Bai Mingzhu was only a few steps away from her waiting car when footsteps tore through the silence behind her.
Fast. Uneven. Desperate.
"Mother—!"
The word cracked in the air like a misfired bullet.
Mingzhu did not turn.
The black sedan waited at the curb, engine humming softly, its door already opened by a driver who knew better than to look back.
The city wind tugged at her coat, but she stood unmoving, spine straight, heels anchored to the pavement.
Behind her, Shen Haoxuan ran harder.
His lungs burned. His breath fractured, each inhale scraping his chest raw. He hadn't run like this since childhood—not for business, not for power, not even for survival.
Only this.
"Mother," he called again, voice hoarse now. Closer.
Mingzhu stopped.
She didn't look back.
"I… I want to ask something."
The words came out uneven, as if forcing their way past something lodged in his throat.
"What is it?" she replied.
Her voice was flat. Calm. Devoid of warmth.
Haoxuan flinched as if struck.
The distance between them felt suddenly unbearable—three steps, yet a lifetime wide.
"Why," he asked, swallowing hard, "why did you leave me alone?"
The city seemed to quiet.
Even the wind stilled.
Mingzhu did not answer at first.
Then—slowly—she turned.
For the first time in decades, she looked directly at her firstborn.
Shen Haoxuan stood before her, chest rising too fast, eyes rimmed red not from tears but from restraint. Beneath the tailored suit and inherited sharpness, she saw it—the same frantic fear he had carried as a boy, the same silent question he had learned never to ask aloud.
Why wasn't I enough?
She sighed.
It was long. Heavy. Worn smooth by years of endurance.
It was long. Heavy. Worn smooth by years of endurance.
"Have you ever asked your father?" she said.
Haoxuan stiffened.
"Yes," he answered after a pause. "I did."
His gaze dropped, jaw tightening. "He never cared."
Mingzhu nodded once.
"That," she said quietly, "is the reason."
He looked up at her then—really looked—eyes searching her face with an urgency that bordered on panic.
"What do you mean?"
She didn't soften her voice.
"Your father never cared when I was his wife," Mingzhu said. "And he never cared when you were born."
The words landed cleanly. No embellishment. No accusation. Just fact.
Haoxuan's gaze slid away, fixed on some distant point beyond the streetlights. His lips parted, then pressed together again.
"So that means," he murmured, barely audible, "I was nothing to anyone."
Mingzhu's eyes widened.
Just slightly.
It was the first crack.
She had expected anger. Accusation. Even hatred.
She had not expected this.
But Shen Haoxuan had already regained control. Whatever splintered inside him, he sealed it away with practiced precision. His shoulders straightened. His voice steadied.
"All of this," he said, turning back to her, "isn't Father's fault."
Mingzhu remained silent.
Because she knew better.
"It was me," Haoxuan continued. "I did it. I made the choices. You don't need to drag him into this."
She watched him carefully now.
The way he defended the man who had broken them both.
The way he carried guilt like a crown of thorns, mistaking it for responsibility.
"It's already done," Mingzhu said.
He took a step forward. She spoke again.
"I never stripped you," she said, voice low but unmistakably firm, "of the right to call me mother."
Haoxuan froze.
His back was to her now.
He did not turn around.
His hands clenched at his sides, fingers curling so tightly the tendons stood out beneath his skin. For a moment, he looked unbearably young—caught between the man he had become and the child he had never stopped being.
Mingzhu didn't wait for a response.
She turned away and walked toward the black sedan. The door closed behind her with a muted thud, sealing the moment inside the quiet luxury of tinted glass.
The car pulled away.
Haoxuan stood there long after it disappeared, the city lights blurring at the edges of his vision.
Something inside him had finally broken.
And this time, there was no one left to blame.
Across the city, Ming Su paced the length of her house like a trapped animal.
Her phone was clutched in her hand, screen glowing relentlessly as she called again.
No answer.
The television blared in the background, every channel screaming the same disaster. Headlines scrolled endlessly. Footage replayed on loop.
Her CCTV footage.
"What is happening?" she whispered, dialing again. "Why is everything everywhere?"
The call rang out unanswered.
Panic crept into her chest, sharp and suffocating.
"Haoxuan," she muttered. "Pick up."
Inside the black sedan, the world outside blurred into streaks of light and shadow.
Bai Mingzhu sat perfectly still, hands folded in her lap, posture immaculate—yet her eyes betrayed her.
They shimmered, glassy with unshed tears, reflecting the passing city like fractured stars.
Beside her, Niklas von Rothenberg watched quietly.
Not intrusively.
Not impatiently.
Simply present.
"How does it go?" he asked at last, his voice low, steady, carrying the weight of a man who already knew the answer.
Mingzhu exhaled. "I slapped him," she said softly. "For what he did."
Niklas blinked—once.
Then, unexpectedly, the corner of his mouth curved upward.
It wasn't amusement.
It wasn't mockery.
It was pride.
A restrained, impeccably professional smirk—the kind he never allowed himself in boardrooms or courtrooms. The kind reserved only for her.
"I see," he murmured.
Mingzhu turned her gaze forward again. "If it wasn't for you," she said quietly, "I wouldn't be this strong."
Niklas did not respond.
He never did when she spoke truths that required no reply.
"I hope," she added after a pause, her voice thinning, "he will be alright."
The first tear slipped free.
Niklas stiffened slightly.
He turned toward her. "Why are you crying?"
Mingzhu laughed once—a broken sound that collapsed in on itself. "I shouldn't have married someone like Baoliang," she whispered. "Because of him… Haoxuan is suffering."
Niklas said nothing.
Because he understood.
A child did not need to share a roof to occupy the entirety of a mother's heart. Haoxuan lived under Baoliang's shadow—but he lived inside Mingzhu's soul.
Niklas's hand rose slowly, deliberately.
His palm pressed against her shoulder, firm and grounding. He leaned her gently into his chest, allowing her to rest there without condition, without question.
Once, long ago, he had said—quietly, reverently—that women were the queens of hearts.
He believed it still.
"Thank you," Mingzhu whispered.
Niklas lowered his head and placed a feather-light kiss against her sleek black hair—chaste, reverent, protective.
The car continued forward.
At the Rothenberg villa, night had fully settled.
In the study, Charles sat alone.
He hadn't moved for a long time.
One hand rested on a small velvet box atop the desk, fingers curled around it as if afraid it might vanish. His eyes were red-rimmed, swollen from tears he hadn't meant to shed—but grief had never asked permission.
He hadn't even been allowed to see Shu Yao.
Deep coma.
The words echoed mercilessly.
The apologies he had rehearsed—every single one—had nowhere to go.
With trembling hands, Charles lifted the lid.
Inside lay a ring.
A ruby-red stone shaped like a rose, its facets catching the lamplight like trapped fire. Elegant. Ethereal.
It had been meant for Shu Yao.
Someone gentle. Someone luminous. Someone who had saved others without ever asking to be saved himself.
"How am I supposed to give this to you now?" Charles whispered.
The study door creaked open.
Startled, Charles snapped the box shut and shoved it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket just as footsteps crossed the threshold.
George entered.
One look at Charles, and irritation flared hot and immediate.
"What the hell are you sitting here for?" George snapped. "Don't you have work to do?"
Charles stood abruptly.
He didn't look at George.
Didn't acknowledge him.
"That's none of your concern," he muttered, brushing past.
George clenched his jaw.
The tension between them crackled—sharp, unresolved.
Charles hated him.
Because George still had a chance to stand near Shu Yao's hospital room. Because Charles had been away—dragged across borders with his boss and his wife.
George said nothing as Charles left.
Neither did Charles.
Silence followed—heavy and poisonous.
Elsewhere in the rothenberg industry's, the nerve center of the Rothenberg empire remained awake.
Armin stood at Bai Qi's position.
Handling everything.
Not because he wanted to—but because someone had to.
The weight felt familiar.
Too familiar.
It reminded him of earlier years, when the burden had been his alone.
Now, however—
Florian stood beside him.
Alive. Steady. Present.
Dressed in a simple business suit, silver-rimmed glasses perched neatly on his nose, Florian moved through documents with quiet efficiency. Every step was precise. Every word measured.
Armin glanced at him—and just for a fraction of a second, the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
He caught himself immediately.
Straightened.
Composed.
Florian noticed anyway.
He always did.
Working now as Armin Volker von Rothenberg's assistant, Florian kept his head down—but his ears burned faintly red every time he felt Armin's presence shift beside him.
Boss.
Tormentor.
Lover.
All in one man.
A miracle he still didn't understand—but one he refused to question.
Meanwhile The hospital room was wrapped in artificial quiet.
Machines hummed softly, indifferent and precise, measuring life in lines and numbers that never slept. Pale light spilled across white sheets, sterile walls, and the unmoving figure at the center of it all.
Shu Yao lay on the bed.
Still.
Peaceful.
As if the world had simply paused him mid-breath.
No one knew when—or if—he would wake again.
Bai Qi sat beside him.
He hadn't left.
Not really.
His head rested against Shu Yao's hand, cheek pressed lightly to skin that was warm yet unresponsive. Shu Yao looked like a sleeping beauty trapped in an unkind fairy tale—too quiet, too fragile, refusing to open his eyes.
Nearly a month had passed.
Shu Yao had woken once.
Just once.
And then, nothing.
Bai Qi didn't care how he looked anymore. The sharp suits were gone. The polished heir had vanished. All that remained was a man in a black hoodie and sleek black trousers, hollowed out by waiting.
Dark shadows bruised the skin beneath his eyes.
His hand lay over Shu Yao's fingers, barely touching, as if afraid even that small pressure might hurt him.
He whispered.
Softly.
About the day they first met.
About the ridiculous fool. About the way Shu Yao had look so ethereal so beautiful, About how he had smiled. And said
That all the pain will go away.
There was no response.
Every time Bai Qi looked at Shu Yao's face, memory punished him.
The cold words.
The sharp glances.
The humiliations delivered without thought—without mercy.
His gaze drifted down.
To Shu Yao's left hand.
The scars were still there.
Thin. Pale. Permanent.
The same hand that had once trembled while holding a tray of coffee. The same day Shu Yao had been sick and said nothing. The mug had slipped. The liquid had burned. And Bai Qi—blind, impatient, cruel—had never cared to ask why.
His vision blurred.
Tears gathered, hot and sudden.
"I never cared," he whispered, the confession barely audible.
His fingers tightened slightly around Shu Yao's hand.
Then, brokenly, he spoke again.
"You're angry," Bai Qi murmured, voice trembling. "That's why you won't open your eyes… isn't it?"
His heart lurched.
He snapped his head up, panic flashing across his face. His other hand came up, cupping Shu Yao's cheek with desperate care.
"No—no, I was joking," he breathed. "I didn't mean it. You wouldn't… you would never—"
His voice fractured.
Tears fell freely now, splashing onto Shu Yao's still face.
"Because you always look like that," Bai Qi sobbed quietly. "So calm. So gentle. Like nothing in this world could touch you."
He pressed his forehead against Shu Yao's temple, shaking.
"I mistook you for someone else," he whispered. "I punished you for sins that were never yours."
His breath hitched.
"Please," he begged. "Don't leave."
The words collapsed into sobs.
"If you do," he cried, fingers clutching helplessly at Shu Yao's hand, "I'll never be able to love."
The truth burned.
If Shu Yao didn't wake—
Bai Qi would never forgive himself.
He wouldn't seek redemption.
He wouldn't chase happiness.
He would let himself fall.
Because losing Shu Yao wasn't something he could survive with his soul intact.
Better to descend into darkness than to live knowing he had destroyed something so pure.
"I won't let you go," Bai Qi whispered fiercely, through tears. "Even if it means I burn… I won't."
The machines continued their quiet vigil.
And Shu Yao remained silent.
As the man who had once ruled worlds knelt beside him, breaking—piece by piece—at the edge of a bed that refused to give him an answer.