Chapter 71 – Fault Lines Beneath Calm
The drive away from the venue was silent.
Zhen Yichen sat in the backseat, one hand resting against the cool glass of the window, watching the city lights smear into streaks of gold and shadow as the car moved steadily forward. The hum of the engine was low and even—unobtrusive, controlled.
Exactly how he liked it.
Predictable.
Yet his pulse refused to slow.
Mo Han's voice echoed in his mind with irritating clarity, as though the man were still seated across from him, eyes sharp with amusement and concern alike.
You cracked.
Yichen closed his eyes briefly.
He hadn't cracked.
He had simply… miscalculated.
He had not expected Andre to be there—not at the event, not in that deliberate position, not watching him with such unsettling calm. Andre had not looked surprised. He had not looked uncertain.
He had looked as though the encounter had been inevitable.
As though Yichen himself had walked straight into a trap laid long before tonight.
And worse—his own reaction.
The hitch in his breath.
The tightening in his chest.
The split second where instinct had overridden reason, where his feet had stopped instead of carrying him away.
That moment of hesitation was the true failure.
"Sir," the driver spoke carefully, breaking the heavy silence. "We're nearing the residence."
Yichen opened his eyes. "Mm."
The car slowed. When it finally came to a stop, Yichen stepped out without another word. The night air brushed against his skin, cool and grounding. The familiar gates loomed ahead, iron and stone standing like sentinels. His estate was quiet, immaculate—unchanged.
Ordered.
Untouched by chaos.
Yet the moment he entered his study, the illusion shattered.
He loosened his tie, movements sharp and precise, as though control could be restored through habit alone. He poured himself a drink, though he had no intention of finishing it. The glass trembled faintly as he set it down on the desk.
Andre's face surfaced in his mind without warning.
Not smiling.
Not pleading.
Watching.
As though Yichen were a puzzle already half-solved.
Yichen turned away abruptly, jaw tightening.
"This is absurd," he muttered to the empty room.
He had faced far worse than this—hostile boardrooms, internal betrayals, men who smiled warmly while sharpening knives behind their backs. Desire was nothing. A weakness. A distraction.
Something he could excise if he chose.
So why hadn't he?
______
Andre arrived at his mother's house just after midnight.
His mother's, he corrected silently.
Because after the night everything had come to light, Zhen Yichen had not returned.
According to his mother, the house had always been under her name. Yichen had sent his guards to pack his belongings quietly, efficiently—without confrontation. He had moved out without a word.
Andre suspected he knew why.
Perhaps Yichen wasn't ready to face Celia.
Or perhaps—Andre thought darkly—he wasn't ready to face him.
The familiar gates slid open, and warmth greeted Andre as he stepped inside. The house breathed with quiet comfort, filled with the subtle scent of jasmine and old books. It felt like a memory he hadn't realized he missed until now.
The lights were still on.
"You're late," his mother said from the living room, her voice calm, soft—but observant.
Andre paused at the doorway.
Celia sat with a book resting in her lap, glasses perched low on her nose. When she looked up, her gaze softened instantly. That familiar expression—doting, worried, gentle—hit him harder than expected.
"I got held up," he said.
She hummed quietly. "You always do."
Andre shrugged off his jacket, draping it over a chair. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn't uncomfortable, just heavy—laden with things neither had voiced.
Then she asked, "How was the event?"
Andre stilled.
"It was fine."
She smiled faintly. "Good."
She rose and moved toward the kitchen, glancing back at him. "Are you hungry? I made dinner. I was waiting for you."
"No, I'm fine," Andre replied quickly. "I ate at the event."
He added, softer, "You don't need to wait up so late for me, Mom. I'm okay."
She stopped and turned to face him fully.
"I need to," she said firmly. "I'm worried about you."
Andre frowned slightly.
"Anytime I call to check on you, you sound tired. Drained. And now—" her eyes swept over him carefully, "—you look tense."
He exhaled through his nose and sat across from her, leaning back into the couch.
Silence filled the room.
It stretched longer than either of them expected.
"I'm fine," he said at last, shortly.
Celia smiled faintly. "That's not what I said."
She tilted her head slightly. "And besides, you don't look fine."
Andre didn't answer.
"Ani," she said softly, using the name she had called him since childhood. "If everything that's happened lately has been too much… I'm sorry. It's my fault."
He looked at her sharply.
"I never wanted you to carry this alone," she continued. "You can talk to me. You know that."
Andre stared at her for a long moment.
Maybe it was the quiet. Maybe it was the alcohol still lingering faintly in his system from the toasts earlier that night. Or maybe it was simply exhaustion.
For once, the words didn't come easily.
"There's… something," he admitted slowly. "Someone."
Celia's eyes widened, unmistakably startled.
"That sounds new," she said, genuinely caught off guard.
Really new.
She had not expected her son—her guarded, controlled son—to say something like that.
"No," Andre replied quietly. "It doesn't."
She studied him, curiosity replacing surprise. "And that's why it troubles you."
Andre said nothing.
Celia closed her eyes briefly, then leaned forward slightly, her voice gentle but serious. "You've always been in control of your emotions, Andre. Even as a child. When you want something, you don't chase it blindly. You plan. You wait."
She paused.
"But right now?" Her gaze sharpened with concern. "You look like you're standing on a fault line."
Andre's fingers twitched.
"That's new," she added softly. "This person… they must be someone special. Someone you truly care about, for you to look like this for days."
She hesitated, then asked gently, "Did they reject you?"
The word struck closer than he liked.
After several seconds of silence, he answered, "No."
He swallowed. "I don't know what I want."
Celia smiled softly. "That's not true."
She reached out, resting her hand lightly over his. "I know you, my son. You know what you want."
Her gaze deepened. "What you don't know… is what it will cost."
Andre's fingers curled slowly into his palm.
She was right.
And that terrified him.
He looked at her—how worried she was, how open, how gentle. He wondered what her reaction would be if she knew the truth.
That the man she thought he might like… was Zhen Yichen.
Her ex-husband.
Fake or not.
Andre doubted she would still be looking at him with such softness.
But the thought only hardened something inside him.
I don't care, he thought coldly.
I want him.
And as he sat there, another thought surfaced—calculated, deliberate.
If his mother stayed here, Yichen would never fully disappear from their lives.
Italy would put distance between them.
Andre couldn't allow that.
Not yet.
Miles away, Zhen Yichen sat alone in his study, lights dimmed, documents untouched.
He thought of Celia.
Of Andre.
Of the promise he had made—to protect them both from his grandfather's reach.
But protection required distance.
And distance was something Andre clearly had no intention of respecting.
Yichen closed his eyes, jaw tight.
This situation was already slipping beyond his control.
And for the first time in years, that realization unsettled him.