The door to the bathroom eased open with a whisper—soft as secrets, soft as regrets. George Harold stepped through it, every inch of him honed elegance, his silhouette a tall sculpture of tailored charcoal and old-world charm. His green eyes—so vividly foreign in this country of moonlight and silk—landed on Shu Yao.
The boy was still standing at the sink, sleeves pushed slightly past his wrists, hands damp from cold water that clung like glass to his skin. His reflection shimmered in the gilded mirror, not quite still, not quite whole. The wine had painted his cheeks in fever-rose, but his posture remained graceful—upright, proud, like a prince who'd wandered into the wrong kingdom and refused to kneel.
George remained in the doorway, unmoving.
Something about Shu Yao made him hesitate. Not fear. Not awe.
Something softer. Stranger.
He'd come to speak. But now, watching this boy wring grief from his hands like it was water, he forgot the opening line.
Shu Yao didn't glance back. Or perhaps he had and chosen not to. He merely shut the faucet off with a flick too delicate to be drunk, though the flush in his face betrayed him. Then, he took a step forward, brushing past George with the silent grace of a falling petal—no apology, no acknowledgment, as if the man were only wind at his back.
And George?
Left standing in that gold-lit room like a ghost inside a chapel. No prayers. Only echoes.
Outside, the world still wore its crown of celebration. Laughter like confetti floated through the air, golden chandeliers blooming above the courtyard like captured starlight. Applause, soft music, glasses clinking—it was a festival carved in pink and silver.
Shu Yao emerged into it like a shadow cast too far from the flame.
His gaze swept briefly over the scene.
There—Qing Yue, radiant, surrounded by well-wishers in gowns of pastel hues. She laughed with the effortless joy of a girl who had everything now. And beside her, Bai Qi—his suit now slightly loosened at the collar, his lips curled in an easy grin as he nodded and shook hands, the image of a man whose night had gone perfectly.
For a moment, Shu Yao allowed himself a glance.
Just one.
Bai Qi looked happy. Unshakably so.
And yet—
As if summoned by some magnetic ache, Bai Qi turned, locking eyes with Shu Yao across the crowd.
It was only a heartbeat.
Then Shu Yao broke the gaze, his head dipping to the side—not in surrender, but self-preservation.
He stepped forward, murmuring as he passed, "Congratulations… on your engagement."
Soft. Dry. Without expression.
Bai Qi let out a sudden laugh—too loud, too casual—and slapped the back of Shu Yao with brotherly affection. "So serious, Yao. Come on—can you believe it? Everything went so well!"
Shu Yao didn't respond. He merely offered a faint smile, the kind one learns to wear when sincerity is too dangerous.
He was turning away again when a new presence swept into the moment like silk fluttering through wind.
A tall woman.
Draped in a long black gown that shimmered like the night sky under lanternlight. Her diamond necklace caught the light like frost, cold and exquisite, and her onyx-black hair fell over one shoulder in sculpted waves. Her eyes—dark, deep, sharp—landed on Shu Yao and widened faintly, as though she had just stumbled upon a forgotten verse of a poem.
This was Bai Qi's mother.
"A moment," she said, voice velveted with nobility. Her hand, adorned in rings, lifted to touch Shu Yao's shoulder. "So you're the Shu Yao. I've heard your name from your mother—though we never met. But now…"
She paused, tilting her head ever so slightly, studying him.
"You're… really quite something. Such a lovely young boy." Her gaze lingered, growing more curious with every second. "No… beautiful, I would say. Like a little carved moon."
Shu Yao bowed his head. "Thank you, Aunt."
But she wasn't finished. Something in him had caught her—some glint behind his doll-like lashes, behind the quiet tilt of his lips.
She stepped closer, voice low.
"…Is anything bothering you, dear?"
There it was again.
The old worry dressed in new clothes.
Shu Yao shook his head. "Everything is fine."
She smiled gently. "Ah. I understand. A little sadness, perhaps? It happens when a sibling gets engaged—you're so close, and now she begins a new chapter. It feels… different. But don't worry. That ache will pass. You'll see."
She reached up, brushing his hair away from his temple. Her fingers were cool and perfumed with lilies. "Now come. Try to be happy, hmm?"
He smiled again.
But that smile was a lie woven from silk and silence.
Because how could she know?
How could she ever know?
The ache wasn't from losing a sister to marriage.
The ache was from giving his heart away to someone who held it like a secret he didn't want.
Shu Yao stepped back gently. Bowed again.
"Thank you, Aunt."
Then, he drifted away.
The party roared back to life. Music. Fireworks in the distance. A sky smeared with stars.
But somewhere within the tall glass building, someone else had begun moving again.
George Harold.
He had followed.
Not to chase—but to understand.
There was something about that boy.
Something threaded in the way his voice didn't rise, yet echoed.
Something about his silence…
It hurt.
And for the first time in years, the man who could speak in nine tongues, who had dined with princes and seduced poets, found himself at a loss.
Not because he didn't have words.
But because none of them were enough.
Not for a boy like Shu Yao.
Not for a story already broken before it could begin.
The hour had grown soft and solemn, like the last note of a lullaby clinging to the air before silence took its place.
Shu Yao returned to the same table he'd occupied half an hour ago—the one tucked just beneath the archway, kissed faintly by the glow of a crystal lamp overhead. The laughter had ebbed. The music had dulled into memory. Only the quiet remained.
He sat in silence, chin resting lightly upon the back of his hand, eyes watching as the grand courtyard began to empty like a dream slipping through dawn's fingers.
One by one, the guests departed.
Gowns of rose and sapphire trailed past him like petals carried on breeze. Perfumes faded. Farewell kisses echoed faintly against marble. Chairs were left vacant—first by the dozen, then by the hundreds.
Only a few figures still lingered beneath the chandeliers, now dimmed to a golden hush.
And then—
A distant hum of engine. Smooth. Polished. Almost unreal.
A car, sleek as myth and white as platinum, pulled to a stop outside the grand glass gates. Its surface mirrored the last lights of the evening like a lake touched by moonlight. The gates opened of their own accord—silent, regal.
Inside the passenger seat sat a man whose presence commanded the air before he even stepped into it.
Bai Qi's father.
His golden hair, combed back with precision, gleamed like gold beneath the streetlamps. His face was sharp with aristocratic lines—features chiseled by business, years, and the kind of pride that came not from power, but from wielding it.
A waiter appeared beside Bai Qi's mother, bowing slightly. "Ma'am, the boss is waiting in the car."
Then, like smoke, the waiter vanished into the evening.
She looked up from her seat, posture regal, elegance written into every angle of her black gown. Diamonds shimmered at her throat like frost that had learned how to glow.
Across the courtyard, Qing Yue's mother had also begun to gather her things, her ivory shawl drawn gently over her arms. She nodded politely to those passing by, her movements composed and gracious, as always.
And near her—qing yue's mother.
A vision in green.
Her dress flowed like summer vines brushing the earth, every stitch kissed by emerald light. Her flaxen hair, gently undone, spilled like threads of gold against her back. The light caught in her eyes—those soft latte-colored orbs still rich with kindness and quiet understanding.
Bai Qi's mother approached her.
Their meeting was like the joining of two queens—one night, one morning.
"I'm heading out," Bai Qi's mother said with a faint smile. "It's a long ride. Would you like to join me?"
Shu Yao's mother turned to her, blinking softly as if roused from thought. Then she smiled with the kind of warmth that soothed every edge around it.
"I would be honored," she said.
Their gazes wandered, at once, toward the last table where the evening's stars remained.
Bai Qi and Qing Yue.
Still seated.
Still laughing softly.
Still bathed in that gentle, champagne-glow that lingered only for lovers who had not yet noticed the world was fading around them.
A quiet glance passed between the two mothers—half affection, half something unspoken.
"He has his own driver," Bai Qi's mother said with a knowing tone, referring to her son. "He'll be fine."
Shu Yao's mother nodded. "And she has wings tonight. Let her fly a little longer."
With that, both women turned and walked with the grace of swans across the now-empty courtyard. Their gowns trailed behind them, whispering over polished stone. The air, hushed and noble, parted for them.
The white car opened with a soft hiss.
They stepped inside—two mothers, two hearts full of memories neither had yet spoken of aloud.
The doors shut.
The engine purred like a lullaby sung in metal and oil.
And then it pulled away, slowly.
Like the last page of a chapter turning itself.
Leaving behind only the quiet night…
…a boy seated alone…
…and two lovers still caught in the fragile light of something that might yet become legend.
The courtyard had emptied into stillness—chairs abandoned like forgotten conversations, flower petals scattered like memories too delicate to gather.
Only one table remained, glowing like the heart of a fading lantern.
There, beneath the gentle halo of chandelier light, Bai Qi and Qing Yue sat together—her hand folded inside his, their silhouettes brushed in silver and pink. The world had dwindled to the two of them now, as if time itself had curled inwards just to listen.
"I still can't believe it," Qing Yue whispered, her eyes alight like stars reflected in a lake. "Was this all really for me?"
Bai Qi leaned closer, his voice dipped in velvet. "No," he said. "It was for us."
She blushed, lips parting, laughter soft as chimes. "You always know what to say."
"I only speak when the moment deserves poetry," he replied, thumb tracing the line of her knuckles. "And tonight… you were a fairytale."
From afar—half-hidden behind the marble colonnade where moonlight softened the shadows like a painter's last stroke—Shu Yao stood.
Still.
Wordless.
Watching.
Their voices reached him not as words, but as music—melodies strung together with affection he had once only dared to dream of. Their laughter carried across the stones, and for a fleeting second, Shu Yao let himself imagine that it was him sitting there, that it was his hand Bai Qi held so gently.
But that illusion broke quickly.
Because it had never been him.
It had only ever been silence.
He gripped the edge of the pillar, nails pale against stone. His throat burned with a truth that had nowhere to go. The confession in his heart beat wildly, like a moth inside a lantern, desperate to be seen—but terrified of the fire that waited for it.
He could not speak.
He could not move.
He could only feel.
And behind him, the sound of footsteps.
Measured.
Final.
George Harold.
The tall German stood for a breath's length behind Shu Yao, his coat buttoned now, his gloves in one hand, eyes gleaming with a complex silence of their own.
He didn't say anything. He merely looked.
At Shu Yao.
At the boy who glowed like sorrow gilded in porcelain.
The boy who had no idea he was still being watched.
George tilted his head slightly, as if trying to read an unfamiliar script written across Shu Yao's back—the tension in his shoulders, the way his chin tilted slightly up, proud even in heartbreak. The way his hands remained still even when his heart clearly was not.
George's expression, usually smug or amused, softened.
Just for a second.
Then he turned.
He walked away—shoes quiet against the stone, disappearing into the dark like a word left unsaid.
He did not look back again.
But Shu Yao never moved.
His eyes remained fixed on Bai Qi and Qing Yue, as though the sight of their happiness held him in place—like a painting nailed to a wall he could never walk through.
He could have left.
But he didn't.
Because sometimes the deepest kind of love…
is the kind that stays in the shadows—
soft, silent, and unreturned.
And in that courtyard, where lights still danced in fading circles, Shu Yao stood like the final line of a poem no one else would ever read.