The air inside the study was too still, too heavy.
Xue Zhen stood before his grandfather, fists clenched behind his back. He'd stormed in without waiting to be invited—something no one in the family ever dared to do.
But Zhen had stopped caring about protocol the moment he realized they'd all known.
"How did the Third Branch find out about Ning's adoption?" he demanded.
Grandpa didn't look up from his tea. "It doesn't matter."
Zhen's voice turned sharp. "It matters now. They will weaponize it in front of the board."
A pause.
Then, with maddening calm, the old man replied,
"I underestimated Minglan's son. I didn't think he'd get his hands on the Second House's share registry."
Zhen stepped forward, disbelief flashing in his eyes. "So you knew?"
"She's not a blood heir."
Zhen froze.
"She's still legally part of this family," he said slowly. "By law. By name. She's loyal. She's capable. She built this House alongside me. Or is that not enough for you?"
Grandpa finally looked at him.
Unmoved. Unbothered.
"Don't confuse convenience with kinship, Zhen. You're smart enough to know the difference."
Zhen said nothing for a long time.
Then, with a voice quieter than before—but sharper than ever:
"I thought you were the only one in this family who saw clearly, Grandpa."
He turned to leave.
And for the first time,
Zhen didn't bow.
⸻
Xue Ning returned everything.
Her stocks, her position, her company car, her titles. Every single asset registered under her name was re-signed back into the Xue Consortium's holdings.
She left with nothing but two suitcases and a one-way ticket abroad.
No press release. No goodbye dinner. No fanfare.
A week into her new country, her health began to fail. First, it was just fatigue. Then came the fainting spells, the sudden weight loss, the persistent low fever that wouldn't go away.
Xue Zhen didn't even know until a month had passed.
He tried to reach her. Left messages. Sent Mr. Yuwen once. The old man returned with nothing but a shrug and the familiar line—
"She needs rest, not your chaos."
Still, she never called back.
And so he buried himself in the empire she left behind.
⸻
Each day he entered her office with her name still engraved on the door.
Each night, he left it darker and lonelier than it used to be.
At first it was only his mood. A sharper edge to his voice. A coldness in meetings. But soon it seeped into his body like a silent infection.
Fatigue gnawed at him in ways it never had before.
Dominant Alphas weren't supposed to feel fatigue.
They were built for endurance. Their systems naturally reinforced. Their instincts sharp. Their bodies wired for war and work and everything in between.
And yet—here he was.
Waking up already tired. Muscles heavy. Thoughts heavier.
Fingers trembling when he held a pen too long.
Hunger became a formality.
Sleep a rumor.
He blamed the stress. The grief. The endless board meetings.
But then he started noticing the real betrayal.
His pheromones—once so potent they could bring an entire room to heel—had dulled.
First, it was subtle: board members no longer tensing when he entered; rivals no longer breaking eye contact.
Then it was obvious: his scent all but gone from his own office, like a signature erased from paper.
And he didn't know why.
No injuries. No poison. No suppressant injections.
Just a slow, hollowing-out.
And deep down, a quieter truth clawed its way to the surface:
She had been the last tether.
And when she left, something vital left with her.