The morning air in the villa district was crisp, but it brought no clarity to George.
He stood by the curb, his long grey coat fluttering like the wings of a restless bird in the wind.
He had been calling Shu Yao for over an hour. Device switched off.
Fear, cold and sharp, began to perforate his composure. Shu Yao was the type to answer even a ghost's call out of politeness; for his phone to be dark was an omen.
George's polished blonde hair caught the morning light as he ducked into his car, his light green eyes clouded with a frantic, internal storm.
"To Chen Street," George commanded, his voice tight. "Drive. Now."
The driver nodded, sensing the suppressed panic in the man who was usually the pillar of the Rothenberg family.
The engine roared to life, and the car vanished from the curb, racing against a clock George didn't yet realize was already at zero.
At the Rothenberg industry's, the atmosphere was vastly different.
Ming Su glided through the glass atrium like a queen returning to her throne. To the world, she was the new, vital business partner. To herself, she was the architect of a slow-motion execution.
Her plan was elegant: infiltration through affection. She would occupy Bai Qi's penthouse, his villa, and his very mind until she had the keys to the kingdom. Then, she would burn it down.
She was a vision of ivory and ink—a black silk blouse paired with a white umbrella coat that she left daringly unbuttoned.
Her heels clicked against the marble with the precision of a metronome. Behind her, Naina, her assistant, struggled to keep pace, her arms full of a designer bag that held little more than Ming Su's predatory intent.
"Can you walk faster?" Ming Su snapped, her voice a sharp contrast to her delicate face.
Naina flinched, her shoulders hunching as she scurried forward. Ming Su watched the girl's fear.
with a satisfied smirk.
Better.
Shu Yao had reached the lobby through sheer, agonizing willpower. He had descended the stairs—avoiding the elevator's crushing silence—on legs that felt like splintering glass.
He saw her the moment she entered. The lobby erupted in whispers of admiration.
Ming Su wore a smile that was a perfect, crystalline mimicry of the late Qing Yue. It was a masterpiece of deception.
Shu Yao waited in her path. He was a ghost in the machine, a pale, trembling obstacle.
Ming Su stopped abruptly in front of him. Her eyes widened in a choreographed display of shock. She pressed a slender hand to her mouth, her voice dropping into a soft, melodic gasp.
"My, my, Mr. Shu," she murmured, her tone dripping with fake concern. "You don't look well at all."
Shu Yao turned his head away, the smell of her perfume—so similar to a memory he cherished—making him feel physically ill.
"Can we talk?" Shu Yao whispered. "For a moment."
Ming Su's brow knitted in a frown of feigned worry. She stepped closer, her hand landing on his shoulder like a spider. Shu Yao flinched, recoiling from the touch as if it had burned him.
Ming Su gasped again, her hands returning to her face. "Oh! I am so sorry... I didn't mean to startle you."
"I want you to," Shu Yao breathed, his voice barely a thread of sound. "Talk."
Ming Su's eyes flickered. For a fraction of a second, the mask slipped, and a sharp, predatory smirk touched her lips—unseen by the crowd. She instantly smoothed it over.
"Of course," she cooed. "Why not?"
Shu Yao turned his back, his movements stiff and mechanical. "Follow me."
As they walked toward a secluded service hallway, Ming Su trailed behind, her voice a light, conversational chime.
"Well, Mr. Shu... did Bai Qi give you too much work? You look quite spent."
Shu Yao's heart hammered against his ribs. Bai Qi. She used his name with such casual intimacy, a privilege Shu Yao had earned through years of devotion and she had stolen in a single night.
They reached the shadows of the rear hallway. Shu Yao turned. His eyes were raw, red-rimmed from relentless tears, and the crescents beneath them looked like bruises.
"What is your purpose?" Shu Yao demanded. His voice cracked, dry and brittle, like parchment pulled too tight.
Ming Su did not answer at once.
Her brows drew together slowly, a faint crease forming between them as if she were genuinely turning the question over in her mind. She tilted her head, eyes drifting away from Shu Yao for a heartbeat—thinking, weighing, deciding how much to reveal.
"Purpose…?" she echoed at last, softly. There was no mockery in her tone, only mild puzzlement, carefully curated. Her gaze returned to him, wide and unreadable.
"What do you mean by that, Mr. Shu?"
"I know," Shu Yao gasped, his chest heaving.
"I know you are pretending.
You are... you are betraying my friend."
He struggled with the word friend. Bai Qi was his soul, his master, his everything—but in front of this woman, "friend" was the only shield he had left.
Ming Su's eyes narrowed. The "sweet" light in them began to dim, replaced by a cold, calculating frost.
"What friend, Mr. Shu?"
"The one whose name you speak so freely," Shu Yao speak louder, his indignation momentarily outweighing his exhaustion. "I heard you. Yesterday evening. On the phone."
The air in the hallway turned frigid.
Ming Su stilled. She searched her memory—the call with Shen Haoxuan. A slow, dark realization dawned on her. The little secretary had been listening.
Her entire composure didn't just crack; it dissolved. She tilted her head to the side, a slow, unnatural movement, and crossed her arms over her chest.
"Well, well," she murmured, her voice dropping an octave, losing its melodic sweetness.
"It seems I got carried away a little. I didn't think the mouse was so close to the hole."
Shu Yao's hands trembled. The smirk she wore now was venomous.
"If you know," Ming Su continued, stepping into his personal space, "then the game changes.
And because of that You I have no choice left, Shu Yao."
Shu Yao's jaw tightened. His hands curled at his sides, knuckles whitening as he forced the tremor out of his voice.
"I'll tell him," he said. Not loud—steadfast. "I'll make him believe what you're up to."
For a moment, Ming Su only watched him.
Then the tension in her brow eased. The corners of her mouth lifted, just slightly—not a smile, but something colder. Amused.
"Believe?" she echoed softly.
She didn't step back. If anything, she leaned in closer, utterly unbothered.
"Go on," Ming Su murmured. "Try."
She leaned in, her eyes boring into his. "If you try to expose me, I will make it look like you are the traitor. I will strip you of every ounce of pride you have left. I will make you a pariah in this city."
Shu Yao swallowed hard, the bile rising in his throat.
"Do whatever you want with me.
But...
but leave him alone."
She cut him, of by pulling away from shu Yao trembling figure.
"My purpose," Ming Su whispered, her voice a serrated edge, "is to remove Bai Qi from this company. To erase him. But I'll do it my way—with him thanking me as I pull the rug from under his feet."
"I won't let you," Shu Yao cried.
Ming Su turned on her ivory heels, the movement sharp and dismissive.
"Try then,"
she threw back over her shoulder.
"But remember this, Little Secretary: you will either give up, or you will die.
There is no third option."
She walked away, her heels clicking a triumphant rhythm. Naina followed silently, a witness to a murder of the soul.
Meanwhile, George's car screeched to a halt in front of Shu Yao's house. He didn't wait for the driver to open the door; he surged out, his grey coat snapping like a whip in the morning breeze.
He hammered on the door, but the silence that answered was hollow. With trembling hands, he fished out the spare key—a token of trust he had held—and threw the door open.
He froze. Juju, the small ginger cat, was sitting like a stone sentinel directly in front of the threshold. The animal didn't meow; it simply stared at George with wide, accusing eyes, its fur slightly ruffled as if it had been waiting in that exact spot for an eternity.
George stepped inside, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The house was a tomb.
The air was stale, untouched by the warmth of a living presence. He scanned the kitchen—everything was hushed, the counters gleaming with a clinical, terrifying cleanliness.
"He hasn't been here," George whispered, the realization sinking into his bones like ice.
He moved on instinct, filling Juju's bowl with a trembling hand, his eyes stinging. The cat began to eat with a desperate hunger that confirmed George's darkest fears: Shu Yao wasn't home.
He took the stairs two at a time, bursting into the bedroom. The bed was perfectly made, the sheets taut and unwrinkled. It was a cold, visual confirmation of a night spent elsewhere.
"Damn it!" George cursed, his voice cracking in the empty room. "If I hadn't been buried in those cursed contracts... if I had just checked on him..."
He whipped out his phone, dialing the familiar number for the twentieth time.
The mobile you are calling is switched off.
He let out a guttural growl of frustration, nearly smashing the device against the wall. He stumbled downstairs and back out to the car, his mind a whirlwind of static. Where could he be?
Shu Yao was fragile, still reeling from the trauma of the elevator, his body a map of healing scars. He wasn't a wanderer. He was a creature of habit and safety.
Then, a jagged thought pierced the static.
George's eyes narrowed. He fumbled with his phone, his fingers slick with cold sweat, and dialed Bai Qi number.
At the Rothenberg headquarters, Bai Qi sat in his leather chair, the silence of his office finally restored. The irritation from Shu Yao's earlier "delusions" had faded into a dull hum.
His phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen: Uncle George.
Bai Qi sighed, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face. His relationship with his uncle was a delicate balance of respect and distance. Why would he be calling this early? He pressed the receiver to his ear.
"Yes?" Bai Qi said, his voice clipped and professional.
"Bai Qi!" George's voice exploded through the line, frantic and raw. "Bai Qi, listen to me!"
Bai Qi straightened, his brow knitting together. "What is the matter, Uncle? Why are you shouting?"
"Shu Yao," George breathed, his voice trembling. "Did he... did he come to work?"
Bai Qi stiffened. He remembered the wreck in the hallway, the red-rimmed eyes, the desperate grip on his elbows.
He remembered the "lifetime dismissal" he had delivered with such cold precision only an hour ago.
"Yes," Bai Qi replied, his voice hardening.
George felt his heart skip a beat, a sickening mixture of relief and fury. "He's there? How... how can he be there? He was in no condition to walk, let alone show up at that damn building!"
"What are you talking about?" Bai Qi snapped, his own temper beginning to flare. "He came to work yesterday morning. Because of a significant error, I assigned him a corrective workload. He has been working through the night. He only just finished."
The silence on the other end of the line was deafening. It was the silence of a man realizing he was speaking to a monster.
"Working... through the night?"
George's voice dropped to a hiss, a sound of pure, unadulterated venom.
"You kept that boy—that traumatized, starving boy—locked in a room working for twenty-four hours straight?"
"He had a task to complete, Uncle . It's business," Bai Qi countered, though a small, nagging part of him flinched at his uncle's tone.
"He is free now. I've dismissed him."
"You... you arrogant, blind brat!" George roared.
Bai Qi didn't wait for the rest. He clicked the phone shut, the sound of his uncle's rage cutting off into a dead dial tone. He stared at the device, his jaw clenched.
How am I supposed to live when everyone treats me like I am the true villain?
Inside the car, George stared at his phone in disbelief. The line was dead.
"Damn it!" he screamed, his fist slamming into the leather upholstery. "You brat! You may be my brother's son, but you are a goddamn demon!"
He looked up at the driver, his eyes blazing with a green fire.
"The Rothenberg tower! Now! Drive like the devil is chasing you!"
The driver didn't hesitate. The car lurched forward, weaving through the morning traffic with reckless speed.
George turned his head sharply toward the window, the city blurring into a streak of morning light's.
His mind was an altar of guilt. While he had slept peacefully in his silk sheets, Shu Yao had been enduring a marathon of exhaustion under the thumb of a man who didn't know the meaning of mercy.
"If something happens to him," George whispered, his hands curling into white-knuckled fusts. "If he has collapsed because of your ego, Bai Qi... I swear to God, I will break your jaw myself."
The lavish glass tower of the Rothenberg Industries appeared on the horizon, gleaming like a jagged tooth against the sky. George watched it, his heart pounding a single name over and over again.
Shu Yao. Hold on. Please, just hold on.