Chapter 19: Unearthing Ghosts and Shifting Loyalties

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The photograph wouldn't leave him. It lingered in Yuhan's mind like a stain, something he couldn't scrub away no matter how much logic he applied.

His father—laughing, relaxed—standing next to Chief Adekunle.

It didn't make sense.

Not the man Yuhan knew.

The man who taught him integrity. Who once said, "Power without conscience corrodes everything."

And yet… there he was, in that sepia-toned memory, arm-in-arm with the very man who had orchestrated his attempted murder.

Yuhan stood alone in his study, the photo printed and spread across the desk like a relic. His hand hovered over it but didn't touch. Something about the moment felt sacred—like if he touched it, it would confirm the betrayal.

The creaking of the floor beneath his pacing feet felt louder than usual, like the house itself was questioning him.

He took a breath. Then another.

Emotion clouded judgment. He knew that. If he gave in to anger or fear now, he'd be no better than Mochen. Or Meili. Or any of the others who acted first and thought later.

He needed facts.

So he did what he always did: built a plan.

He dispatched a silent team—men and women he trusted with his life. Their task was clear: dig into every corner of his father's past during the time the photo could've been taken. Business ventures. Divestments. Partners. Receipts. And most importantly—anything that linked Chief Li to Adekunle.

No contact with the family. Not yet.

Until he knew the truth, he couldn't afford to confront his father. Not with just a photograph and a gut feeling.

But the unease lingered. The idea that someone had been close enough to know—close enough to send that message—was like a rock lodged beneath his skin.

Meanwhile, across the city, Shen Mochen moved with purpose.

The press conference still echoed in his mind—Yuhan's calculated words, the deliberate ambiguity. Mochen hated ambiguity unless he was the one controlling it. And right now, Yuhan was several steps ahead.

He needed to close the gap.

So, Mochen did what he always did: crafted the illusion of coincidence.

A few days later, a charity auction appeared on every society page in Biogbolo. The cause? Local education reform. The guest list? Carefully curated. The sponsor? Shen Mochen.

But the hook… the hook was Yuhan's mother, a longtime advocate for the very schools Mochen was "supporting."

It was bait, and they both knew it.

Yuhan arrived late, dressed in charcoal gray, his expression unreadable. As he moved through the glittering crowd, he felt the familiar hum of staged goodwill, the smell of expensive perfume and polished intentions.

And then—like clockwork—Mochen appeared.

He didn't rush. He didn't greet Yuhan with warmth. Just a soft, measured smile and a voice like velvet lined with razors.

"Yuhan," he said. "I'm glad you came. This cause—your mother's passion, if I remember correctly?"

Yuhan didn't flinch. "Your memory's getting sharper. Just like your need for an audience."

Mochen chuckled, unbothered. "Publicity isn't the goal. Restoration is. Bridges, once burned, can be rebuilt. Stronger. Fire has a way of purifying things."

He stepped closer, his voice dipping. "Some foundations are built on deeper things than appearances. Even the hidden ones."

That last word—hidden—landed like a blow.

Yuhan's mind went still for a moment. Was Mochen probing? Did he know about the photo? The message? Or was he bluffing—trying to rattle him with a carefully planted word?

Before Yuhan could respond, another voice interrupted.

"Shen Mochen. Yuhan. What a rare sight."

Yuhan turned. And the world tilted slightly.

Chief Adekunle.

The man moved with practiced ease, draped in elegant agbada, exuding quiet dominance. His smile was polite, almost warm. But his eyes—sharp, unreadable—landed on Yuhan like a weight.

"Yuhan," Adekunle said, extending a hand. "You've grown well. I remember you as a boy—always running into your father's meetings and asking impossible questions."

Yuhan's grip was steady. His smile was thin.

"Some questions still don't have answers, Chief," he replied. "But I keep asking."

Adekunle let out a low laugh, unbothered. "Good. Curiosity is a sign of strength. And strength, well… strength runs in your family."

It wasn't what he said—it was how he said it.

Family.

Strength.

Runs in your family.

It was confirmation without confession.

Beside them, Mochen watched carefully, as if savoring the moment. If this was chess, then he had just forced Yuhan to meet his shadow over dinner.

"You know," Mochen added smoothly, "Chief Adekunle was essential in organizing this entire event. His influence is… reassuring."

Yuhan's response was flat. "I've never been reassured by power. It's too often a mask."

Adekunle smiled wider. "Power, Yuhan, is only a mask when the face behind it is afraid."

It was a threat wrapped in philosophy. Elegant. Chilling. And intentional.

Yuhan excused himself soon after, unable to breathe in the tension. As he walked away, he felt both men watching him—not enemies, not yet, but predators circling in tandem. One wore obsession like cologne. The other wore history like armor.

Back in his car, Yuhan didn't speak. He didn't move. He simply sat in the quiet, replaying every word, every glance, every subtle twist of tone.

The photo, the text, the event—it was all connected. They were testing him. Not just as a man or a rival. But as a son.

The stakes had shifted. This wasn't just about revenge anymore.

It was about history. Bloodlines. Legacy.

And if Yuhan wanted to protect the future, he'd have to dig through the graves of the past—even if what he found broke the very idea of who he thought he was.