Chapter 40: The Quiet Before the Reckoning

Summary: A fever sets the world in motion. Beneath hospital lights and whispered promises, truths come to light—not with explosions, but with steady, deliberate force. What begins as care becomes clarity, and what follows isn't just protection. It's a declaration. Quiet. Absolute. And no longer made alone.

Chapter Forty

It started with a thump.

A tiny one.

Then a second—closer this time—followed by the unmistakable bounce of small, eager paws and the light chirp of determination. Xiao Cong, eyes bright and tail flicking, launched himself straight onto the bed like a missile made of pure determination and fluff. His tiny body collided directly with Lu Sicheng's ribs, earning him a low, disgruntled grunt from the man who had, moments ago, been asleep.

Sicheng didn't even get the chance to roll over before Da Bing's much heavier weight shifted onto the mattress behind him. A paw—definitely not gentle—tugged insistently on the back of his hoodie, followed by a low, rumbling huff that clearly translated to: Get up. Now.

He cracked one eye open, scowling at the ceiling. "Are you both serious right now?"

Xiao Cong meowed urgently directly into his face.

Da Bing didn't let go of the hoodie as he growled.

Sicheng groaned, dragging his hand down his face, ready to toss both furballs off the bed—until Yao stirred beside him, the soft sound of her whimper slicing through the morning quiet like a blade. Her body shifted slightly, face scrunching, one hand pressing against her stomach as a breathless, pained whine slipped from her parted lips.

That was all it took.

Sicheng was upright in an instant, his scowl gone, replaced by full, razor-sharp focus as he looked down at her. Her cheeks were flushed an alarming shade of red, the skin just beneath her eyes tinged too dark, too heavy, and her brow was creased in a way that had nothing to do with restless dreams. He pressed his palm to her forehead. And cursed, his voice low, tight, immediate. "Shit."

She was burning.

Not warm. Burning.

Moving quickly, he slipped from the bed, brushing Xiao Cong gently aside as he grabbed the thermometer from her nightstand drawer, flicked it on, and slipped it beneath her arm without waking her too much.

The digital beep came too soon.

39.9°C.

His stomach dropped.

"Fucking hell," he hissed under his breath, yanking his hoodie down as he moved toward the door, not bothering to tie his hair back or even put on socks. Halfway through the hallway, he hit the group comms with a sharp voice command. Lao K, get upstairs. Now. Go to Yao's apartment. I need someone with her while I get dressed."

There was a moment of silence, then the static-pitched reply came fast and tight.

Lao K: "On my way."

Sicheng was already tearing down the stairs, pausing only to shove his feet into the first pair of sneakers he saw, then turning right back to head to his own room. "And K— " he snapped into the comm, breathless as he moved. " Get her into the thick socks in the second drawer of her dresser. The soft Lu hoodie is on her couch—get it on her. Don't let her get up. Keep Da Bing close to her, he'll keep her grounded. I'm taking her to the hospital as soon as I'm dressed. Don't argue. Just do it."

"Copy." came Lao K's voice, already moving.

Back upstairs, Da Bing remained on the bed, curling close to his girl, his giant form anchoring her gently, his ears twitching with every sound she made. And on the windowsill, Xiao Cong sat—watching, alert, and still. Because both of them knew. Their human was hurting. And their… her protector? Was already moving to fix it.

Lu Sicheng didn't waste a second. Wallet in his back pocket, phone gripped tight in one hand, and car keys in the other, he moved with the kind of precision that left no room for interruption. His hoodie was zipped, shoes on, hair tied back in a quick, low knot. Every motion was fluid, practiced, not the careful elegance of his usual controlled calm, but the sharp, focused efficiency of someone who had already calculated every step between her bedroom and the hospital doors.

Reaching the top of the stairs, he found Lao K waiting just outside her room, having done exactly what was ordered. Yao was now bundled in the oversized hoodie from the couch, the hem falling over her thighs like a blanket, the sleeves swallowing her hands. The soft lavender socks covered her feet, and Da Bing remained curled tightly against her, refusing to move from his post, his broad white body flush against her side.

Sicheng crossed the room in two strides. "Lao K," he said, voice low and clipped, "watch the brats."

Lao K gave one firm nod, stepping back to make room as Sicheng crouched.

She stirred slightly as he slipped one arm behind her shoulders, the other beneath her knees, lifting her with practiced ease into a full bridal carry. She didn't protest—barely even opened her eyes—but her fingers curled weakly into his hoodie, her head tipping against his shoulder as a low, pained breath left her lips.

Da Bing growled softly—worried—but did not follow.

"Keep them in here," Sicheng added, already turning. "Da Bing won't leave unless you give him a reason. Xiao Cong's not allowed out."

"Understood."

Sicheng didn't break stride. He carried her through the hallway, her fever-heavy form cradled close, his grip solid and unwavering. Her weight wasn't even a factor. His entire focus was the pulse of heat radiating off her skin, the tremble in her limbs, the faint tension in her jaw as another wave of discomfort passed through her.

The living room came into view and so did the others. They had gathered in loose formation: Pang still in kitchen slippers, Yue clutching his phone, Lao Mao and Ming halfway through a whispered argument about who had heard what and when. But the second Sicheng emerged with Yao in his arms, everything fell silent.

No one dared to speak.

No one even moved.

He didn't pause. Didn't look at them. Didn't explain. He just walked straight through, the sound of his shoes against the floor the only echo that remained behind him as he reached the front door, unlocked it, and stepped into the cool morning air. The door shut firmly behind him. And without a word, without hesitation, Lu Sicheng headed straight for his car. Because his girl was sick. And nothing else mattered.

The drive had been fast—faster than usual—but not reckless. Sicheng's hands never once left the steering wheel, though his eyes never strayed from the rearview mirror either, always flicking up between turns to check on the girl curled against the seat, her head propped with his jacket, her breathing shallow and uneven. The soft, occasional whimper from her throat made something coil tight and cold inside him, but he said nothing—just pressed harder on the gas and willed every traffic light to stay green.

By the time they reached the hospital, she was barely coherent. He parked in the emergency drop-off zone, stormed through the doors carrying her in his arms, still dressed in her socks and his hoodie, her cheeks flushed with the unmistakable heat of a fever that had gone too long unchecked. The admitting nurse took one look and called for assistance, her voice sharp with urgency.

The next few minutes blurred into clinical lighting and the rustle of forms and the soft beep of machines. They took her from his arms. He hated it. But he allowed it—because this was beyond what he could do. She needed more than blankets and tea. She needed help.

Sicheng sat in the waiting chair outside the treatment room, elbows braced against his knees, fists clenched tight, his phone buzzing intermittently with messages from the others. He didn't respond. He couldn't not until he had answers. It was twenty-three minutes later when the attending physician came out, clipboard in hand, eyes already focused on the man who had been glaring holes into the floor like he could burn through the concrete if it meant getting back to her faster.

"Lu Sicheng?"

He stood immediately. "How is she?"

"She's stable," the doctor said quickly, voice level but not gentle. "But she's very sick."

The words hit harder than he expected.

"She has severe strep throat," the doctor continued. "It's progressed—badly. There's inflammation in her upper respiratory tract and her tonsils are nearly swollen shut. We're catching it right as it's on the cusp of developing into bronchitis."

Sicheng's jaw tightened.

"She's also extremely dehydrated," the doctor added. "That's likely what pushed the fever up so aggressively. Her immune system's been under stress—based on the timeline, it sounds like she was already getting sick before her period started. That combined with the hormonal shifts, loss of appetite, and poor hydration created a perfect storm."

"Is she on fluids?" Sicheng ran a hand down his face, every muscle in his body coiled.

"We've started an IV," the doctor confirmed. "She's also getting antipyretics and antibiotics. We'll monitor her for the next few hours, but if she remains stable, we'll discharge her with medication and a care plan. She's not contagious anymore, but she's going to be exhausted and in pain for a few days."

"Can I see her?"

The doctor gave a short nod. "She's asking for you."

That was all he needed to hear. He was already moving. Already slipping through the doors toward her room. Because no matter what the chart said, no matter how sick she was. She was still his and he would be right there until she was better.

She had looked so small in the hospital bed.

Too small.

The oversized hoodie swallowed her frame, IV taped to the back of her hand, platinum strands clinging to her damp forehead, her hazel eyes glassy with fever and confusion. Her lips were dry, cracked, and every time she swallowed, she winced from the pain it caused. The redness in her throat, the rasp of her breathing, the sluggish way she blinked up at him—it all clawed at something primal in him. She tried to speak.

He silenced her gently, brushing her hair away from her temple and leaning in close until her gaze met his. "Don't talk. Just listen." he whispered, thumb brushing her cheek with impossible gentleness. Her fingers, weak but determined, curled into the front of his hoodie like she was scared he'd disappear. "I'm not going anywhere, Xiǎo xiānnǚ." His voice stayed low and even, unshakable. "Not now. Not ever. You're stuck with me."

A soft noise escaped her throat. Somewhere between a half-choked laugh and a muffled whimper, and he kissed her hair before gently untangling his phone from the pocket of his jeans. Sliding down into the seat beside her, still holding her hand, he opened the team stream and typed quickly, his thumb gliding with purpose across the screen.

ZGDX_Chessman: Update: Yao has a bad case of strep. It's already pushing toward bronchitis. She was severely dehydrated too. They've got her on fluids, fever reducers, and antibiotics now. No discharge yet. They want to monitor her for a few hours to make sure her vitals stay stable.

Read receipts pinged one after the other.

ZGDX_K: Understood. Anything you need us to bring?

ZGDX_Ming: Tell her we'll keep everything running.

ZGDX_Pang: I'll prep light food for when she's home. High fluid, easy on the throat. She's gonna need protein.

ZGDX_Mao: I'll stock up on electrolytes. Also, Yue's not allowed to talk. Like at all. We voted.

ZGDX_Lv: I voted against that. Also tell her I miss her bunny face. And that she better rest or Da Bing's gonna eat my other slipper and Xiao Cong is straight up glaring at us if we dare to poke our heads into the apartment. Only K is allowed up there.

ZGDX_Rui: I'll speak with the doctor personally once you're ready. We'll clear her schedule for the next week minimum. No debate.

ZGX_Kwon: Understood. Let us know if she needs anything brought to the hospital.

Sicheng stared at the screen for a moment, then typed one last message.

ZGDX_Chessman: Tempted to keep her tiny bunny ass in this hospital until she's 100%. We're not doing this again. I'll update when they finalize the care plan.

He set the phone down and leaned back into the chair, eyes never leaving her face as she dozed fitfully. His hand returned to hers, fingers threading together gently. No one would be taking her from this bed until he was sure she was safe.

The quiet hum of machines filled the small hospital room, rhythmic and steady like the breath Sicheng kept counting as he watched her sleep. Yao lay curled beneath the thin hospital blanket, her fingers still loosely tangled with his, IV running a slow drip beside her, face flushed with lingering fever but no longer burning the way it had been earlier. Her breathing had evened out just enough that he allowed himself to sit back, just for a moment.

That moment didn't last.

The soft click of heels outside the door—measured, deliberate, and entirely unmistakable—sent his head turning before the handle even moved.

The door opened gently.

And in stepped Lu Wang Lan. Clad in a tailored coat the color of slate and a silk scarf draped effortlessly at her throat, her expression was unreadable as she glanced toward the hospital bed, then immediately at her son. Her voice, when she spoke, was low and smooth but laced with something hard to define. "Yue called me," she said, stepping quietly inside, her eyes never straying far from the girl in the bed. "He didn't know which hospital." She stopped at the end of the bed, hands folded in front of her as she looked down at the frail, sleeping form of the girl she'd once evaluated with clinical scrutiny—and had, over time, come to regard with something bordering pride. "So I had your phone tracked."

Sicheng didn't even flinch. He just leaned back slightly, one arm draped over the back of the chair, his gaze steady on his mother. "Of course you did."

Lan's mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "Do you really think I was going to sit and wait to be updated through the group chat like some casual observer?"

"She's stable," he said quietly. "High fever, severe strep, bordering on bronchitis. Dehydrated. They caught it in time."

Lan's eyes lingered on the girl in the bed, taking in the way Yao's hand clung to her son's even in sleep. The hoodie she wore was clearly his. The faint edge of platinum hair stuck to her forehead in damp curls. She looked exhausted, fragile in a way that made something sharpen in the older woman's gaze. "And you didn't tell me?" Lan asked after a beat.

"I had my hands full keeping her upright and breathing."

She nodded once, slowly. "Then you made the right choice."

Silence settled between them. But it wasn't cold.It was the pause of two people who both understood what it meant to hold something fragile and not let it break.

After a moment, Lan reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair from Yao's cheek, her fingers deft and maternal without needing to be asked. "She looks terrible," she said quietly. 

"She looks better than she did three hours ago."

Another pause.

Then Lan turned her sharp gaze back to him. "She's never been in a hospital, has she?"

Sicheng shook his head. "Personally? Not since she was a child, from what she has told me."

Lan hummed low in her throat. "Well," she said, stepping back and folding her arms. "Good thing she has you." And she didn't need to say what that meant. Because she was already here. Because she had tracked Sicheng's phone. Because she'd walked in without asking permission, not as a Lu, not as a CEO but as someone who had decided that girl in the bed belonged. To all of them and most of all, to him. Lan's eyes lingered on Yao a moment longer before she stepped around to face him fully, lowering her voice, her expression shifting—something colder creeping in now, sharper. A dark smirk ghosted across her lips as she tilted her head, her gaze narrowing ever so slightly. "I've already begun my work on her aunt and uncle," she said softly. "They're hemorrhaging finances—slowly, methodically. No one will touch their name in a few weeks' time. And their daughter?" Her voice dipped lower, satisfied. "That 25-year-old brat has already been booted out of university. They couldn't afford the tuition anymore, not after I made a few calls to the right people."

That's when Sicheng's eyes turned toward her, slow and narrow, his grip tightening subtly on Yao's hand. He stared at his mother for a moment, piecing together what she wasn't saying—what he already knew. "Her cousin," he said flatly, tone no longer fatigued but sharpened to a knife's edge. "She was in on it."

It wasn't a question.

Lan arched a brow. "Your man confirmed it, didn't he?"

Sicheng's jaw tensed, his voice a low growl now, restrained only because Yao was sleeping beside him. "He did more than confirm it. He traced the money. Found the deleted texts. Every link between her and her parents. They orchestrated everything. And they were going to let it happen."

He didn't say what it was.

Lan already knew.

They both did.

"She sat back," he continued, each word growing heavier, more lethal, "and helped plan what would've left Yao broken—if my guy hadn't been there. If he hadn't stopped that bastard and cleaned it up before I even arrived—" He broke off, breathing sharp through his nose. "She knew," he muttered. "She's twenty-five, a legal adult. She helped set up an attack meant to ruin her younger 20 year old cousin's life. To destroy her. She doesn't get to play dumb or innocent."

Lan's expression lost all trace of smirk. "She's not going to," she said coolly. "I already have people working through every crevice of her life. She's not just expelled—she's blacklisted. The academic record flagged. Prospective internships withdrawn. Her name is being quietly erased from every future that mattered to her."

Sicheng finally looked away from his mother, down at Yao, who stirred slightly in her fevered sleep, brow twitching as if reacting to the tension in the room. His voice dropped. "I want her name gone, and I want her remembered for exactly what she is."

"And she will be," Lan answered, no hesitation in her tone. "But only by the people who matter. The rest of the world will simply forget her. Your girl, however?" Lan looked back at Yao, something far more dangerous and possessive glinting in her eyes now. "She will be known. She will be protected. Because she carries the Lu name whether it's written in ink yet or not. And no one—no one who touched her past—will survive what we're building around her."

Sicheng said nothing. But his grip on Yao's hand didn't loosen. Because his mother wasn't threatening. She was promising.

The door eased open with a soft click, barely audible over the steady rhythm of the machines, and the moment Lu Sicheng glanced up from Yao's side, he already knew who it was before her voice could confirm it.

Chen Jinyang entered without a word at first, the heels of her boots muted by the tile, her sharp eyes scanning the room before settling briefly on the woman standing calmly at the foot of the bed. Her gaze landed on Lady Lu—elegant and ice-bound in her tailored coat—and after a beat, Jinyang offered her a small, respectful bow of her head, just enough to acknowledge who she was without apology or deference. Not fear, not submission—simply awareness.

Lan gave a slight nod in return, saying nothing, stepping subtly to the side without ever truly ceding presence.

Jinyang's attention shifted to the man seated beside the bed, fingers still loosely entwined with Yao's. Her eyes softened as they moved to the girl lying motionless beneath the hospital blanket, and it was only then that she finally spoke. "They called me," she said quietly, her voice tight with worry but carefully composed, "the hospital. I'm still listed as her emergency contact."

Sicheng didn't flinch at that—he just nodded once, not surprised in the least. Of course she was. Before him, before ZGDX, before everything else, Jinyang had been Yao's family when no one else was. That hadn't changed. "She's stable now," he said, his voice low and measured. "Fever's started to break. They've got her on fluids and a stronger antibiotic. It's strep. Severe. They said it was starting to move toward bronchitis. She was already dehydrated when we got here."

Jinyang moved closer, her arms wrapping around herself as she stood at the other side of the bed. Her dark eyes didn't leave Yao's face. "She must've been pushing through the symptoms," she murmured. "She always does. Always thinks there's time to rest later."

Sicheng's gaze flicked up to meet hers. "There isn't later if she collapses from it."

Jinyang nodded slowly, guilt clouding her features even though she had no reason for it. Her hand reached out, fingertips brushing gently against the edge of the blanket near Yao's shoulder, her touch careful, reverent. "She looks so small like this," she whispered.

Lan, quiet until now, spoke again from the corner of the room, her tone smooth and composed. "She may look small. But she's far from weak."

Jinyang didn't turn to face her. She didn't need to. "I know," she replied softly. "She's the strongest person I've ever met."

And somehow, in that moment, with the daughter of the Chens on one side, and the matriarch of the Lus on the other, neither woman said it aloud—but both understood: The girl in that bed? She wasn't alone. Not anymore. She belonged to all of them now.

Jinyang's hand rested lightly near Yao's arm, her fingers trembling just slightly before she pulled them back. Her jaw worked once, like she was trying to swallow something that didn't want to go down, her breath shallow. Then, without turning, she looked up—locking eyes with Lu Sicheng with a gaze far more dangerous than it was emotional. "I'm going to ask this once," she said, her voice flat, quiet, and shaking not with fear but with restrained fury. "What the hell is going on with Yao's aunt, uncle, and that cousin of hers?"

Sicheng didn't speak.

Didn't blink.

Didn't flinch.

"I know something's going on," Jinyang continued, stepping fully between him and the door, her posture firm, eyes sharp with knowledge that had been building for days. "I've known her too long, too closely, to miss the signs. She's been avoiding certain topics, deflecting questions, and she only ever said one thing about the break-in." She took a step closer to the bed. "That someone protected her." Her voice cracked there, but she swallowed hard and pushed through it, lifting her gaze back to him. "That's all she said. Not what happened. Not how close it got. Just that she was safe."

Sicheng's jaw tightened, the muscle ticking once.

"And then," Jinyang said, voice going lower now, colder, more precise, "her cousin messaged me. Out of nowhere. Asking if Yao was okay after 'the attack.'" She paused, her tone hard. "Attack. That's the word she used."

That got a flicker from Sicheng.

"She hinted at something worse," Jinyang snapped. "Said she hoped Yao was 'emotionally recovering.' Said she'd heard rumors. Rumors that she might've been... violated." She spat the word like poison.

Sicheng exhaled through his nose slowly, his grip unconsciously tightening around Yao's smaller hand.

"I told her I didn't know anything," Jinyang said, her voice cracking now beneath the force she was trying to hold. "Said I'd been abroad. That I hadn't been in China. I didn't give anything away. But now you are going to tell me—right now—what the hell actually happened. And why her cousin is fishing for a reaction."

Sicheng said nothing for a beat. Then his voice came low. Sharp. Controlled. "You were right not to respond to her."

"So I am right," Jinyang said, eyes narrowing. "Something did happen."

"No," Sicheng said, his voice firm now, the full weight of it grounding the moment. "Something almost happened. But it didn't. Because my guy was already watching the building."

She blinked.

He continued, his voice quiet and deadly even. "He stopped the man before he ever touched her. Took care of it. Then called me."

Jinyang took a step back, hand over her mouth. "She never knew?" she whispered.

"She still doesn't," he said. "She only knew someone was there. That she was protected. She never saw him. Never saw the threat."

Lan's voice, smooth and composed, entered the silence like a scalpel. "And she won't. Not from anyone else at least for now, Chen Jinyang."

Jinyang turned sharply to face her.

"I told my mother what happened," Sicheng said, glancing once toward Lan. "After I confirmed the details."

"And the cousin?"

Lan's gaze turned glacial. "Fully involved. Fund transfers. Coordinated timeline. Knew the man. Knew what he was supposed to do."

Jinyang's voice dropped into something quiet and shaking. "And Yao doesn't know. She's just been—living. With that knowledge buried under her feet."

"She doesn't need that right now," Sicheng said tightly. "Not while she's still sick. Not until she's strong enough to hear it."

Jinyang's arms wrapped around herself as she looked down at her best friend. "She's going to hate that we didn't tell her," she whispered.

"She might," Sicheng murmured, never looking away from the girl in the bed. "But she's still alive because we made those decisions for her."

"And when she's ready?" Jinyang asked.

His gaze was hard. Sure. "I'll be the one to tell her." And when he did, he would carry every ounce of it with her.

Jinyang's grimace deepened as her eyes swept over the sleeping form of her best friend, her hand hovering over Yao's arm again before pulling back. Her voice, when it came, was hushed—not because she feared waking her, but because the weight of what she was saying pressed down on her chest like something she hadn't quite let herself examine until now. "I've never met them," she said quietly, her eyes not leaving Yao. "Not the aunt. Not the uncle. Not even the cousin."

Sicheng's brows twitched slightly at that, but he didn't interrupt.

"I always thought that was weird," Jinyang went on, her tone growing brittle, her lips curling with something too close to disgust. "For people who claimed to care so much, they never once showed up. Not during competitions, not birthdays, not the awards ceremonies, not even when she moved. Not a visit. Not a video call. Not even a photo of her cousin." She gave a hollow laugh, soft and cold. "But the couple of times she talked to them on the phone?" Jinyang shook her head slowly. "Left a bitter taste every time. They weren't warm. They weren't kind. It was always about control. Manipulation dressed as concern."

Lan didn't speak, though her eyes sharpened with each word.

"They kept trying to convince her to give it all up," Jinyang continued, her tone darkening. "Said China wasn't safe. That esports wasn't a real path. That she was too young to know what she wanted, and that the future she was building here didn't matter. Her aunt—especially her aunt—used to go on about how they'd support her if she just came home." She paused, eyes flickering to Sicheng now, grim. "Promised her everything. Said they'd rent her a private apartment, give her a car, set her up at any university she wanted in the States. Said she wouldn't have to worry about anything. As long as she came back." She looked down at Yao, her voice softening just slightly, filled with quiet awe and fury all at once. "But she never did."

Sicheng didn't speak, but his thumb brushed over Yao's knuckles again, slow and steady.

"Even when she was alone," Jinyang whispered, eyes glassing over with something fierce, "even when she had no one but me and Da Bing, she still chose to stay. She refused to take the easy way. Refused to give them that control." Her eyes lifted to Lan now. "To think they had the nerve to pretend it was about love while planning something like that behind the scenes?"

Lan's gaze was cold steel. "It was never about love," the Lu matriarch replied softly, but with unmistakable finality. "It was about ownership. And they failed."

Jinyang looked back down at Yao, brushing a bit of platinum hair from her cheek with careful fingers. "They didn't just fail," she murmured. "They lost her."

And this time, they wouldn't get her back. Because now? She had people who would burn the world before they let her fall again.

The silence that followed Jinyang's last words was weighty, the kind that settled deep into the bones, threading between the sterile hum of hospital machines and the muffled footsteps outside the door. 

Lan had remained still, her hands folded neatly in front of her, her posture regal and composed as always, but her gaze had shifted—no longer appraising, no longer shielded behind the cold formality she wielded like a second skin. Instead, she looked at Yao with a gaze steeped in memory. And something far older. Something personal. "I never told you," she said quietly, her voice smooth but laced with something that almost sounded like grief. "But Yao's mother was my best friend."

Jinyang's eyes shot up, shock flickering instantly across her features.

Sicheng's gaze remained steady on his mother, but the faint shift in his shoulders told her this wasn't news to him.

Lan continued, her voice calm and unwavering as she stepped closer to the bed. "We met when we were both still girls—before marriage, before responsibility, before the world started carving at us. We were inseparable. Fierce, loyal, dangerous together when we wanted to be. And when she married, when she left… she didn't forget me." Her gaze lowered to the pale girl resting in the bed. "Not for a moment."

Jinyang stared, her throat working around the words she couldn't quite find yet.

"When Yao was born," Lan continued, her voice dipping softer, "her mother contacted me. Told me she had everything she ever wanted. A child she adored. A little girl she knew would grow to be sharp, and wild, and terrifying in all the best ways. She was making plans to move back to Shanghai and then possibly back to Shenzhen as she wanted her child and my children to be friends like we were."

Lan's voice caught for the briefest second before she recovered, her expression sharpening again with a bitter clarity. "But after they died, after the accident… I tried to reach her. I did everything. Every channel. Every lawyer. Every friend in New York I could call. But her aunt and uncle had already moved in—already seized everything." She inhaled slowly, steadying herself. "They intercepted every attempt I made. Told the estate lawyers they would handle everything. That she didn't need reminders of 'old friends.' And since I wasn't named in the will—not directly—I couldn't force anything."

"But the trust." Sicheng said, his voice low, grounding the story with the cold truth that had led to all of it.

Lan nodded. "Her mother left a trust in my care. A very old, very discreet arrangement we set up when we were barely older than the two of you."

Jinyang's brows furrowed. "You were the trustee?"

"Yes," Lan confirmed. "It was always intended to be released to Yao upon her independence. Not her age—her independence. Her mother didn't trust bloodlines. She trusted judgment. She knew her family. She didn't want them in control." She glanced at Jinyang now, her expression darkening. "And when Yao refused to return to the States… when they realized I was still alive and still watching... they shifted tactics."

"You think that's why they planned—" Jinyang stopped herself, eyes wide, mouth slightly open.

"I know it is," Lan said. "If they had succeeded in what they planned—if they had damaged her emotionally, mentally, physically—they could have petitioned for guardianship on grounds of incapacity. Claimed she couldn't care for herself. And if they had that legal foothold?" Her voice turned razor sharp. "They could have gone to court to gain control of the trust as her 'appointed guardians.' I would've been forced to sign it over to them and not to Yao."

Jinyang looked utterly stricken. "They wanted to destroy her just to get at the money."

"No," Lan corrected, her tone crisp. "They wanted to own her. The trust was just the tool. If they had the money, she would've had no choices. No autonomy. No way to escape."

Jinyang swallowed hard. "How much is in the trust?"

Lan turned her eyes on her—cool, calm, lethal. "Enough," she said softly, "that Yao never has to work a day in her life if she doesn't want to. And neither will her children. Or theirs."

Jinyang blinked, stunned.

"And considering," Lan went on with a trace of dry satisfaction, "she's already asked Cheng to help her set up her first personal investments… well. Your best friend is set for life. On her own money. Not ours. Not ZGDX's. Not mine. Not Sicheng's." She paused, her eyes glinting. "Hers."

Jinyang let out a slow breath, glancing back at the sleeping girl in the bed, pale and small, but never weak. Her chest rose and fell steadily now, the worst of the fever retreating under treatment and care. And as she lay there, wrapped in a hoodie too big for her, IV in her arm, the weight of an empire she didn't even realize she controlled waiting just beyond her reach, Jinyang felt something twist hard and furious in her chest.

Jinyang's eyes, already burning from the storm of emotions roaring beneath her skin, narrowed into a deadly, crystalline sharpness. Her jaw clenched, the muscles ticking as her hand slid into the pocket of her coat, retrieving her phone with the kind of calm that always preceded a storm. She didn't ask for permission. Didn't even glance at Sicheng or Madam Lu.

She turned her back to the room, gaze locked briefly on Yao's pale, sleeping face, as her thumb moved across the screen. A single contact. No hesitation. Chen Kazemi. Her older brother. Head of the Chen family. And the one man whose protective streak rivaled even hers.

The call connected on the second ring.

"Jinyang." His voice, deep and clipped, came through the line, all steel and command and that familiar edge of distant warmth reserved only for his youngest sister.

She didn't waste a breath. "Gēgē." her voice clipped and ice-cold, "I need your eyes and ears right now. No interruptions."

A pause.

"Talk."

Jinyang's chest rose and fell once. Then her tone darkened. "Do you remember what you used to say about Yao? Me, Ai Jia, and her?"

Kazemi's voice was quiet but immediate. "She was the only one of you with her head on straight and I am actually fond of her introverted shy personality as she knows how to be quiet without being a chatterbox like your two."

"Then you should know that a few months ago, her aunt and uncle orchestrated a break-in at her studio," she said, each word more vicious than the last. "Not for robbery. For damage . Her cousin was in on it. The plan was to have her declared mentally and emotionally unfit, seize control of the trust her mother left her, and destroy her independence."

Another pause.

Longer this time.

Then Kazemi's voice dropped into something sharp and cold. 

"What."

"They failed," Jinyang said, her eyes flickering to Sicheng briefly. "Lu Sicheng had a man watching her. He stopped it before anything happened. Permanently. Clean. Quiet. Yao never knew the truth."

"Does she know now?"

"She doesn't. Not yet," Jinyang said, voice quieter now. "She only knew someone was there. That someone protected her. She's been carrying on, building her life… and I just found out the rest of the story today ."

Then Kazemi's voice, low and lethal. "And what is Madam Lu doing?"

Jinyang exhaled. "She's already begun dismantling the aunt, uncle, and the cousin. Quietly. Efficiently. She's moving through their finances, their credibility. But I want more."

"You want our hands in this."

"I want our name on it, " she snapped. "Not publicly. But behind the scenes? I want them to feel pressure they can't trace. I want them to wake up at night and not know where the next crack in their life is going to come from."

Kazemi's reply came without hesitation. "Done."

"You're not going to ask why?"

"I don't need to." he said. "You called me. That's enough." His voice dropped into a tone that made even Jinyang shiver. "No one lays a hand on that girl." he said. "They even tried? They forfeit everything. I'll begin pulling threads tonight."

"Gēgē." Jinyang said quietly, for the first time letting the steel soften in her voice, "Thank you."

"No," Kazemi growled darkly, "thank Sicheng for me. For keeping her safe. And then tell him this is now a Chen affair too."

He hung up.

Jinyang lowered the phone, turned back to the room with a dark gleam in her eyes, and met Sicheng's steady stare. "Our family is in," she said flatly.

Lan finally allowed herself the faintest, razor-edged smile. "Good," she said, her gaze falling once more on the girl in the bed. "Let them choke in the dark."