Chapter 29
The recording studio carried a low hum of machinery, faint static whispering from the soundboards even when no music played. Bright overhead lights reflected off polished equipment, bathing the room in sterile brilliance.
Mo Yue was already adjusting his headphones with exaggerated flair, as if the session were a stage performance. Wei Yuxiang leaned casually against the grand piano, a smirk dancing at his lips like he was in no rush.
Andre stepped inside last, silent as ever, closing the heavy soundproof door behind them. He positioned himself at the far corner of the room, where shadows clung to the walls. From there, he could do his job—observing, organizing, waiting—without inviting unnecessary attention.
Unfortunately, trouble had a way of finding him.
"Assistant," Mo Yue called out smoothly, glancing over his shoulder. "Fetch me some water. My throat is precious—you wouldn't want the golden voice of Mo Yue to dry up, would you?"
Andre's silver eyes flicked up, flat and expressionless. "There's a bottle on the table beside you."
Mo Yue froze, then glanced down. Indeed, the neatly arranged table carried two unopened bottles of mineral water. One eyebrow lifted; he chuckled, amused rather than irritated. "Sharp tongue, as always."
Wei's laughter came easy, deep and rich. "He treats you the same way he treats me."
"Cold as an ice bath," Mo Yue agreed, twisting the cap and taking a dramatic sip. "I'd almost be offended if it wasn't… refreshing."
Andre ignored them both, pulling out his phone to double-check the evening's schedule. Mo Yue thrived on attention—giving it only made him louder.
But the two stars seemed determined to bait him.
"So tell me, Xiang," Mo Yue said, turning toward Wei with a predator's smile, "can you keep up with my tempo? My songs aren't made for amateurs."
Wei leaned lazily against the piano again, crossing his arms. "Tempo isn't the problem. The problem will be you staying in key once I raise the bar."
Andre exhaled silently through his nose. Musicians.
The director clapped his hands. "Alright, gentlemen, warm up. Let's not waste the night."
Mo Yue slid into the booth first, adjusting the mic like it was an extension of his body. Wei followed, slipping on headphones, his smirk never fading.
The next hour played out in sharp contrasts. Mo Yue's voice was fierce, polished—every note carried the arrogance of a man who expected applause. Wei's tone, however, was smooth, calculated, like velvet brushing against stone. Where Mo Yue was fire, Wei was water—opposite, yet strangely compatible.
Andre watched silently as they circled each other in song, their voices intertwining in a tug-of-war of power. The director muttered to himself about "brilliance" and "genius tension."
But neither star seemed to care about the music half as much as they cared about poking at Andre.
"Assistant," Mo Yue called during a pause. "How do I sound? Be honest."
Andre looked up from his notes, silver eyes unreadable. "Like Mo Yue."
A beat of silence. Wei chuckled first, loud and unrestrained. "Perfect answer."
Mo Yue clutched his chest dramatically. "Cold-blooded. You wound me, little shadow."
Andre didn't bother replying.
Minutes stretched into hours. The session ran longer than planned. Andre's phone buzzed once against the folder he held. He glanced at the screen.
Mom: It's past nine. Where are you, Andre? Why aren't you home yet?
His expression softened almost imperceptibly, a fleeting crack in his mask. He typed back quickly:
Andre: Still at the studio. Don't worry, I'll be late but I'll eat.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket just as Mo Yue's voice rang out again.
"Assistant, write down the time stamp—this part needs editing."
Andre scribbled neatly without complaint.
By ten-thirty, the final note dissolved into silence. Wei pulled off his headphones with a lazy stretch, looking entirely too pleased with himself. Mo Yue smirked back, sweat glistening along his temple but pride radiating just as strong.
"Not bad," Mo Yue conceded.
Wei tossed him a look. "You mean impressive."
"Keep dreaming."
The director stepped forward, clapping his hands. "That's enough for tonight. Tomorrow we polish the bridge."
Wei left first, throwing a casual wave. "Goodnight, ice boy," he teased at Andre. "Take care of our star here."
Andre gave a polite nod, nothing more.
The car ride back was quiet—at least on Andre's end.
Mo Yue leaned against the back seat, gaze tilted toward the window but voice unrelenting. "You're too quiet, assistant. Do you never talk unless ordered? Do you live to torture people with silence?"
Andre kept his eyes on the passing view. "Conversation isn't required."
Mo Yue laughed softly. "Unbelievable. I could be dying of loneliness here and you'd still ignore me."
Andre didn't answer.
By the time they reached Mo Yue's apartment, the city lights had dimmed to a sleepy glow. Mo Yue stepped out, tossing a final grin over his shoulder. "Don't freeze to death on your way home, shadow. Let the driver take you home, it's late already."
Andre simply inclined his head, agreed "Thank you"
"Oh don't mention, see you tomorrow" waving at him at him calmly, has he works towards his door.
When the driver pulled into the driveway of his own house, the dashboard clock blinked 11:15 PM. He thanked him gratefull, and walks into the house. The house was dark except for a faint lamp glow through the living room curtains. He entered quietly, locking the door behind him.
The stillness was heavy, broken only by the faint sound of his mother's soft breathing from her bedroom. She had already gone to bed, trusting his brief reassurance. Relief flickered through him—at least she hadn't waited up.
Andre moved toward his room, his steps measured, habitual. But the moment his hand brushed the door, something stilled in his chest.
The light beneath the crack glowed faintly—he hadn't left it on.
Cautiously, he pushed the door open.
His silver eyes adjusted to the dim light spilling across the bed. And there—resting against his pillow as though it belonged to him—was a tall shadow. A man, broad-shouldered, half-turned asif in sleep.
The breath caught in Andre's throat. Recognition struck instantly.
Zhen Yichen.
Making him remember again,The powerful man who had pulled them from Italy into this life. The one Andre resented, avoided, and yet—could never fully ignore. The one who came yesterday but left early that made him wonder if it was a dream. The man who told me earlier this week he would be so busy in the office he won't have time to come home.
Yichen lay there, unguarded, the hard lines of his face softened by exhaustion. His presence filled the room, a storm quieted for the night.
Andre's grip tightened around the doorframe.
Why was he here again? Why laying there as if he owns my bed? Well technically he owns this house.
The silence was deafening, anticipation thick enough to choke.
And for the first time in years, Andre didn't know if stepping forward was safe… or inevitable. This was the first this man is intruding into his room without his presence, or maybe not but he caught him on it this time?.