New Life

Days passed.

Zhao had expected some big, dramatic moment—a tense meeting, a forced heart-to-heart, maybe even a lecture from his so-called father about responsibility or some shit like that.

But nothing.

Not a single visit. Not even a phone call.

Zhao wasn't an idiot.

If the man hadn't bothered to show up after his son nearly died, then that told him everything he needed to know about their relationship.

Yihan's father didn't give a damn about him.

Honestly? Good.

The last thing Zhao needed was to deal with some neglectful, emotionally constipated father figure on top of everything else.

When the day finally came for him to leave the hospital, Zhao found himself in the passenger seat of a sleek, black sedan as his supposed mother drove.

The interior smelled of leather and faint perfume, the air conditioning humming softly in the background.

Despite the luxury of the vehicle, the atmosphere inside was stifling.

The ride was silent, save for the occasional sound of tires rolling over asphalt and the distant honking of city traffic.

Zhao slumped against the window, his forehead cool against the glass, watching the city blur past in streaks of steel and neon lights.

Towering skyscrapers. Busy streets lined with expensive shops. People moving, each wrapped up in their own world.

He had no idea where they were going, but one thing was clear—

Yihan came from money.

A lot of it.

The car itself was proof enough, but when they finally pulled up in front of a massive, skyscraper, any lingering doubts vanished.

"We're here," his mother announced, her voice even but tight.

Zhao barely reacted, too busy staring at the sheer size of the building in front of him.

Damn.

This wasn't just an apartment complex—it looked like something out of a billionaire's real estate portfolio.

Glass walls reflecting the golden hues of the sunset. A uniformed doorman standing by the entrance, hands clasped behind his back like a damn royal guard.

He glanced down at his own reflection in the car window—the reflection of Yihan, not himself.

A rich kid.

Zhao stepped out of the car, his shoes tapping softly against the pavement.

His mother strode ahead without waiting for him, her heels clicking against the polished marble as they entered the pristine, high-ceilinged lobby.

The place was ridiculous.

A massive chandelier hung above the ceiling, its crystal pieces sparkling like scattered diamonds. Luxurious velvet seating lined the walls, occupied by people dressed in expensive suits and dresses, sipping on overpriced coffee like this was a damn five-star hotel.

A receptionist sat behind a sleek black counter, barely sparing them a glance.

Everything about the building screamed prestige, wealth, and exclusivity.

A far cry from the life Zhao had lived before.

His mother moved toward the gold-trimmed elevators, pressing the call button with the casualness of someone who had done it a thousand times before.

Zhao hesitated for half a second before following.

As they stepped inside, the doors slid shut with a too-smooth silence.

His mother pressed the button for the 13th floor.

Zhao leaned against the elevator wall, watching the numbers tick upward on the digital display.

The ride was quiet, save for the faint hum of machinery and the soft instrumental music playing through the speakers.

Zhao folded his arms, exhaling through his nose.

Thirteenth floor.

That meant the apartment was high up. Probably had a balcony, a ridiculous view, and furniture that cost more than his entire existence.

His mother didn't speak.

She stood beside him, stiff and tense, her arms crossed over her chest.

Zhao wasn't sure if she was mad, exhausted, or just always this cold.

He stole a glance at her—

Dark circles under her eyes. Lips pressed into a thin line. A posture that screamed tightly wound stress.

He didn't know what kind of mother she had been to Yihan before, but from the way she was acting now, she wasn't the gentle, doting type.

The elevator dinged, signaling their arrival.

The doors slid open, revealing a long, carpeted hallway lined with identical doors.

"Come on," his mother muttered, stepping out.

Zhao followed, his footsteps sinking into the plush carpet beneath him.

This was it.

The door clicked open, and Zhao Wei found himself staring into his new home.

The first thing that hit him was the sheer size of the place.

High ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows that stretched across the entire living room, offering a breathtaking view of the city skyline. The polished marble floors, ambient lighting, and an enormous, L-shaped couch sat in the middle of the room.

Abstract paintings decorated the walls, the kind that rich people loved—more about status than actual taste. A huge flat-screen TV was mounted on the opposite wall, with a state-of-the-art sound system sitting under it.

It was the kind of place you would see in those glossy interior design magazines—the kind of place someone with too much money and not enough warmth lived in.

Zhao's mother stepped inside first, her heels clicking against the marble as she walked straight toward the open kitchen without sparing him a glance. Zhao lingered near the entrance, taking in the space, feeling oddly detached.

This was where Yihan lived?

No wonder the kid was such a selfish little shit.

A scoff slipped out of him before he could stop it.

"You gonna stand there all night?"

The voice came from the couch, low and unimpressed.

Zhao turned his head, and there he was—his new elder brother.

The guy was lounging on the expensive leather sofa like he owned the world, one arm draped lazily over the backrest. Tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp features that mirrored their mother's—same piercing eyes, same cold, hard to read expression.

But where his mother was all controlled sharpness, this guy had an edge of arrogance, like he barely had the patience for anything.

His dark hair was tousled in that effortless way that rich kids managed, and he was dressed casually in a fitted black T-shirt and gray sweatpants, though even that looked expensive.

A phone rested on his thigh, one earbud in, but his eyes were fully focused on Zhao, assessing him.

His mother, still ignoring them both, set her purse down on the kitchen counter before sighing. "I'm going to bed. It's been a long day."

Without waiting for a response, she disappeared down the hall, her bedroom door shutting firmly behind her.

An awkward silence settled between Zhao and his new brother.

Zhao wasn't sure what the hell he was supposed to do. He had handled plenty of difficult people in his past life, but dealing with a rich, probably emotionally unavailable older brother wasn't exactly in his skill set.

"Didn't think you would be back so soon," his brother finally muttered, stretching out his legs.

Zhao raised a brow. "Where else was I supposed to be? Back in the hospital?"

The guy let out a short, humorless laugh."Tch. Guess not."

Another awkward beat of silence.

Zhao exhaled through his nose and crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. "So... you got a name?"

"It's Jian."

Jian.

Right.

He should've expected something sharp-sounding.

"Well, Jian," Zhao drawled, pushing himself off the wall, "it's good to finally meet you?"

Jian didn't respond right away. Instead, he eyed Zhao in that unreadable way again, like he was trying to figure something out.

Zhao felt his skin prickle.

Had he already screwed up? Had he said something that Yihan wouldn't normally say?

He was walking on thin ice here, playing the role of someone he didn't know. Any slip-up could make things worse.

But before he could worry too much, Jian just let out a tired sigh and stood up. "There's food in the fridge. Don't touch my stuff."

And with that, he walked off, disappearing into one of the other rooms, door clicking shut behind him.

Zhao blinked.

Huh.

That was… anticlimactic.

Well, at least the guy wasn't overly sentimental. That would've been worse.

Shaking his head, Zhao ran a hand through his hair and turned his attention back to the apartment.