The driver wasn’t hurt either. When he crawled out of the car and saw Qiao Zhihe unhard, he looked like he was about to cry.
He had just been scared to death, thinking that if he ran a red light and killed soone, his life would be over. Fortunately, heaven had protected him.
Ignoring Qiao Zhihe’s refusals, he forced a large sum of money into his hands, saying he wouldn’t feel at ease unless Qiao Zhihe accepted it.
In the end, Qiao Zhihe accepted the money and put the incident behind him.
...
Many years later, Qiao Zhihe beca a very famous painter.
He was very young, had no bad habits, and was of upright character. He also had a face that could be considered godlike.
Most importantly, he didn’t have a girlfriend.
Such a man was simply the dream lover of countless won.
His paintings could sell for high prices, yet no one had ever seen him paint any portraits.
His competitors used this to attack him, and his admirers offered millions requesting a portrait from him, but he never paid any attention.
No one had ever known there was a room in his villa that only he could open.
As soon as the light was turned on inside, the room was filled with easels.
The content on these easels, at a glance, could be seen to all be of the sa person.
A black cloak, a pitch-black scythe, the face unclear.
Such images made up the vast majority.
In a few of them, there was the image of a beautiful woman, but her hair and eye color were a bit different from humans. So even depicted this person with a pair of magnificent black wings.
These portraits were so lifelike that the movents, expressions, and even the gaze of the person seed to convey through the paper.
Just by looking at these paintings, one would know saying that the renowned painter Qiao Zhihe couldn’t paint people was absolute nonsense.
The level of these paintings even exceeded several of his works that had been auctioned for astronomical prices.
Qiao Zhihe lightly rubbed one of the paintings with his hand.
His movents were so gentle, it was as if he wasn’t caressing a painting but the subject of the portrait itself.
"Sister Death," whispered Qiao Zhihe, now a mature man.
"Eleven years, three months, and thirteen days. You said you had sothing to do and wouldn’t co for a long ti. But this ti has just been too long."
He looked at the paintings tenderly: "The truth is, I decided to paint because of you. I wanted to capture your looks, your figure, your movents, all in my art. Of course, only I could see it.
"I wanted the first person I ever painted to be you, so I never painted portraits until I had absolute confidence, fearing my work would tarnish your image."
"Now, I can finally create work that satisfies . I want to show them to you. But..."
But Sister Death, why don’t you co back to take a look at ?
From eleven years ago, or rather, even earlier.
He had always thought in his heart, that when he could perfectly capture her on canvas, he would confess to her with his works.
He was a painter, so he would confess in a painter’s way.
He infused all his emotions and longing into these paintings.
Just a glance, and one could tell how deep his feelings were for the person in the portraits.
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