knife and fork were slightly white.

Wen Yanming looked at his parents.

They talked with appropriate words and strict logic, and occasionally even smiled at each other because of a common artistic point of view. They looked so harmonious and well-matched, an enviable couple with extremely high intelligence and taste.

However, he knew better than anyone the cracks beneath this smooth surface.

My mother will never truly understand why my father could work day and night for a touch of ideal blue and disregard the gallery's profits and losses; my father will never be able to empathize with the great sense of accomplishment my mother got from maneuvering at the negotiating table and adding to the family wealth.

They lived under the same roof and sat at the same dining table, but it seemed as if there was a thick, soundproof glass wall between them.

They can see each other's mouths moving and hear each other's voices, but the emotional core behind those words, the fundamental motivations that drive each other's behavior, are never truly conveyed.

They respected each other's fields, occasionally cooperated, maintained decency, and even had a common goal because of his "work" - to create a "perfect" family environment for him.

But what is missing is the most essential thing: a clumsy but sincere effort to penetrate the glass wall and touch the other person's inner world.

Wen Yanming put down his napkin and said with a smile, "I'm done eating. Enjoy your meal. Father, Mother, I brought you some gifts this time. They're in the living room."

"Thank you, my son. You are always so considerate."

Mother Wen responded with an approving smile.

Father Wen nodded: "That's thoughtful."

Wen Yanming turned and left the restaurant, leaving behind the warm glow, exquisite tableware and polite conversation.

As he walked up the stairs to the bedroom, the gentle smile on his lips faded little by little and finally disappeared.

On the wall of the corridor hangs a priceless abstract painting, with a fierce collision of colors and surging emotions.

But the home passing beneath it was as calm and precise as a well-oiled precision instrument.

He returned to his equally spotless and well-furnished room and closed the door.

Outside the window is the quiet and historic rooftop view of Paris's Left Bank, but what he feels is an unfathomable loneliness that comes from beneath this perfect appearance.

…

At three o'clock in the afternoon, when Yu Sixie was signing a crucial contract, his cell phone vibrated on the desk.

The flashing "Teacher Li" on the screen made him frown slightly. Xiaozhi's class teacher usually would not contact parents at this time.

"Sorry, I have to answer the phone."

He gestured to the people around the conference table, picked up his phone and walked to the window.

"Mr. Yu? Hello, I'm Teacher Li. It seems like something's happened at school with Xizhi... He got into a fight with a girl in the class and made her cry... It's a serious situation, so you and the child's mother might need to come to school as soon as possible."

Yu Sixie's brows were furrowed.

Xiaozhi? His son, who had been like a little adult since childhood, and who seemed a bit indifferent to everything except his passion for books and Lego? Bullying a female classmate? This was even more incredible to him than hearing that the company's servers had completely crashed.

"Okay, Mr. Li, we'll get there as soon as possible."

Yu Sixie's voice was steady, but he hung up the phone half a second faster than usual.

He returned to the conference table and said briefly, "Everyone, there's an emergency at home. The meeting is suspended. The secretary will notify everyone of the follow-up arrangements."

The unquestionable tone made everyone swallow their doubts.

As he walked quickly towards the elevator, he dialed Xitong's number.

It rang four times before the call was picked up, with the sound of shuffling papers faintly playing in the background.

"Hello? I'm in a meeting..."

Xitong lowered her voice.

"The meeting is suspended. Go downstairs, to the company entrance, and you'll be there in five minutes."

Yu Sixie's tone was unbending, "Xiaozhi got into trouble at school."

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and then the sound of paper papers disappeared: "Something happened? What happened? What happened to him?"

The voice tensed instantly.

"The details are still unclear. The teacher just said he had a conflict with a female classmate and made her cry, and asked us to go over immediately."

"Impossible!" Xitong blurted out, her tone full of disbelief, "How could Xiaozhi... He can't even quarrel! Are you sure it's Xiaozhi?"

"I also hope the teacher dialed the wrong number. Come downstairs."

After Yu Sixie finished speaking, he hung up the phone, and the black Maybach drove out of the basement like an arrow.

Xitong opened the car door and got in almost the instant his car came to a complete stop. Her face was still flushed with anxiety from rushing down from the conference room, and her brows were furrowed. "What's going on? What else did the teacher say?"

"Just say the conflict, the girl cried, so we have to go."

Yu Sixie steered the car with one hand, merging it into the traffic flow at a fast pace.

There was a tense anxiety in the carriage.

"Could it be a misunderstanding?"

Xitong looked at the rapidly receding street scene outside the window and muttered to himself as if seeking confirmation.

"He's got that kind of personality, he's as quiet as a gourd, he might not even say a word if you poke him, so why would he take the initiative to provoke someone? Especially a girl?"

"I was wondering that, too."

The man stared intently ahead, his fingers tapping lightly on the steering wheel. "Last time, that little bully from Mr. Wang's family stole his model, and he just held on to it tightly, his face reddening as he didn't even utter a word of complaint. In the end, it was the teacher who came to the rescue. Bullying? That doesn't seem like his style."

"Did that girl say something inappropriate first? Or do something?"

Xitong began to try to find a reasonable explanation, "Xiaozhi is sometimes stubborn and insists on his own opinions. If he gets irritated..."

"Even if he gets irritated, he's more likely to just ignore them with a cold face, or leave them speechless with his overly advanced philosophies."

Yu Sixie's tone carried a hint of understanding of his son's way of thinking and even a bit of helpless certainty.

"Making someone cry? That requires a lot of aggressiveness, which he doesn't have."

She took a deep breath and tried to calm down. "So, there must be something special that we don't know about. What was Mr. Li's tone on the phone?"

"Serious, but not like the sky is falling."

Yu Sixie recalled, "There should have been no physical conflict, otherwise the word 'fight' would have been used instead of 'conflict'."

"Hmm..." Xitong breathed a sigh of relief, but her brows were still furrowed. "Anyway, you'll know when you get there. No matter what, it's our responsibility to make a girl cry."

There was a brief silence in the car, with only the sound of the engine running smoothly.

They all quickly filtered Xizhi's recent behavior in their minds, trying to find any clues of abnormality, but found nothing.

"I'll be the main person to communicate with the teacher when I see him later?"

Xitong suggested.

"Okay. But don't be impatient. Ask clearly first." Yu Sixie reminded.

"Know."

The shared doubts and worries temporarily overshadowed all other emotions, binding them closely together in the same car heading to school, heading towards the mystery that puzzled them all.