The Fall And The Risen

Madam Yan's command to leave rang through the ancestral hall like the strike of a gong. Syra's body trembled violently—her knees had long since gone numb, the pain now a white-hot fire searing through her joints. She had known this wouldn't be easy, but seeing Lou Yan, proud and unyielding Lou Yan, press his forehead to the ground for her sake nearly shattered her resolve.

A whimper escaped her lips as she tried to shift her weight.

Lou's hand tightened around hers instantly. His touch was gentle but firm, his grip steadying as he helped her rise. The moment she put pressure on her legs, agony lanced through her—sharp, blinding—and her knees buckled.

She would have crumpled to the floor if not for Lou.

In one fluid motion, he caught her, his arms wrapping around her waist as she fell against him. The sudden movement sent several pins flying from her carefully arranged bun, dark curls tumbling loose around her shoulders.

"Easy," Lou murmured against her temple, his breath warm.

Syra wanted to die of shame. She had come here to fight for him, to prove her worth, and instead she was *this*—a trembling, pathetic mess, forcing him to carry yet another burden.

Outside the compound gates, her legs gave out completely.

Lou caught her before she hit the ground, twisting at the last second so that he took the brunt of the impact. Syra landed atop him, her hair a wild curtain around their faces, her palms pressed flat against his chest.

"I'm sorry," she choked out, tears burning her eyes. "I'm so sorry—"

Lou's hands came up to frame her face, his thumbs wiping away the moisture on her cheeks. His eyes were dark, endless. "You knelt for me," he said roughly. "*You*."

The way he said it—like it was a miracle, like she had given him something precious—made her breath catch.

Syra opened her mouth to argue, but Lou was already moving, shifting her carefully in his arms as he stood. He cradled her against his chest like something fragile, something treasured, his stride never faltering as he carried her to the waiting car.

Her legs dangled uselessly, her stockings torn at the knees, revealing angry red marks from the unforgiving wooden floor. Lou's jaw tightened when he saw them.

"Don't look at me like that," Syra muttered, pressing her face into his shoulder. "I'm fine."

Lou didn't answer. Just held her tighter.

---

Back at the Studio

Lou set her down on the couch with infinite care, his hands lingering as if to ensure she wouldn't vanish. Without a word, he disappeared into the bathroom, returning moments later with a warm, damp cloth and a jar of salve that smelled faintly of menthol and herbs.

Syra tried to protest. "You don't have to—"

"Quiet."

The command was firm but tender. Lou knelt before her, his movements deliberate as he rolled up her ruined stockings. His breath hissed through his teeth when he saw the full extent of the bruising—dark blooms of purple and blue staining her knees.

Syra couldn't bear to look.

Lou's touch was feather-light as he cleaned the abrasions, his fingers tracing the edges of the bruises with a reverence that made her throat tight. When he smoothed the salve over her skin, his palms were warm, his strokes slow and methodical.

"You shouldn't have done that," he said at last, his voice low.

Syra stiffened. "I had to try—"

Lou's head snapped up, his eyes blazing. "I *never* want to see you on your knees for anyone. Not even for me."

The raw intensity in his voice stole her breath.

Syra reached for him, her fingers tangling in his hair. "Then stand with me," she whispered. "Always."

Lou exhaled sharply, his forehead dropping to rest against hers. For a long moment, they stayed like that—breathing each other in, anchored in the quiet.

Then, because she couldn't help herself, Syra added, in a childlike voice "Besides, I think your grandmother might've actually liked me for a second there."

Lou groaned, but the sound was half-laugh, half-relief. "You're impossible." He gently kiss her forehead.

---

Lou Yan watched Syra sleep, her face pressed against his shoulder, her breathing slow and even. The faintest snore escaped her parted lips—a sound so endearing it made his chest ache.

He had work to do—emails to answer, a company to salvage, a grandmother to appease. But Syra's fingers were tangled in his shirt, her grip stubborn even in sleep, and Lou found he couldn't bring himself to pull away.

The food cart from Yu Zhi Lan—the three-Michelin-starred restaurant he'd quietly called while tending to her knees—sat half-empty on the coffee table. He'd fed her like a child, ignoring her protests, his fingers lingering near her mouth every time she took a bite.

The memory of her kneeling in the ancestral hall flashed behind his eyes—the way her body had trembled, the way she'd bitten her lip bloody to keep from crying out. For him.

His fingers tightened around her waist. She shouldn't have done that.

The thought was a blade between his ribs. He was Lou Yan—heir to an empire, master of his own fate. He was supposed to protect her, not the other way around. And yet here they were, with Syra bruised and exhausted because of his family, his failures.

A soft whimper escaped her as she shifted in her sleep. Lou stilled, his hand smoothing down her back in slow, soothing circles until she settled again.

This was his fault.

All of it.

If he'd been stronger, smarter, *better*—if he'd found a way to reconcile his love for Syra with his duty to his family—she wouldn't be hurting right now.

His phone buzzed on the table. Ming. Again.

Lou ignored it.

Instead, he focused on the weight of Syra against him, the warmth of her skin seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt. She smelled like paint and jasmine and the medicinal salve he'd rubbed into her knees—a scent that had somehow become *home*.

He pressed his lips to her forehead, lingering longer than necessary.

Outside, the first drops of snow began to quietly fall against the studio windows. Somewhere in the city, his grandmother was plotting. His board was scheming. His empire was crumbling.

But here, in this moment, none of that mattered.

Here, there was only Syra—her steady heartbeat against his, her quiet trust in the curve of her body against his side.

Lou closed his eyes and exhaled.