The air inside the Rothenberg villa was thick with a silence that felt like a whetted blade.
Bai Qi stood by the window, his silhouette carved from the encroaching shadows of the evening. Every few seconds, his gaze dropped to the Patek Philippe on his wrist. The second hand swept forward with a rhythmic, mocking click.
Twenty-seven minutes.
His knuckles were bone-white as he clenched them inside his pockets. The rage in his gut was no longer a dull hum; it was a roaring furnace. How dare he? How dare a creature as lowly as Shu Yao seek sanctuary in the arms of His uncle?
"Seducing my uncle," Bai Qi hissed, the words tasting like copper. "You've truly forgotten your place, haven't you?"
He convinced himself it was about the dinner. He told his reflection that he was angry because Shu Yao was late for Ming Su's invitation.
He told himself Shu Yao didn't deserve the "warm kindness" of a girl like her. But the heat behind his eyes told a different story—one of a possessive, fractured jealousy he refused to name.
He couldn't stand the thought of anyone else seeing the "ruined" version of Shu Yao. He couldn't stand the thought of Shu Yao being treated with anything other than the coldness he provided.
Three miles away, the engine of a silver Bentley—George's car—purred to life.
Inside the backseat, Shu Yao sat like a porcelain doll held together by wire and sheer will.
He was draped in a soft, light brown suit—a garment chosen by Bai Qi's command, a color that usually brought out the warmth in his skin but now only served to highlight how ghostly he had become.
His hair was gathered and tied neatly at the nape of his neck, exposing the sharp, fragile lines of his throat. Beneath the layers of expensive fabric, his body was a map of medical trauma.
The Left Hand, Slowly healing, but etched with jagged scars.
The Veins Bruised from IV needles, now hidden by a small, discreet bandage.
The Face A masterpiece of deception.
George had personally helped called his people all the makeup, the foundation masking the bruised hollows beneath Shu Yao's eyes. It was a mask of health worn by a dying boy.
Mr. George," Shu Yao had whispered, his voice a thready plea. "You promised. You wouldn't come between us. And This is my choice."
George's hand had hovered over the door handle, a man shackled by a promise he hated.
He watched as the car pulled away, leaving him in the dust of Shu Yao's self-destruction.
Shu Yao leaned his head against the cool leather. He wasn't sad. He felt a strange, hollow peace.
As long as he was under Bai Qi's eyes, he could protect him. As long as he was there, Ming Su couldn't finalize the trap.
The silver Bentley glided to a halt in front of the villa's grand entrance at the twenty-eighth minute.
Bai Qi's head turned sharply. He watched as the driver—George's personal man—stepped out and rounded the car. Bai Qi's eyes narrowed. But his uncle wasn't there.
The door opened.
Shu Yao emerged slowly, his movements measured and cautious, as if he were afraid his bones might shatter if he moved too fast. He kept his head lowered, the soft light of the villa spilling over the light brown wool of his suit.
Bai Qi felt a momentary catch in his throat.
He had never seen Shu Yao dressed like this—in high-fashion tailoring that emphasized the slender, elegant curve of his frame. But the admiration was instantly choked by a surge of bile.
He looks like he's been pampered, Bai Qi thought venomously. He looks like he belongs to my uncle.
Shu Yao stood by the car, his gaze fixed on the gravel. The silence between them was a physical weight. He didn't know how to explain the hospital, the tubes, or the fear. He only knew that Bai Qi was looking at him with the eyes of a judge.
"What the hell are you standing there for?" Bai Qi's voice barked out, shattering the quiet.
Shu Yao flinched, his shoulders hunching instinctively.
"Do you want to waste more of my time? Bai Qi stepped toward the sleek black sedan parked behind the Bentley, his aura radiating a lethal, focused energy. "Get the hell in the car. Already."
Shu Yao nodded frantically, his fingers trembling. He moved toward the passenger side of the sedan, sliding into the leather seat with the grace of a ghost. Bai Qi followed, the door slamming shut behind him with a finality that felt like a prison cell locking.
Inside the sedan, the atmosphere was suffocating.
The car was filled with the scent of Bai Qi's cologne—a dark, woody fragrance that spoke of power and expensive tobacco.
It was a scent that had haunted Shu Yao's dreams since high school, a scent that now made his weak lungs ache.
Shu Yao reached for the seatbelt. His fingers felt like lead. He tugged at the strap, but his muscles failed him.
The belt clicked but wouldn't lock. He tried again, his breath hitching, a cold sweat breaking out under his makeup.
Bai Qi watched him out of the corner of his eye. He saw the struggle. He saw the way Shu Yao's hands shook.
"Pathetic," Bai Qi muttered.
Without warning, Bai Qi leaned over.
The world seemed to stop. Shu Yao's eyes went wide as Bai Qi's massive frame invaded his space. His elbow brushed against Shu Yao's chest, the heat of the man's body radiating through the expensive suit.
Bai Qi was so close that Shu Yao could see the individual lashes of his obsidian eyes.
He could hear the low, steady rhythm of Bai Qi's breathing. The strong cologne was an intoxicating wave, drowning Shu Yao's senses.
Click.
Bai Qi fastened the seatbelt with a violent snap. He didn't pull away immediately. He stayed there for a heartbeat too long, his gaze fixed on the road ahead, his face inches from Shu Yao's.
"If you can't even handle a seatbelt," Bai Qi whispered, his voice a low, dangerous rumble, "how do you expect to survive the night?"
He pulled back, returning to his side of the car, his expression unreadable and cold.
Shu Yao sat frozen. His heart, already weakened by trauma and exhaustion, was racing at a terrifying speed. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to regulate his breath, trying to remember how to exist in the presence of the man who was both his savior and his executioner.
High above, from the second-story balcony, Armin watched the taillights of the sedan disappear into the night.
He shook his head, a weary sigh escaping his lips.
He had seen the way Bai Qi was acting—the erratic rage, the obsession with the "Little Secretary." He had seen the car arrive and the way Shu Yao had stepped out like a sacrificial lamb.
"Again," Armin murmured, turning back toward his dark room. "Going out for that girl. Chasing shadows."
He didn't pay much attention. Experience had taught him that trying to reason with Bai Qi was like trying to stop a landslide with a silk thread. He didn't see the bandage under the sleeve.
The city lights outside the window blurred into long, neon streaks—a kaleidoscope of artificial color that felt violent against Shu Yao's sensitive eyes. Inside the sedan, the silence was an iron weight, pressing the oxygen out of his already shallow lungs.
He clutched the fabric of his light brown trousers, his knuckles white. Finally, he found a sliver of courage beneath the layer of exhaustion.
"Sir..." he whispered, his voice a thready, desperate tremor. "Where... where are we going?"
Bai Qi didn't turn his head. He remained a statue of charcoal wool and obsidian shadows. But his jaw tightened, a sharp line of tension appearing beneath his ear.
"We are going to her place," Bai Qi answered, his voice a low, clinical hum.
Shu Yao's eyebrows knitted together in a pained, confused arc. "Whose place?"
Bai Qi finally turned, his gaze a predatory flash in the darkened cabin. "Did you forget her so easily? Or is your mind so clouded by my uncle that you've lost your memory along with your dignity?"
Shu Yao froze, fear sliding coldly through him. "I didn't forget," he said, too fast. "Mr. George was only… only helping."
His voice dropped.
The reaction was instantaneous. Bai Qi's mouth twitched with a volatile, incandescent rage. "Watch what you're saying, you pathetic bastard," he hissed.
Shu Yao lowered his gaze, the weight of the humiliation bowing his head until he was staring at his own scarred palms.
"You have no idea how sweet she is," Bai Qi continued, his voice dripping with a poisonous, reverent awe.
"She specifically insisted that I bring you. She pleaded with me not to punish you for your 'clumsiness' at the office. She wanted us to be friend's again."
Shu Yao felt a cold, oily dread settle in his stomach. He understood it now.
Ming Su wasn't just wearing a face; she was playing a symphony of manipulation. By asking for mercy for Shu Yao, she was cementing herself as the "Kindness" in Bai Qi's life. She was positioning herself as the saint, making Shu Yao look like the ungrateful, broken ghost in the corner.
"So," Bai Qi drawled, a cruel smile flickering in his eyes, "now you're judging a lady?" His gaze raked over Shu Yao's fragile frame in open mockery.
Shu Yao's chest heaved, his hand instinctively rising to cover it. "I… I didn't mean it that way," he gasped, his words trembling.
Bai Qi's eyes narrowed, sharp and unrelenting. He leaned forward slightly, his voice low at first, measured, but each word slicing the air. "Since… when did you have the right to judge anyone?"
Shu Yao's stomach knotted, a cold sweat prickling his skin. His heart skipped again as the weight of Bai Qi's gaze pressed down on him like a sin.
"Think carefully," Bai Qi continued, his tone rising, jagged as ice. "You've been… in a relationship with my uncle. You've spent the whole day… in his bed, haven't you?"
Shu Yao's breath caught. The words hung in the air, heavy and accusing, and he could barely summon a response.
Shu Yao's eyes flew wide, his breath catching in a painful hitch. "No... Mr. George... he isn't—"
"Then why were you with him!" Bai Qi barked, leaning in. The space between them vanished. "Why were you hiding in his shadow? Why was he the one answering your calls?"
"He was helping me," Shu Yao swallowed hard, the salt of unshed tears stinging his throat. "I never looked at him... I would never..."
"Cut the crap!" Bai Qi's vituperation was absolute. "Do you think I'm a fool? I heard the way he spoke to you.
I know the moment I heard that conversation. You were in some expensive hotel, weren't you? Spending my family's reputation on a bed with an old man?"
The accusation was a physical blow. Shu Yao felt something in his chest—the final thread of his pride—snap. He leaned back against the leather, clutching his heart, his face the color of bleached bone.
"I... I didn't," he wheezed.
But Bai Qi was a man possessed by a jealousy he didn't understand. He lunged forward, his movements a blur of terrifying, masculine strength. He grabbed Shu Yao's wrist, his grip on bandage so tight it felt as though the bone would splinter.
Shu Yao winced, a soft, broken sound escaping his lips.
"I am sure you slept with him," Bai Qi growled, his face inches from Shu Yao's. "Did he touch you here?, I fucking! knew that he give you this suit to pay for your silence?"
In a fit of blind, senseless fury, Bai Qi grabbed the collar of Shu Yao's soft brown suit. He dragged it downward, the fabric groaning as he exposed Shu Yao's chest.
Shu Yao's breath hitched, his eyes filling with the tears he had tried so hard to suppress.
"No... please... don't..."
Bai Qi froze.
There were no marks of a lover. No signs of a "secret hotel" or a night spent in lust. There was only the undeniable evidence of a body that was fading out of existence.
In the dim, passing light of the streetlamps, the truth was there. Beneath the expensive suit and the mask of makeup, there was no sign of a lover's touch.
There was only a ruin.
Shu Yao's skin was a sickly, translucent white—the color of a dying lily.
His collarbones were sharpened into lethal, skeletal ridges, jutting out from a frame that had been hollowed out by malnutrition and grief.
The pulse in his neck was a frantic, visible flutter. He looked less like a man and more like a collection of fragile bones held together by prayer.
For a heartbeat, the "Ice Monarch" forgot his rage. He forgot the biting insults he had prepared, and he forgot the girl waiting in the penthouse. The shock was a cold douse of water, leaving him hollow.
Bai Qi shoved Shu Yao back against the leather seat, his hands recoiling as if he had been burned by the very skin he had just exposed.
He turned his head sharply toward the window, his obsidian eyes fixed on the blurring streetlights to avoid the wreckage beside him.
His jaw was clenched so hard the bone ached. He felt a tremor in his own hands—a weakness he despised.
"Fix yourself," he barked.
The command was jagged, his voice trembling with an emotion that was far too close to guilt for him to acknowledge. He couldn't look back. He couldn't face the fact that while he had been imagining betrayals, Shu Yao had been wasting away into a ghost.
"You look like a corpse," he added, his voice dropping to a low, cruel vibration. "Don't you dare embarrass me in front of her.
Beside him, Shu Yao felt as though his soul had finally fragmented.
The physical pain of being shoved was nothing compared to the hollow ache in his chest. He felt "fallen apart," a marionette with its strings cut, slumped against the expensive leather. He didn't cry out. He didn't defend himself. He simply existed in the ruins of Bai Qi's mercy.
Slowly—agonizingly slowly—Shu Yao's trembling fingers reached up to his chest.
He began to fix what Bai Qi had ruined.