Wang's Pov.
When we landed in Washington, the first thing I did was disconnect my line.
It was easier that way. Safer—for Zhan.
If he couldn't reach me, he couldn't be dragged back into this mess. And I... I could pretend I was doing the right thing. Distance was protection, even if it felt like punishment.
I buried myself in work, staying late, saying little. I kept my head down and my heart locked.
Then Lusi got sick.
At first, I didn't care. I thought it was stress, maybe her theatrics again. But when my mother confirmed she was pregnant... Everything went still.
The night she drugged me came rushing back—slurred memories, hazy movements, the overwhelming feeling of something stolen.
Now that one night had become something my mother celebrated. A life she adored. A legacy she praised.
And that...
That was all she'd get from me.
Not my heart. Not my loyalty.
Just silence. Compliance.
And a name I no longer recognized when I looked in the mirror.
Some nights, I'd sit on the edge of the bed, lights off, fingers curled around the necklace I never took off.
Zhan bought it for me when things were still... soft. Still ours. I wore it under my clothes, close to my heart, like a secret no one could touch.
The sketchbooks were buried in my suitcase, but I found myself pulling them out when the world felt too loud.
Every page was me, the way he looked at the world like it still had beauty left in it.
I didn't open them often. Because when I did, I remembered too much.
I was barely in the door before my mother called me into the living room. Lusi was already there, seated like a queen, one hand on her small but noticeable bump.
"We need to talk," my mother said. Her tone was clipped, her eyes sharper than usual.
"I'm tired," I muttered, brushing past.
"You've been tired for months," Lusi snapped. "You barely look at me. You barely speak. Do you hate us that much?"
I turned, slowly. "I never said I hated anyone."
"You don't have to," she bit back. "You're punishing me. For what? For a night you can't even remember clearly?"
"You drugged me," I said quietly, coldly. "That's what I remember."
My mother stood. "And from that night came a child. My grandchild. That should matter to you."
I laughed—bitter, low, joyless. "It matters. But it doesn't erase what you both did."
"You're being dramatic," Lusi scoffed.
"No," I said, stepping closer, my voice barely above a whisper, "I'm being silent. And silence is the only kindness I have left."
The room went quiet for a beat, thick with words that no one dared say.
Then Lusi shifted, straightening her back like she was preparing for a performance. "I have an antenatal appointment next week," she said, watching me carefully. "I want you to come with me."
I blinked at her, tired already.
"My mom can do that," I replied flatly. "Happily, I'm sure."
Her mouth parted, stunned, then curled into something sharp. "Wang—"
But I was already walking away.
"I'm not doing this for show," I said over my shoulder. "You got what you wanted. My mother got what she wanted. That's all there is."
I didn't wait for a reply. I left.
Back in my room, I closed the door and dropped to the floor. My fingers found the necklace again, pressing it to my chest like it could hold me together.
I crawled to my wardrobe, removed the sketchbook from my bag, and opened it. The first page was a drawing of me—one Zhan had sketched while pretending not to look.
God, he was always looking.
And now I was the one haunted by it.
I stared at the sketch, my face on the page drawn with such tenderness it almost felt like a lie.
I flipped to the next one. And the next. Moments we thought would last. Laughing under the rain. Holding hands in secret. His handwriting scrawled on the corner of a page: "He doesn't know how beautiful he is when he's angry."
My throat tightened.
I tried to swallow it down. Tried to blink it away. But it came anyway.
The first sob broke out of me before I could stop it—violent and choking. I clutched the sketchbook to my chest, curling over it like it could bring him back. Like it could forgive me.
"I'm sorry," I whispered through gritted teeth. "I'm so damn sorry, Zhan..."
The walls didn't answer. Neither did the silence.
I cried until I couldn't breathe.
Until my shoulders ached.
Until there was nothing left in me but the hollow thud of my heartbeat and the ache of everything I'd lost.
The necklace slipped from under my shirt, cold against my chest.
I held it, shaking, and whispered again, quieter this time.
"I miss you."
And in that moment, I knew the truth. No amount of silence would ever be enough to kill what I still felt.
I didn't hear the door open.
Didn't hear the soft footsteps crossing the room.
Only when a quiet voice broke the silence did I look up—eyes red, chest tight, tears drying on my cheeks.
"Wang..."
It was my father.
He stood just inside the door, watching me. Not with judgment. Not with anger.
Just... sadness.
I wiped my face quickly, embarrassed. But the sketchbook was still open, the necklace still visible, and the damage was already done.
"I didn't mean to intrude," he said softly, walking over and sitting beside me on the floor, his back against the wall like mine.
He didn't speak for a while. Just sat with me, the silence between us not as heavy as the one I carried alone.
Then, finally, he said, "You love him, don't you?"
I closed my eyes. "Yeah," I whispered.
He nodded. "I figured. I've known for a while. The way you smiled when you were still together ... and the way you stopped smiling after he left."
I swallowed hard.
"I wanted to fight for him," I choked. "I wanted to choose him. But everything—my mother, Lusi, just crashed down at once. And I couldn't protect him from all of it."
My father was quiet again before he said, "You thought hurting him would keep him safe."
I looked at him. "Did I do the right thing?"
He sighed. "There's no easy answer to that. Protecting the people we love sometimes means hurting ourselves—or them. But the truth is, Wang, doing the right thing doesn't always mean doing the kind thing."
He glanced at the sketchbook in my lap. "But if it's eating you alive... maybe it's time to stop pretending you're okay."
I let that sink in.
And for the first time in months, I didn't feel completely alone.
My father leaned his head back against the wall and let out a quiet breath like he was carrying the weight of years he never spoke of.
"If I knew it was this serious," he said, voice low, "maybe I'd have let you run away with him... to some remote village. Not Canada."
I blinked, surprised. "You would've let me go?"
He gave a dry chuckle. "Son, I grew up in a time where loving the wrong person was punishable by shame or silence. I didn't want that for you."
He paused, then added, "But your mother... she's loud. Controlling. She wanted a legacy. A perfect image. And you've always been the golden boy in her plan."
"I didn't want any of this," I whispered. "Not the wedding. Not the pregnancy. None of it. I just wanted... him."
"I know," he said. "And I failed you by not speaking up. I let your mother decide your future like it was hers to live."
He turned to look at me, eyes soft. "But it's not too late, Wang. You're still breathing. You still have time to fight for what you want, even if it's messy. Even if it scares the hell out of you."
I stared at him, voice trembling. "What if he hates me?"
"Then you apologize," he said gently. "You lay your pride down and show him you mean it. If you can't have him back, at least let him know you tried."
I looked at the sketchbook again, the drawing staring back like a memory frozen in time.
"I don't even know where to start."
My father placed a hand on my shoulder. "Start with the truth, Wang. Always start there."
"I don't even know where to start," I said again, my voice barely above a whisper.
My father looked at me, something heavier settling in his eyes.
"Start with the truth, Wang," he repeated. "But... be careful."
He hesitated before adding, "Your mother... she would hurt him."
I froze.
"I don't mean physically," he clarified, "though I wouldn't put it past her if she felt cornered. But emotionally, politically—reputation, career, family. She's mastered the art of destruction dressed as concern."
I swallowed hard, a cold knot forming in my stomach.
"She knows Zhan matters to you," he continued. "And anything that matters to you becomes leverage in her eyes. It's not love, Wang. It's control. And if you give her an opening... she'll aim where it hurts most."
My fingers tightened around the necklace.
"So, what do I do?" I asked, the helplessness creeping into my voice. "If I reach out, she'll know. If I don't... I'll lose him forever."
My father looked at me, steady and quiet. Then he said, "You protect him, even if it means staying in the shadows a little longer. But don't let go completely. Find your way to him—carefully, quietly, fiercely."
Then he added, "And when the time comes, when you're strong enough to stop being your mother's son... be his."
"Thanks, Dad," I said, voice hoarse, my fingers still wrapped around the sketchbook. "This... this means a lot to me."
He gave me a faint smile, the kind that said he was trying to make up for lost time.
"Start by hiding the sketchbook," he said gently. "And take the necklace off—for now. It doesn't mean you're letting go. It just means you're protecting what matters."
I hesitated, then nodded. "Okay."
I stood, walked over to my closet, and slid the sketchbook into the bottom drawer, beneath some old clothes. I unclasped the necklace, pausing as the cool metal brushed my skin one last time before I wrapped it in a handkerchief and tucked it beside the book.
It felt wrong—like severing a lifeline—but my father was right. Some wars needed patience, not noise.
"A drink would be good for the mood," Dad said, standing and stretching his back with a quiet grunt. "I think we both need one."
I followed him down to the kitchen. The lights were dim, the house too quiet for a place supposedly filled with new life. The irony wasn't lost on me.
He poured us each a glass—whiskey, aged and familiar—and slid one across the counter.
"To the truth," he said, raising his glass.
I tapped mine gently against his. "To survive it."
We drank in silence for a while. Not the heavy kind, not anymore. This one was warm. Easier. Like maybe, for once, I wasn't the only one carrying the weight.