Her phone vibrated violently against the wooden table.
The name on the screen glared at her.
Gu Jianhong.
Her throat tightened, her chest heaving as the ringtone filled the small, sterile room. She didn't move. She let it ring, her gaze fixed on the pale hand she held.
After a few seconds, the screen went black.
She thought it was over—then the buzz came again. This time, a message lit up.
Jianhong: I miss you. Let's have dinner tonight, just us. I'll pick you up.
Her breath hitched. The words blurred in her tear-swollen eyes, but the meaning stabbed through clear as day. Sweet. Gentle. Like the man she had once believed in.
But now all she could see was the scene in the lobby—his arms wrapped around another woman, his smile carved for someone else.
Her hand clenched so tight around the phone that her knuckles went white. A cold, bitter laugh escaped her lips, jagged and broken.
"Dinner?" she whispered, her voice trembling with rage. "How much more do you want to toy with me, Jianhong?"
Instead of replying, she swiped to her contacts. Her thumb hovered for a second, then pressed firmly on a saved number.
The line clicked.
"Lawyer Han," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "I'm ready. Let's go forward with the case. But…" Her gaze drifted back to her father, his face pale under the harsh hospital lights. "…my father can't be harmed. I want this matter closed cleanly."
A pause, then a warm, confident chuckle came from the other side.
"I understand, Miss Jun. I'm glad you've finally decided. Don't worry—we will win. You have my word."
Her hand trembled as she lowered the phone, ending the call. For a long moment she sat in silence, listening to the steady beep of the monitor.
Then she bent forward, resting her forehead lightly on the back of her father's frail hand.
"Dad…" Her voice was soft but filled with iron. "I won't bow to anyone. Not anymore."
The vow hung in the air, firm and unshakable, as her tears slid silently onto the sheets.
---
The oil lamp flickered weakly, its flame fighting against the damp night air. Chu Lian sat by the low wooden bed, balancing a chipped bowl in her small hands. Steam no longer rose from the thin porridge inside—it had cooled long ago.
"Grandma, just one more spoon," she coaxed softly, lifting the bowl closer. Her voice was gentle, careful, as if it might break the frail woman lying beneath the patched quilt.
Her grandmother's cloudy eyes blinked open. "Lian'er, you eat. You're growing… you need more than I do."
Chu Lian shook her head quickly, her lips curving into a smile that didn't reach her tired eyes. "I already ate, Grandma. See?" She patted her stomach, making a playful face. "I'm full. You have to finish, or I'll get scolded."
A faint chuckle escaped the old woman, though it dissolved into a cough that bent her thin frame. Chu Lian steadied her, the smile never leaving her face. She brought the spoon to her grandmother's lips and waited patiently until she swallowed. Only when the bowl was emptied did Chu Lian breathe in relief.
She set it aside, her movements quiet and precise, as if afraid to disturb the fragile peace of the room. Her stomach clenched painfully, but she ignored it. In the corner, a basket sat empty—no bread, no rice, not even wild greens tonight.
The rain outside drummed steadily on the broken roof. A drop slipped through the leak and splashed onto Chu Lian's wrist. She wiped it away quickly, glancing at her grandmother, who had already drifted back into a shallow sleep.
In the dim light, Chu Lian's face softened. She tucked the quilt higher around her grandmother's shoulders and whispered, "Don't worry, Grandma. Tomorrow I'll find something better for us. You'll see."
Her voice was steady, but when she turned away, her expression cracked. She pressed a hand against her hollow stomach, her body trembling with exhaustion.
For a long moment she simply sat there, back against the wall, staring at the flickering lamp. Her lashes glistened, but no tears fell. She had no time to cry.
In that cramped, leaking room, with hunger gnawing at her belly, Chu Lian smiled into the darkness—small, stubborn, and unbearably fragile.