Ruofei's POV:
Four hours later
Consciousness returns slowly, dragging me up from the deepest sleep I've had in years.
The first thing I register is pain. Not the sharp, immediate pain of a bullet wound—I know that sensation intimately—but a deep, pervasive ache that seems to radiate from everywhere at once.
My muscles protest even the small movement of breathing, and there's a particular soreness in my lower back and hips that makes me wonder what the hell happened.
The second thing I register is that I have no idea where I am.
My eyes open to unfamiliar ceiling. Not my bedroom in the mansion. Not any of my safe houses.
The décor is expensive—high-end hotel, if I had to guess—but that doesn't explain how I got here.
I try to sit up and immediately regret it.
My body screams in protest, muscles trembling with the effort, and I barely manage to prop myself up on my elbows before collapsing back against the pillows.
"What the fuck happened last night?"
The question comes out as a rough whisper.
I search my memory, trying to piece together the evening. There was the traitor in the basement—I remember that clearly. Walking to the garden. Getting shot. Mark treating the wound and mentioning the drug...
And then?
Everything gets hazy.
Fragments of sensation without context—heat, touch, pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.
And Qingyue.
I remember kissing Qingyue, his hands on my waist, his voice calling me princess...
Don't tell me...
My face burns at the implication. But the memories are so fragmented, so dreamlike, that I can't be sure what was real and what my heat-addled mind might have imagined.
The drug Mark mentioned—it was supposed to induce heat. Maybe I hallucinated the whole thing?
But that doesn't explain waking up in a strange hotel room, alone, feeling like I've been hit by a truck.
Or does it explain it?
Maybe someone moved me here after... after whatever happened.
Maybe—
A soft sound interrupts my spiraling thoughts.
Movement near the window.
My head snaps toward the source, ignoring my body's protests.
There's a man sitting in a chair I somehow didn't notice before—short blond hair, mixed features that suggest both Asian and Western heritage, dressed in the understated but quality clothing of professional security.
How the fuck did I not notice him immediately? I'm losing my touch.
The man's lips curve into a small smile. "You finally noticed me, young master."
"Young master?" I repeat, my voice sharper now. Alert. Assessing.
"Yes. I am a new bodyguard hired by your father."
I study him more carefully. He has the build for it—trained, competent. But I don't remember my father mentioning hiring new security. Then again, given how chaotic things have been lately...
Shit, what did Wenlan do this time? My older brother has a habit of making decisions "for my own good" without consulting me.
"He cares about you and your family, young master," the man continues, as if reading my thoughts.
I roll my eyes. "You could say it like that."
The diplomatic non-answer tells me everything I need to know.
Wenlan definitely went behind my back again.
"Anyway, what's your name? I forgot to ask you before."
Before when? a small voice in my head asks.
You don't remember meeting him at all.
"My name is James, young master."
"Do you have any connections with L Group?" The question comes automatically. L Group—Luo Qingyue's family company. They have a habit of using English names for their operatives, and something about James sets off my instincts. "I noticed they like using English names."
"Not really. I only know the receptionist."
The answer is smooth, easy. Too easy? Or am I being paranoid?
I need to move. Need to think. Staying in bed makes me feel vulnerable, exposed.
I push myself up—slowly this time, gritting my teeth against the soreness—and manage to get to my feet. The world sways slightly, and I have to grab the bedpost for balance. My legs feel like they might give out at any moment.
What the hell did they give me?
It's only when I start walking toward James that I realize I'm clean.
Someone bathed me, changed my clothes into soft sleep pants and a loose shirt.
The thought should disturb me more than it does, but I'm too focused on staying upright to dwell on it.
Thank fuck the chair isn't far from the bed, or I'd be face-down on the carpet right now.
"One more question," I say when I'm close enough that we don't have to raise our voices. "Do you have Andy's phone number?"
James's expression doesn't change. "Yes. Why are you asking, young master?"
"I need you to ask Andy to bring me some clothes." I gesture vaguely at my current attire. "Would you be able to call him?"
"Of course, young master. Anything else?"
"No, just go. And please be quick."
"Okay." James stands smoothly and heads for the door, pulling out his phone.
The moment he's gone, I reach for my own phone—finding it conveniently placed on the nightstand—and call one of my company managers.
"Young master?" The man sounds surprised to hear from me this early.
"I won't be coming in today," I say, keeping my voice level despite the exhaustion pulling at me. "Reschedule anything urgent for tomorrow."
"Of course, sir. Is everything alright?"
No. I'm missing several hours of memory, my body feels like I went ten rounds with a professional fighter, and I woke up in a hotel I don't remember checking into.
"Everything's fine. Just a personal matter."
I end the call and sink onto the edge of the bed, finally allowing myself a moment to process.
The memories are there, I can feel them, but they're locked behind a haze I can't penetrate.
The drug. It has to be the drug. Mark said it would force a heat, but he didn't mention anything about memory loss.
Unless...
Unless that wasn't the only thing in my system.
What if whoever shot me added something else? What if—
A knock at the door interrupts my spiraling thoughts.
Half an hour. That was fast.
I try to stand, but my legs choose that exact moment to give out.
"Oh, shit!" I hit the floor hard, fresh pain blooming in my knees and palms.
"Young master?" Andy's voice comes from the other side of the door, concerned but also... amused?
The door opens before I can respond—James must have given him a key—and Andy steps inside, clothes draped over his arm.
He takes one look at me sprawled on the floor and his lips twitch.
Is he smiling?
"Need some help?" Andy asks, already moving toward me.
"Obviously," I mutter, accepting his offered hand.
He pulls me to my feet with surprising gentleness, steadying me when I sway.
This close, I can see the knowing gleam in his eyes—like he's in on a joke I'm not aware of.
"I asked your brother to help me choose," Andy says, holding up the clothes. "Hope you like them."
The outfit is perfectly tailored, professional but comfortable. Exactly what I'd choose for myself. "Thank you very much, Andy."
"It's my pleasure." He glances toward the door. "If you would be okay with it, I'll wait outside the room for more privacy."
"Give me fifteen minutes. I'll try to be quick." At least I hope.
"Okay, young master."
Sixteen minutes later, I finally manage to make myself presentable and open the door.
Every movement has been a study in pain management—getting dressed when your entire body aches is an experience I don't recommend.
"I'm done."
Andy turns immediately, his expression smoothing into professional concern.
He closes the hotel room door behind me and starts walking toward the exit, matching his pace to my slower one.
"I already called your driver to pick you up, boss," he says as we walk. "Your father told me you're not going to the company today, and he asked me to send you to the main house. He needs to talk to you about something."
The main house. Of course. My father always has impeccable timing.
We make our way outside where a sleek black car is indeed waiting.
James opens the back door, and I slide in gratefully, relieved to be off my feet.
James settles beside me while Andy takes the front passenger seat.
The drive to my family's estate takes about half an hour.
I spend most of it staring out the window, still trying to piece together the missing hours.
The city passes by in a blur of morning traffic and early sunlight.
When we arrive, Andy excuses himself to discuss company matters with Wenlan—probably reporting on my condition, knowing my brother—while James and I head to the second floor where my father keeps his office and library.
James opens the library door, and I step inside to find an unexpected scene.
A woman sits in one of the leather armchairs, elegant and poised, a knowing smirk on her face.
My father stands behind her, and there's something in his expression—amusement?
Satisfaction?
"You're finally here," the woman says.
For a moment, I genuinely don't recognize her.
The lighting, the angle, the sheer unexpectedness of her presence—it all throws me off.
James leans close, whispering, "Do you know her?"
"Of course not," I reply, making sure my voice carries. "She's probably another business partner of my dad."
The woman's expression shifts dramatically. "How dare you! You don't even recognize your mother now? I rushed here because I thought you would be happy to see me again, but you actually pretend not to know me!? I wonder if you're still my son."
Oh.
Recognition finally clicks.
"Come on, mum, don't be so angry." I cross the room and pull her into a hug, unable to keep the smile from my face. "I know you love me, so you don't need to pretend."
She's been in Europe for the past six months on business. Having her back is genuinely good news.
I pull away and turn to my father. "Anyway, why did you want to see me, dad?"
"I thought you might appreciate that your mum is back." He raises an eyebrow. "If I had told you from the start, I'm sure you wouldn't have come."
He's not wrong. I probably would have sent my excuses and tried to sleep off whatever the hell happened last night.
"Thank you for the praise, dad." I gesture toward James. "Mum, I want to introduce you to someone. This is my new bodyguard, James."
"I know, dear. I already saw him before." Her smile widens into something almost conspiratorial.
I blink. "What do you mean by that? You know him?"
Come on, son, you're probably the only one clueless, I can almost hear her thinking, though her expression remains pleasantly neutral.
"Of course. Your dad showed me his photos before, but he looks even better in reality." She glances at my father. "He didn't tell you?"
I turn to face him. "Dad, you knew about this? Why didn't you say anything?"
"Of course I knew, but you didn't ask." He has the audacity to look amused.
"Are you even my parents?" I mutter, exasperated.
Then, to my mother: "Do you have something to say?"
Her eyes light up. "Your love is back from Canada. She's probably in your office by now."
My heart actually skips a beat. "Really? That's amazing!"
The exhaustion, the pain, the missing memories—all of it fades into the background at the thought of seeing my sister again.
"Why haven't you told me sooner? James, please tell Andy we're leaving."
"Okay, young master." James moves to open the door, but not before I catch the smile that crosses his face.
I'm already heading out when I notice my parents smiling too, exchanging one of those knowing looks that parents do.
They gesture something to James—probably asking him to take care of me, knowing them—and he nods before following me out.
The car is still waiting, and within minutes we're heading back toward my office building.
"James," I say during the drive, curiosity getting the better of me. "Why were you smiling back there?"
"Your parents asked me to promise I'd take care of you, young master."
Heat floods my face. Of course they did. "Right. Thanks."
I turn to look out the window, not wanting him to see my embarrassment.
For the rest of the drive, we maintain silence. When Andy reaches for the radio, I give him a look that clearly communicates my desire for quiet, and he wisely leaves it alone.
My mind is too full anyway—fragmented memories trying to surface, the mystery of the missing hours, the persistent ache in my body, and underneath it all, a strange sense of loss that I can't quite explain.
Like I'm forgetting something important.
Something precious.
But what?
When we arrive at the company, I send Andy to retrieve some documents I'll need for tomorrow and head straight to my office.
James walks behind me, silent and watchful.
My hand is on the door handle when James steps forward to open it for me—professional courtesy—and I catch a glimpse of what's inside.
A woman sitting on my desk, casual and comfortable like she owns the place.
My sister.
I should be happy. I am happy. But there's something else there too—a hollow feeling, like this isn't quite what I was hoping for, even though I can't explain what I was actually hoping for.
The missing memories tug at the edges of my consciousness, trying to tell me something.
But they remain frustratingly out of reach.