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Chapter Text

By ten forty five, Chen Pinming had talked himself out of three imaginary mistakes and into one real knot in his stomach. President Sheng’s mood had been brittle all week. Lights two stops lower, coffee cooling untouched, meetings ending either five minutes early or ten minutes late like the clock itself was misbehaving. Chen had tried to be quieter than paper.

So when the elevator opened and a woman in a slate dress stepped out with a calm, good posture, Chen did what any decent gatekeeper would do.

“Good morning. Do you have an appointment?” he asked, the calendar already open on his tablet.

She shook her head. “I’m here to see President Sheng. He’s expecting me.”

He checked twice. Nothing. “Your name?”

“Jiang Liya.”

The name was not in the system. Before he could phrase a polite stall, a thread of scent reached him. Clean and cool, unmistakably green apple, as if someone had just peeled one in a cold kitchen. It was faint enough to make him doubt he had smelled anything at all.

“Please wait one moment,” he said, standing. He crossed to the inner door and knocked. “President Sheng? There’s a woman named Jiang Liya here to see you. She didn’t say what she wanted. Should I alert security?”

“Let her in,” President Sheng said, immediately.

Chen blinked. “Right away, sir.”

He brought her through. President Sheng looked up and something eased in his face. Not much. A millimeter from the eyes, a degree from the jaw.

“Ms. Jiang,” he said. “Thank you for coming.”

“President Sheng.” She dipped her head and stopped exactly two paces inside the office.

“Close the door, Chen,” he said. “Stay.”

Chen did. He was confused, which was normal; he was also curious, which was dangerous.

“We’ll keep this simple,” President Sheng said, voice in agenda mode. “Ms. Jiang will be working inside my office.”

Chen’s brain tried to place her in one of the vacant rooms down the hall, failed, and stalled. “Shouldn’t we assign her an office, sir?”

“No.” Sheng’s gaze went to the windows. “She’ll work in here.”

“Then… a desk on the floor?”

“There.” He pointed to the narrow strip beside the blinds and the tripod lamp, the drafty corner everyone avoided. “A temporary console. No drawers. Move the computer to the credenza.”

Chen hesitated. “Do you want me to request a workstation for Ms. Jiang?”

“No separate machine. She’s an intern under Admin and we’re under a client security restriction. One terminal in this room only. She’ll use mine when necessary. Don’t loop Procurement.”

A small trapdoor opened under Chen’s shoes. “Of course, sir.” He swallowed. “Do you want me to—”

“I’ll handle her training myself.” Not unkind, but final. “You worry about your own job.”

Chen felt the words land and tried to keep them off his face. “Understood, President Sheng.”

President Sheng turned to the woman. “Guidelines. You will handle reception spillover, paper intake, and keeping this room comfortable. Lights and airflow. You are onboard as an intern under Admin, and you will attend all of my meetings as Admin Support.”

He set the analog clock on the console, glanced at it once, then back to her. “I will assign anything else as needed.”

“Yes,” she said, gentle and steady. Up close, the green note cooled the air around the lamp; under it, something woody flashed and was gone. “Do you want the monitor angled here for when you need it?”

“There,” he said, indicating the credenza. “We’ll pull it over when necessary.”

Chen took the cue and escaped into movement. He fetched the spare console from storage, rolled it to the spot near the window, and made a desk out of almost nothing: analog clock angled toward the room, legal pads, an in tray, a pen that wrote on the first try. From the doorway the setup barely read as furniture; inside, it felt like part of the room’s lungs.

“Angle the blinds two notches,” President Sheng said without looking. “And note the time.”

“Yes, President Sheng.” Jiang said.

“Secretary Chen, set HR,” President Sheng said, not looking over. “Onboard Secretary Jiang by end of day as an intern. Badge access to this floor and conference three. No shared inbox. And make sure she receives full employee benefits.”

“Even though she’s only an intern?”

“Just do what I ask.”

“On it,” Chen said, retreating and closing the door softly. At his station he typed: “Jiang Liya, Admin Intern. Worksite: President’s office.” He added “move monitor to credenza” and “no separate desk.” He almost wrote “ask why” and deleted it.

Chen updated the day’s schedule with hands that no longer shook. Then he set a private reminder: Make this look normal. Ask later. Not today.

From his chair he could just see the new console by the window. Lamp. Clock. Paper. A curl of light on the glass. The air in the office looked clearer, somehow.

He did not look at Secretary Jiang again. He did not need to. The faintest green note had already threaded itself through the morning, and Chen had the sudden, ridiculous thought that if anyone asked why, he would say it was the building.

And maybe that would even be true.

The room was already too bright when President Sheng said, “We will begin,” and Secretary Jiang took the seat by the vent like it belonged to her.

Chen sat two chairs down, tablet open to the agenda that had rearranged itself three times since breakfast. The client team filed in with smiles that did not reach their eyes. Someone asked for still water. Someone else said the air in this building was always clean. Small, harmless things.

“Thank you for making the time,” President Sheng said. Even. Courteous. The kind of tone that draws a meeting into a straight line.

Secretary Jiang had brought nothing but a short pencil and a half pad. When the client lead started through updates, she wrote three words, then looked up. Not at the speaker. At the room. The lights. The way sound slid across the glass table and hit the far wall.

A junior on the client side, He Yutong, tipped her chin toward Secretary Jiang. “Who is this?”

“Secretary Jiang,” President Sheng said. “Admin Support.”

“New,” He Yutong said.

“New,” he agreed, without apology.

Slides clicked by on the wall. Revenue lines, projections. All the familiar shapes. Chen entered the numbers before the speaker reached them. He could have done this with his eyes closed, and most days he did.

He noticed the first shift the way you notice a clock starting up again after a power cut. Not sound. Not movement. Just the moment when President Sheng said, lightly, “Secretary Jiang, I need some air,” the way a person might excuse a pause, and Secretary Jiang rose without hurry and moved to stand just behind his chair.

She didn’t touch the chair. She didn’t touch him. She only steadied her breathing, and the air around his seat eased, so slight that a bystander would miss it. A clean green-apple note reached him a heartbeat later, and then the room felt ordinary again.

The client lead did not stop talking. No one blinked. Chen wrote down the phrase product mix review and underlined it as if that were why his pulse had steadied.

He Yutong leaned toward Chen and kept her voice for him alone. “Do you smell apples?”

Chen did not look up. “Secretary Jiang is an Omega,” he said, mild as a weather report. “It has been fruit scents all morning. I’m surprised President Sheng isn’t making her suppress her pheromones.”

He Yutong shrugged. “At least it’s not overbearing like some fruit scents.”

Chen could only nod.

Two slides on, President Sheng said, “It is cold in here,” and Secretary Jiang returned to her seat, pencil quiet in her hand.

Chen looked down at his tablet until the urge to look anywhere else passed.

The meeting found its middle. Questions that were not questions. Answers both sides could sign their names to. He Yutong’s pen ran dry; she mouthed a curse into her notebook. Secretary Jiang slid a short pencil across the table without making a sound. He Yutong blinked, took it, and kept writing.

By the time they reached the budget page, the overhead was too bright. The client lead asked for a concession he had asked for last quarter and not gotten then, either. President Sheng did not sigh. He said, “We will not move that line,” gentle as a closed door.

A pause that wanted to be longer. Then the nod everyone knew was coming.

“It feels good in here,” President Sheng said, like a man tidying a sentence he meant to keep. Secretary Jiang stood again, that same distance to his shoulder, that same careful nothing of touch. The green note arrived a breath later. Not perfume. Not office citrus. The fresh cut of fruit with no sugar to it.

Chen marked a time stamp because that is the sort of thing you do when you do not know what else to do.

The concession reshaped itself into something with edges everyone could live with. The client lead smiled in the way that meant he would say something different to his own boss later. Secretary Jiang returned to her chair when President Sheng said, “It is cold in here.” It was a sentence, a courtesy, a full stop. No one in the room noticed except the person who had needed it and the person who had been waiting for it.

They reached closing words without fray. Chen sent the minutes to draft and looked up in time to see President Sheng rise with the same ease with which he had sat. No stretch. No tightness in the mouth. He offered the client his hand.

“Thank you.”

“We will follow up by Friday.”

“Safe travels.”

Chairs scraped. People gathered their things. Small, harmless things again.

In the hallway, Chen fell in beside Secretary Jiang while the clients waited for the elevator. “I will put the next session on the calendar,” he said, because that was neutral ground, and because he was still finding the edges of where she lived in this building.

“Thank you,” she said.

Up close the green note had thinned to almost nothing. If he had not been in the room, he would have called it imagination.

“Do you need a notebook,” he asked, because the half pad looked like a joke.

“I’m fine,” she said. Not cool. Not warm. A clear voice that did not ask to be believed.

The elevator chimed. The client team stepped in with their smiles and their silence. The doors closed.

President Sheng touched the edge of a frame on the wall and straightened it by a fraction no one else would have seen. “Reschedule the one thirty to two,” he said, not turning.

“Done,” Chen said, already moving it.

“Add Secretary Jiang to the review with Legal tomorrow.”

“On it.”

He started to say anything else and stopped. Questions were easy. This felt like the opposite of a question.

Back at his station, Chen sent the minutes, routed a copy to Legal, and flagged the two lines the client would try to reopen next week. He added Secretary Jiang to the attendee list and wrote Admin Support beside her name because the system wanted a label.

He looked across at the president’s office. From here he could see the console by the window. Lamp. Clock. Paper. The curl of light on the glass. Secretary Jiang stood where she had stood before, a quiet shape in the bright.

He typed one more note he would only ever read himself. Hold the room. Then he pressed send on the minutes, because that is how you keep a day together.

Chen was at his desk when it hit him again. Not faint. Thick. The green apple note that had threaded yesterday was sitting in the air like it had decided to live here. He wondered why President Sheng had not told Secretary Jiang to use suppressants. He wondered if she knew how strong her scent was getting or if this was what happened when the day had not settled yet.

“Walk with us,” President Sheng said, stepping out with Secretary Jiang on his left.

Chen grabbed his tablet and fell in on the right.

“We will start with access,” he told her. “Badge points and the rooms you will use. Secretary Chen, take notes.”

“On it,” Chen said.

Conference One first. “This room runs warm. Lights at forty. Vent on the north wall. If we are here, you take that corner.”

“Yes, President Sheng,” Secretary Jiang said.

Chen typed. C1 warm. Forty percent. Vent north. Her seat in the corner.

Across to Conference Two. “Over lit. Ignore the panel. Use the wall switch. If it hums, we move.”
C2 bright. Wall switch. Hum means move.

Conference Three with the long table. “Legal favors this room. You sit by the door.” 

“Noted,” she said.

They cut past Admin. A cork board leaned under forms no one used. “If anyone asks, your paperwork lives here,” President Sheng told her. “If they ask twice, send them to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Admin anchor, Chen wrote. Questions go to him.

Printer row next. He tapped the first machine. “This one jams. Do not trust the tray count.” He tapped the second. “This one lies about toner.”

Chen added both. Jammer. Liar.

The stairwell landing. “Camera here,” he said. “Blind spot on the landing. If you ever see someone waiting there, tell me.”

Logged. Camera. Blind spot. Report to him.

Mail room slot. “Couriers ignore this bin unless someone is standing there. If it is important, tell me and we will hand it over.”

Logged. Hand off if important.

They looped the mezzanine where small meetings pretended to be casual. Marketing was building a fruit tray like a color wheel. Someone had chosen green apples for the pop. Secretary Jiang glanced once and looked away.

“Do you need a shared inbox,” Chen asked, because the system would ask him anyway.

“No,” President Sheng said. “She will use mine when necessary.”

“Yes, President Sheng,” Chen said, marking the thing he had already marked yesterday.

The terrace no one used. He stopped at the threshold and nodded at the seats near the rail. “If we step out here, you stand by that chair.”

To Chen, “Remind Catering the coffee on this level is unacceptable.”

“Will do,” Chen said.

Back through the main corridor. Wellness room with the plant that was always about to die. “If you need a minute, use this room,” he told her. “Tell me before you leave the floor.”

“Yes, President Sheng.”

They reached the corner by the executive prints. He set a frame straight by a fraction no one else would have seen and kept walking. His answers stayed even, but his mouth had lost a shade of color. Chen filed the detail and did not say it out loud.

Washrooms, emergency stairs, the secondary exit Maintenance loved to block with mops. “If you find this blocked, tell me. I do not want it blocked.”

They passed the reception again. The morning smelled like toner and scorched toast from someone’s mistake. Under it, faint and clean, that green apple note from yesterday.

“Conference Four,” Chen prompted, keeping the tour moving.

“Runs cold,” President Sheng said. “Lights at sixty. Take the seat near the far vent.”

They were halfway back toward the office wing when he paused, hand on the rail of a low step the building never should have approved. He did not sway, but the pause was long enough to count.

“Sir,” Chen said.

“It is nothing,” he answered, mild as ever, and then, quiet and ordinary, like office housekeeping, “Secretary Jiang, sidebar.”

She matched his pace to the wellness room door and opened it for him. Chen stayed in the hall and set a two minute timer without knowing why. A Facilities tech pushed a cart past and looked relieved to find no one needed him. The timer ticked. The door eased open. Secretary Jiang came out first. President Sheng followed, color steadier.

“We will finish the essentials,” he said.

They did, briefly. Storage key box. AV cupboard. The little conference that always smelled like paint. Then the office wing.

“Secretary Chen,” he said, stopping at the prints again. “Confirm with Facilities about her badge points. Office, conference rooms, wellness, terrace. No server room. Send me the list.”

“Now?” Chen asked.

“Now,” he said. Then, to her, “Secretary Jiang, with me.”

“Yes, President Sheng.”

They turned the corner together, their pace matched without effort. Chen watched them go, then opened his tablet and sent the badge request with the exact rooms listed. He added her to every standing meeting for the week and wrote the note to Legal in language that made the day sound ordinary.

On his way back, he looked once into the president’s office as he sat down. The console by the window waited. Lamp. Clock. Paper. Her short pencil exactly where she had left it.

Hold the room, he typed in his private note, and pressed send to Facilities.

By midweek the building had learned the new rhythm. Secretary Jiang at the vent. The clock set straight. Calendars moving like a quiet tide. Meetings that used to fray now folded themselves along clean lines.

Monday, President Sheng said, “We will begin,” and two minutes later, “Thank you. Please continue.”

Tuesday, “Hold on that slide,” and then, “Please send the draft by Friday.”

Wednesday, a smooth “Sidebar,” the door easing shut, the door easing open, color steadier, voice even.

Chen routed minutes, moved holds, added her to everything and pretended this was what offices did when they were working well. The air smelled like toner and citrus cleaner and, some days, the scent of green apples that were not in any bowl. He told himself not to be rude and point it out to Secretary Jiang. It wasn’t an unpleasant smell; it was just all over President Sheng’s office.

How Sheng wasn’t bothered by the smell was beyond Chen.

It was the budget review with the client who always smiled like he was counting down. The room was too bright. Conference Two hummed the way Sheng had warned it would, but they had kept it because the larger rooms were full. Chen had a note to file a Facilities ticket. He would file it after.

They were halfway through the second page of concessions when the first beat went wrong. President Sheng paused on a number he could recite in his sleep. Just a fraction too long. He did not look down at his notes. He did not look at anyone at all.

Chen felt the pause land in his own chest.

“Secretary Jiang,” President Sheng said, very mild, “sidebar.”

She rose and opened the door. He stood. The client did not stop talking, which was the point of a good room. Chen said, “Hold on the budget slide,” and they obeyed like it had been on the agenda.

The hall swallowed them and did not give them back.

Two minutes. Three. Chen’s timer stuttered against his palm. He glanced at the door, at the vent, at the way the air always looks the same until it does not.

He Yutong leaned toward him and kept her voice low. “Is he all right?”

“He’s fine,” Chen said, because that was the word you used when there were no other words. “We’ill resume in a moment.”

Four minutes. Five. The client team began to shift in their seats, polite and restless at once.

Chen stood. “We will take five,” he said to the room. “Coffee and water in the hall.” He did not move toward the coffee. He moved toward the door.

It opened before he reached it. Secretary Jiang slipped back inside first and took her seat by the vent. No pencil. No pad. Her hands were empty and steady. President Sheng followed, color back but not all the way, a hand at the chair like he was reminding it how chairs work.

“Thank you,” he said, voice even. “Please continue.”

They continued, because people do when told. Chen sat. His timer kept counting in his pocket until he killed it.

The client pushed for the same concession he had pushed for last quarter. President Sheng said, “We will not move that line,” gentle as always. The nod came. The concession slid into a shape both sides could carry without cutting themselves. It was almost ordinary again.

Then the second beat went wrong.

A sound outside, like a cart hitting a doorstop, and President Sheng’s mouth thinned and went colorless. He did not look up. He said, almost pleasant, “The draft is way too much in here.”

Secretary Jiang was already standing.

She opened the door. He rose. The client lead finally stopped talking and said, “Should we break,” like a man offering a kindness he hoped would not be taken.

Chen said, “Yes. Five minutes. We are right on time,” and stood in front of the slide deck like a lectern could hold the room in place.

They were gone longer this time. The hall held them the way a hand holds water, not tight enough and too tight at once. Someone from Facilities rolled past with the liar printer’s tray, humming under his breath. He Yutong refilled her water and did not drink it.

Seven minutes. Eight.

When the door opened, Secretary Jiang entered first again. Her expression had not changed. President Sheng followed a step later. He touched the back of his chair and sat. He did not touch the table. He did not touch the glass of water that had not moved since the start of the hour.

“Thank you,” he said. “We’ll finish here.”

They did. The last items fell into place with the soft clicks of a lock that still works. Chen sent the minutes to draft without trusting his hands not to shake.

In the hall afterward, he fell in step beside Secretary Jiang while the clients collected their coats.

“Do you need anything?” he asked, because he needed to ask something.

“No,” she said.

Up close the apple had thinned to almost nothing, just a thought left over from a room. If he had not been there, he would have called it imagination.

“President Sheng,” Chen said when the clients were gone, “I can clear the rest of the afternoon.”

“No,” he said, mild as always. “No need.”

Chen nodded and did not argue, but stated, “I’ll move Finance to tomorrow,” he said instead, already doing it.

“You don’t have to,” Sheng said. He touched the edge of a frame and straightened it by a fraction. “Secretary Chen, please send me the list from Facilities when it arrives. And don’t cancel any more meetings today.”

“Understood, President Sheng.”

He wanted to say you went past five. He wanted to say eight. He wanted to say anything but what he said, which was, “Legal will want the updated draft by noon.”

“Then get it to them,” Sheng said.

Secretary Jiang stood a measured pace to his left. She did not speak. She watched the corridor the way a person watches a horizon.

Back at his station, Chen added buffer holds to the late afternoon blocks and told himself they were calendar housekeeping. He wrote to Facilities about the hum in Conference Two and the low step no one should have approved. He put a warning on the liar printer and a note on the jammer. He added a small hold each hour labeled air check and did not explain it to anyone.

He looked across at the console by the window. Lamp. Clock. Paper. A small frame turned slightly toward the wall — a man with windburned cheeks, a child in a red jacket, a dog mid blink. The short pencil waiting exactly where she had left it.

Hold the room, he typed in his private note, and set his own timer for four twelve tomorrow.

The lock clicked and the apartment breathed him in. Warm light, toy cars under the console, the clean smell of laundry that had been folded and then unfolded by small hands.

“Daddy,” Peanut shouted, socks skidding. He pressed his nose to Sheng’s sleeve. “Where are the green ones?”

“Green ones?”

“Apples. I can smell them.”

Sheng lifted him. “Didn’t Father feed you dinner?”

“I ate,” Peanut said. “I still want apples.”

Hua Yong’s voice came from the kitchen. “Are you accusing me of not feeding my own child?” He stood with a dish towel over one shoulder.

“I would never do that,” Sheng said, setting Peanut on the counter. He unbuttoned his jacket.

“You smell like fruit,” Hua Yong said.

“I ate fruit for lunch,” Sheng said. “One of the secretaries sent up a tray. I must have gotten juice on my sleeve.”

“What fruit?” Peanut asked.

“What secretary?” Hua Yong asked.

“Green apples,” Sheng said to Peanut, ignoring his husband’s question.

Peanut beamed. “Can I have one?”

“We don’t have any apples,” Sheng said.

“Yes we do. Right there,” Peanut insisted, pointing at the fruit bowl brimming with pears.

“There are pears,” Hua Yong said, eyes still on Sheng.

“Green apple,” Peanut whispered. “I want to eat it.”

Sheng rinsed a pear and sliced it thin. Peanut took a piece with both hands and sighed like a small king.

“Shen Wenlang called,” Hua Yong said, casually. “He said today’s meeting was quiet. He also said your new secretary smells like apples.”

Sheng kept his hand steady on the knife. “Admin sent an intern,” he said. “Paperwork things.”

“Mm.” Hua Yong stepped closer, still not touching him. “So the tray at lunch made your sleeve smell like the same apples Wenlang mentioned.”

“Apparently,” Sheng said. His mouth felt dry. “You know how clients are. Fruit and numbers.”

Peanut pressed a sticky finger to Sheng’s cuff. “Now you have apples on both sides,” he announced.

“Thank you, but those are still pears,” Sheng said, catching the small hand.

“Do not stain Daddy’s clothes,” Hua Yong added.

Sheng sighed.

“What time did you get away?” Hua Yong asked.

“Six.”

“Wenlang says the intern is in every room,” Hua Yong said, still easy. “Rumor has it she is not a very good secretary. She does not take notes in meetings, is awkward on the phone, and does not talk to anyone but you.”

“She is learning the rooms,” Sheng said. “Admin support.”

“The intern,” Hua Yong said. He let the word sit. “How green are her apples, Mr. Sheng?”

Sheng washed the knife. “Lunch,” he said, softer, and even he could hear how thin it sounded.

“Lunch,” Hua Yong repeated, as if tasting the word. His smile did not reach his eyes. “You look tired. Are you not feeling well?”

“It was a busy week,” Sheng said. “Numbers forgot to behave.”

Peanut pushed the empty plate toward Sheng. “More tomorrow.”

“More tomorrow,” Sheng said. “We will go get you green apples.”

“I want to go to the market,” Peanut said, sliding off the stool.

“You will,” Sheng said. “Take your plate to the sink, dry your hands, and go to your room. Pick a story. We will call you when it is bath time.”

Peanut glanced between them, decided not to argue, and did as he was told. His socks whispered down the hall. The bedroom door thumped soft.

“You do not have to tell me anything,” Hua Yong said, quiet. “But do not tell me that was lunch.”

Sheng folded the towel anyway. “Noted.”

“Good,” Hua Yong said, and the word clicked shut. He stepped in just close enough to make the air feel smaller. “Go take a shower before I serve you dinner.”

“I am really hungry,” Sheng said. “I would rather eat first.”

“I am not feeding you until you get that scent off of your body,” Hua Yong said, calm and hard. “Mr. Sheng. Shower. Now.”

Sheng held his gaze a moment too long and then looked away. “All right.”

“Do not hang that jacket in the closet,” Hua Yong said. “Put it in the laundry room. I am not letting that scent drift into the bedroom all night.”

Sheng gave him a look and carried the jacket out. In the mirror he looked like a man who knew exactly which part of the story was a lie.

Sheng took the jacket to the laundry room and left it there like evidence. In the bathroom he set the water hot and waited for the steam to find the mirror. His cuff still held a faint thread of green apple when he brought it to his nose. Lunch, he had said. It felt like a word you put between yourself and a moving car.

He stepped under the spray and let it drum the back of his neck until his shoulders let go by a degree. Unscented soap. Twice. He scrubbed the wrists where fabric rests, the throat where a collar touches skin, the place behind each ear that holds on to rooms. He washed his hair and then washed it again, fingers working the soap through until the water ran clean.

In the fogged glass he could make out the shape of a man who knew better than to be careless. Shen Wenlang’s name turned over once and went still. He had found Gao Tu again recently, walked in with the old certainty, and walked out with a no. Rejection makes people talk. Of course it would get back to the person it should not. Offices are nets. Everything catches.

He thought of Secretary Jiang at the console by the window, the small frame she kept turned a little toward the wall. A husband with windburned cheeks, a child in a red jacket, a dog mid blink. The little girl had presented as Alpha and was already sick, the kind of diagnosis that says the glands have turned against the body. Surgery fast, then more after. Her life, not his office. She came when he asked, stood where he told her to stand, kept her voice clear and her hands steady. He had paid the hospital before her first day because waiting was not an option for the child. He would keep her out of this and keep her name out of Shen Wenlang’s mouth. No rumors with her name in them. No story anyone could twist. He worried, briefly and hard, about what would happen if they were caught, and told himself again that he had no intention of hurting a woman already carrying enough.

He would only have to do this for eleven more weeks.

He counted the tiles to calm his breathing, an old trick from boardrooms. There were twelve across the long wall. Twelve again. He did not think about numbers that were not on the wall. He let the sound of the water be the only clock.

He soaped the watch strap and rinsed it, then set it on the sink. He worked the soap under his nails because small things hold scent longer than people think. The steam thinned the last of the green in the air until it was only heat and clean water.

He closed his eyes and let the spray hit the center of his chest. The day pulled at him in the way long days do. Nothing he could not carry. He breathed once, slow and even, and reached for the tap.

On the way out he wiped the mirror with the side of his hand. His face looked like it belonged to someone who used his voice for a living. In the hall he could hear Peanut in his room, narrating to a stack of toy cars. The sound steadied him more than the shower had.

He dressed in his blue pajamas from the top drawer, soft cotton with white piping and a loose drawstring he reached for without thinking. No jacket. He opened the bathroom window for a count of three and closed it again, more habit than thought. On the floor runner he rubbed his wrists dry with the towel and smelled only cotton.

When he came back to the kitchen the air was water and soap. Hua Yong set a bowl on the table without looking up.

“Better,” Hua Yong said.

“Thank you,” Sheng said.

“Eat,” Hua Yong said. “And wash that jacket tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

Sheng Shaoyou woke before his alarm that next Monday, a steady churn under his ribs already waiting. In the kitchen, Hua Yong’s knife ticked through ginger for congee. Sheng leaned over the sink and was quietly, efficiently sick with the faucet running. By the time Hua Yong turned, the water was off and Sheng was rinsing a cup.

“Porridge is ready,” Hua Yong announced.

“Later,” Sheng said, and meant never.

Hua Yong pulled a face and went back to the stove.

He dressed fast. The blue pajamas folded into the drawer felt like a promise he would try to keep tonight. Peanut padded in, hair a nest, backpack crooked.

“Apples for after school,” Sheng said, kissing the warm crown.

“Green ones,” Peanut confirmed solemnly, as if placing an order with the day.

The elevator rode smooth if he did not think about it. Downstairs, the driver had the rear door open. Sheng let the city slide past the glass and did not count the lights.

At the curb, lobby marble, a nod from security, turnstiles. Upstairs, the floor smelled like toner and cleaner... the cleaner doing his stomach no favors... and under it the faint green he had wanted since he woke.

“Good morning, President Sheng,” Chen said, already on his feet.

“Morning,” Sheng said.

Inside, the console by the window caught the light. Lamp, clock, paper, the small frame turned a little toward the wall. Secretary Jiang stood there like a person who belonged to daylight.

“Good morning, President Sheng,” she said.

He set his bag down and the room tilted by a degree he did not appreciate. “Secretary Jiang,” he said, even. “Sidebar.”

She crossed to the door, turned the thumb lock, and hung the small privacy sign.

Sheng tried to speak and the breath he reached for was not there.

“I need…” he started, then found the words he meant. “I do not like the breeze. The cleaner.”

She stepped back a pace, hands open, spine steady. No release. No pressure. The office narrowed to air, a clock, a line of light on the floor. She slid the small trash bin from beside the desk and set it near his foot.

He braced the credenza with his palm and could not find a full breath. One came shallow, then another, and then the third hit wrong. A small sound escaped before he could stop it. Not loud. Enough to tell the truth. He kept his eyes on the wood grain and counted. One. Two. Three. The room stayed with him.

Thirty counts stretched. Forty. The nausea surged mean, backed off a step, tried again. Outside, a cart clicked past; the sound reached them thinned to nothing, as if it had to pass through water.

She did not check the time. She held the room the way a person holds a door for someone carrying too much. Steady. Unblinking. There.

His shoulders let go in a tiny, felt click. A breath went all the way in. Another followed it out, not quite even but his. The edge laid down by degrees, like fabric smoothing under a hand.

“It feels good in here,” he said at last, soft; not a cue, a truth.

She kept the air steady a few seconds more, just to be sure.

“It is cold in here,” he said. “Thank you.”

She inclined her head, but did not reach for the handle. “Rough weekend?” she asked, even, the way a nurse might ask without writing anything down.

“Yes,” he said. “Mornings were loud. The house smelled wrong. We went to the market on Saturday. The fresh air helped, but only outside. We came home and it came back.”

“Why did you not ask your husband for help?”

“He overreacts. If I asked for soothing, he would hunt the reason down. I am not ready for that conversation.”

“How can I help you on weekends?” she asked. “I can meet you here.”

“You are not doing that,” he said. “Do not change your schedule. Do not come in. Do not answer calls that are not on the list. I am not taking you from your family any more than I have to.”

“I want to help you.”

“You are paid either way.”

“It is not only the money, President Sheng. You saved my daughter’s life.”

He let out a breath. “Jiang Liya, I am not trying to pull you away from home. I already feel terrible for the long days.”

She looked down. “I am sorry.”

“Do not be sorry. I have to figure this out.”

She considered that, then nodded once. “Understood, President Sheng.”

He drew a slow breath that did not argue. “If I go quiet in a room, assume I am counting. If I say ‘I do not like the breeze,’ you stop. Even if I asked you to start.”

“I understand,” she said. “Ginger first, then air, then any window you can open without anyone noticing. And count tiles.”

“I counted tiles,” he said, almost smiling.

“Then do not stop,” she said, with a small, gentle smile.

He looked at the door, then back at her. “Thank you,” he said. “For last week. For this.”

“Yes, President Sheng.”

He let the quiet sit one more breath. The plant on the shelf looked like it had decided to live. The green in the room held steady, not loud, the way a pulse holds when you pay attention.

“It is cold in here,” he repeated, and this time she opened the lock and lifted the sign.

They stepped into the corridor like two people who had checked a file and found it where it should be. Chen glanced up as they passed, read nothing on Sheng’s face, and slid a printout onto the credenza without comment.

The chair remembered him. The clock kept time. The day, for now, belonged to minutes he could carry.

A light knock. Sheng glanced over; Jiang was already on her feet. She flipped the sign to available, turned the thumb lock, and opened the door a hand’s width.

“Come in,” Sheng said.

Chen edged inside with a folder and a glass of water. Jiang closed the door behind him and relocked it, the sign settling back against the handle.

“Draft for Legal,” he said. “Finance confirmed the one-thirty. Facilities says the hum in Conference Two is ‘under review,’ which means it hums.” He set the water within reach, not too close. “I also put ginger candies in the credenza. New brand.”

“Efficient,” Sheng said. “Tell Procurement the projector in Three lied last week. I am not in the mood for lies.”

“On it.” Chen hesitated a fraction. “Do you want me to move the one-thirty to Two? Or just keep it the same?”

“Keep it,” Sheng said. He glanced toward the window. “Secretary Jiang will attend all sessions.”

“Yes, President Sheng,” she said.

Chen slid a folder toward Sheng, then another toward her. “Agenda copies. I added room notes.”

“Good,” Sheng said. “Flag the language on page four for counsel. We will not move that line.”

“Flagged,” Chen said, already typing. He looked once at the blinds. “Adjust?”

“It feels good in here,” Sheng said, mild.

“Leaving them,” Chen answered, as if blinds had been the only question. He stepped back to the door. “Call if you need anything.”

“Thank you,” Sheng said.

When the door closed, the room stayed ordinary on purpose. Sheng opened the folder. “Conference Three at ten,” he said. “Hopefully, we won’t have any interruptions this time.”

The subject line said: Access clarification– Admin Intern Jiang.

Procurement never wrote to Chen first. They wrote to Chen now, which meant someone higher had asked a question and wanted a paper trail.

He opened the message.

Hi Secretary Chen,
We noticed “Admin Intern Jiang” has badge access to the executive floor, wellness, terrace, and recurring attendance in Legal sessions. Please confirm the business purpose, duration, and sponsoring department for this level of access.
— Procurement & Compliance

Chen typed, deleted, and walked the three steps to the office. The door sign read available. He knocked.

“Come in,” Sheng said.

Chen set the printout on the credenza. “Procurement wants a narrative for Secretary Jiang’s access.”

Sheng looked up and threw his pen down. “Who asked them to ask?!”

“Not stated,” Chen said. He didn’t add: this is how people ask without asking.

“Draft the answer,” Sheng said. “Keep it true enough to stand.”

“Understood, President Sheng.”

Back at his desk he built the story.

Hello,
Secretary Jiang is part of an Admin Support pilot for executive meeting operations (note-taking alternatives, paper workflow, room environment). Sponsoring department: Administration. Duration: Q1 pilot with standard reviews.

Badge points limited to: President’s office (workstation), conference rooms used for the pilot, wellness (noise-controlled space during sessions), terrace (overflow space). No server room.

Legal attendance: room operations only (seating, timing, paper intake). She does not participate or retain documents; minutes and distribution remain with me.

Regards,
Chen Pin Ming
Executive Office

He sent it, CCing the people who would make it look normal.

The reply came fast.

Thanks, Secretary Chen. Please attach the signed pilot sponsor memo and risk review.
–P&C

There was no memo. So he wrote one that sounded exactly like a memo.

Admin Support Pilot– Executive Meeting Operations
Sponsor: Administration
Scope: seating/ventilation/light controls; analog workflow; non-digital minute markers.
Data: none retained by intern; distribution via Executive Office only.
Risk: low; mitigations: limited badge points; no server access; privacy sign protocol.

He walked it in for signature.

“Pilot memo,” Chen said, setting the single page for Sheng. “Administration sponsoring. Risk low. No server, no documents.”

Sheng scanned and signed. “Send it. I shouldn’t even be having to explain myself to Procurement. But there’s literally nothing to hide. Secretary Jiang doesn’t have access to any sort of confidential data.”

“But she attends all of the meetings,” Chen said.

Sheng looked up and frowned. “And now you’re jump in, too? I never asked for your opinion.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Chen whispered.

“Just go send it and be done with it, please.”

Chen sent it. Procurement took nine minutes to answer.

Approved. Please set an end date for the pilot (suggest 90 days) and confirm that the intern’s calendar access is view-only.
–P&C

He replied:

End date: 90 days from start. Calendar access: view-only; invitations routed by Executive Office.

He closed the thread and opened Facilities chat.

“Confirm badge points for Secretary Jiang match the pilot (office, C1–C4, wellness, terrace). No server. Add review date 90d.”

“Confirmed. Review date set.”

He printed the approval and slid it into the Admin binder that no one read until they needed to.

Only then did he go back in.

“Done,” Chen said. “Procurement approved the Admin pilot. Ninety-day review, view-only calendar, no server. They wanted a memo; you signed it.”

“Good,” Sheng said. “Any sign of who requested the paper trail?”

“Not in the thread,” Chen said. He kept his voice neutral. “I will hear it if Legal repeats the question.”

Sheng nodded once. “If anyone asks again, refer them to me. I’m in charge here. No one should be questioning any of my decisions.”

“Understood, President Sheng.”

On his way out, Chen paused. “Do you want me to reduce visibility on her calendar label? I can switch ‘Admin Support’ to initials.”

“Do it,” Sheng said. “And add her to the ten o’clock in Three.”

“Already done.”

At his desk, Chen changed Admin Support – Secretary Jiang to AS –J. on the internal view. He archived the email chain and tagged it cover stories because that was the honest name.

A new message arrived from someone in Facilities he knew only by their avatar:

Off the record: whoever asked Compliance CC’d Legal Ops first. Thought you’d want to know.

Chen stared at the line for a second, then typed back:

Noted. Thank you.

He left the window open and added one note to his private file: Pilot approved. Ninety days. Ask later who “Legal Ops” reports to now.

Hua Yong arrived at 12:10 with a box of cookies and an expectation to see his husband.

The outer desk was covered in neat stacks. One of the secretaries looked up. “Mr. Hua. President Sheng is in Conference Three.”

“During his lunch hour?”

“Meetings are stacked today. Do you want to leave that with me?”

“I’ll put it in his office,” he said.

She buzzed the door. “Go ahead.”

The sign on the handle read “Available”. New; it hadn’t been there last time. He paused. Since when did this door need a status? If there was an available, there was an unavailable.

What even went on in this room anymore?

Console by the window. Lamp. Clock. Paper. A second chair that hadn’t been there two weeks ago. A small frame turned a little toward the wall. He picked up the frame with curiosity, but put it back at the same angle almost as quickly as he had picked it up. A short pencil. He rolled it once and set it down.

The air held a thin, clean smell. Green apple. Not perfume. It clung to paper and fabric.

He pulled his phone out, quickly dialing, impatient for an answer, even on the first ring.

“Wenlang,” he said. “Pick Peanut up at one.”

On the other end: “I can’t today. I’ve got… things.”

“What things? Your secretaries do all of your work for you. I bet you haven’t even touched your computer in years.”

A breath. “I went to see Gao Tu this morning.”

“So?”

“He wouldn’t talk to me again. Wouldn’t even let me in. I waited an hour at his front door.”

“This means you’re free right now,” Hua Yong said. “One. Take him to the park afterwards. Might want to avoid the ball pit this time.”

“I really can’t. I’m meeting someone who… listen, I’m trying to fix it. I should have done this three years ago. You didn’t see that little boy with my face.”

“You are not fixing it by chasing him,” Hua Yong said.

Silence. Then, small: “I thought maybe if I called his sister–”

“Do not call his sister,” Hua Yong said. “Do you want to look like the idiot that you are?”

“He won’t answer me,” Shen said, voice rising. “What am I supposed to do, just wait around and see if he comes around?”

“Yes,” Hua Yong said. “You can die alone as a punishment for your stupidity. Stop making it worse.”

A beat. “You know he’s not thinking clearly,” Shen said. “Fuck, he disappeared on me for three years and expected that I wouldn’t ever find him.”

“You found him in a ball pit by accident.”

“Because you keep pawning your kid on me and I’m the only one who takes care of him.”

“If Gao Tu wants you, he’ll call you,” Hua Yong said. “If he doesn’t, you leave him and his child alone.”

Shen exhaled hard. “About Peanut… can’t Chang Yu do it?”

“Chang Yu is working,” Hua Yong said. “One.”

Another beat. Softer: “No. Take care of your own kid for once. I’m meeting up with Gao Qing as soon as she responds and I’m not canceling.”

“Useless,” Hua Yong muttered, and ended the call.

He slipped the phone away and put the cookie box down on Sheng’s desk. He noticed at that time that nothing electronic was on the desk at all. He looked up and realized that the computer was sitting in the stinky corner of the room. The green note sat in the air, almost stagnant, nearly choking Hua Yong with its aroma.

“Disgusting,” he said to no one.

He turned the handle and stepped out.

At the desk the secretary glanced up. “Got it?”

“Tell him to eat the cookies I left,” Hua Yong said. “He skipped breakfast.” He paused. “He is not to share those.”

“I’ll pass along the message,” she said.

He checked the time, did the math to the school, and headed for the elevator. The doors closed on the smell of hall cleaner, without any apples in the air.

The lock turned. Warm light, soup on the stove. Sheng set the cookie box on the counter.

“You’re late,” Hua Yong said. “I thought you were going to miss dinner.”

“I’m sorry.” He lifted the lid. “I saw the cookies. Thank you.”

“Eat one now.”

Sheng broke a cookie, half now, half back in the box. “Where’s Peanut?”

“In his room sulking.”

“Did you two have another fight?”

“How was your day?” Hua Yong asked, skipping the question.

“Stacked. We kept time.”

“What’s the new sign on your door?”

“Facilities added privacy indicators after the audit,” Sheng said. “‘A’vailable when it’s fine, ‘unavailable’ when it’s not.”

“Since when does your door need a status?”

“Since the checklist said so.”

“And the second chair?”

“Paperwork. We’re running low-screen. Admin Support sorts the in-tray.”

“Your intern.”

“Pilot work,” Sheng said. “Ninety days.”

“Hm.” Hua Yong turned, studying him. “Your office smelled like green apples.”

“The hall cleaner’s bad this month,” Sheng said. “It sticks.”

“You could have called when you got the cookies,” Hua Yong said. “Let me know you ate one.”

“I got busy. I’m sorry.”

He set two bowls on the table but didn’t sit. “Do you like the intern?”

“I like having an extra right hand.”

“Don’t outsource your hours. You get sloppy when you do.”

“I’m not outsourcing anything. I’m keeping the day moving.”

“By locking the door?”

“During calls,” Sheng said. “Or when Facilities is banging carts.”

Hua Yong’s gaze dropped to Sheng’s collar. “You smell like detergent. When did you change your clothes?”

“After lunch.”

“Why?”

“Oil. Canapés. It got on the sleeve.”

“Which suit?”

“The navy.”

“Where is it?”

“Dry cleaning. Chen sent it out. Faster that way.”

“You didn’t bring it home?”

“I didn’t want the stain to set.” Sheng steadied his hands on the chair back. “Do we need to fight about a suit? We can afford a new one if the stain doesn’t come out.”

“We need to be honest about your office,” Hua Yong said, even. “New sign. Second chair. An intern in your rooms. Fruit in the air. A suit at the cleaner at noon. Does that sound normal?”

“It sounds busy,” Sheng said. “We’re fine.”

“Are you?” Hua Yong asked. “You skipped breakfast. You come home smelling like somebody else. Our son smells apples on you and now he’s obsessed with them.”

“That isn’t the point.”

“What is the point?”

“Don’t lie to me about small things,” Hua Yong said. “Small things become the story.”

“I’m managing,” Sheng said.

“Then manage this.” He nudged the box. “Finish that. Then shower. Before dinner.”

Sheng swallowed the last bite… and the room tilted a fraction. Heat rose at the back of his neck, the kind that didn’t care what time it was.

“I’m…” He kept his voice level. “I need to wash up and change.”

Hua Yong watched him for a beat, unreadable. “Make it quick. Dinner’s ready.”

Sheng nodded and stepped down the hall, breath tight, counting tiles until the bathroom door closed and the sink covered the rest.

It hit fast after lunch. He didn’t make it to a stall. The sink was closer.

The first heave was dry. The second wasn’t. After that it tore through him—shoulders locked, hands white on porcelain, breath breaking between waves. Water ran; it didn’t help. He spat, grabbed air, and folded again. The sound bounced off the tile.

“President Sheng,” Chen said, already there. He ran a cup under the tap, shoved paper towels within reach. “Rinse.”

Sheng tried. Another surge cut him in half. His knees hit the tile. He held the rim and let the body do what it wanted until there was nothing left to give. The last one scraped his throat raw.

“Done,” Chen said, steady. He wrung a towel hot and pressed it into Sheng’s hand. “Take your time.”

Sheng wiped, swallowed metal, and forced one clean breath. “All right.”

“I’m walking you back,” Chen said. No argument in it.

They moved slowly. At the office door the sign read available. Chen flipped it to unavailable, opened up, and guided him to the chair. Water bottle to the desk. Trash bin closer. Mints.

“Secretary Jiang isn’t on time,” Chen said, annoyed around the edges. “No reception check-in. I was going to–”

“She’s here,” Sheng said. He’d seen the console by the window—the pencil set down, the frame angled back. “Yes, she was tardy today, but she cleared it with me.”

Jiang stepped in from the side nook, quiet as always. “Good afternoon, President Sheng.”

Chen looked between them, confused. “Reception didn’t–”

“I told her to skip the desk today,” Sheng said. “Pilot work in-room.”

Chen swallowed whatever he was about to say. “Understood.” He straightened the stack on the credenza like it had offended him. “President Sheng, if we could just go over the agenda for the next meeting–”

“Sidebar,” Sheng said. “Chen, out. Close the door.”

A small beat. “Yes, President Sheng.” Chen set the privacy sign tight to unavailable and left, the latch clicking clean.

Sheng didn’t bother with code. “I need your help. Please.”

Jiang moved to the usual spot, two steps behind his chair, and the green lifted, steady and clean. He let his hands rest flat on the arms. One breath went all the way in. The next didn’t; the nausea flared and dragged him toward the edge again.

“More,” he said, with heavy breaths, and then, as the room tilted, “I don’t like the breeze.”

Emergency stop. She should have eased off. She didn’t. The release kept coming, but thin, like the thread itself was fraying in the air.

“Stop,” he said, sharper. “It’s not that bad now. You don’t have to keep going. It’s cold here. Jiang Liya.”

She held another count. The green thinned but didn’t quit.

“Jiang Liya,” he repeated, turning his head enough to see her face. She was paler than he liked. “You’re lightheaded.”

“I’m fine,” she said. It wasn’t convincing. She kept her stance, shoulders square, breathing measured like she could steady herself by technique alone.

“Stop,” he said again. “I won’t have you sick on top of this.”

The release finally ebbed. The room settled by degrees. He let his eyes close once, opened them, and found her already fishing in the inside pocket of her jacket.

She took a small glass vial from her jacket pocket. Rubber-stoppered, full of dark red, and held it out.* “Use this.”

He turned it once between his fingers. “This wasn’t necessary. It wasn’t worth your time.”

“It’s mine,” she said. “Dr. Wang isolated pheromones from my blood this morning. Clean panel on file. He prepped vials for weekends, or days like this. If today gets any worse, this will hold you better than anything I can do until my pheromones and blood supplies are normal again.”

“How much blood?”

“The entire pint. Forty-seven vials.”

He cracked the seal and brought it under his nose, a careful breath. The metallic edge was there, but the effect was immediate: the floor stopped threatening to heave, his hands unlocked on the chair.

“I’ll reimburse the cost,” he said quietly. “And next time, you tell me before you do this.”

“Yes, President Sheng.”

He capped the vial and set it in the drawer. “Sit,” he said. “You’re pale.”

“I’m all right,” she said, but she took the chair by the console like a person who understood orders.

The doorknob twitched, Chen testing once, then leaving it. The sign stayed at unavailable.

Sheng sighed, then drank, letting the cold water finish the work the vial had started. The clock’s second hand made a clean circle.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Yes, President Sheng.”

“Next time,” he added, “if I say ‘stop,’ you stop. Even if it feels like you should keep going. Especially today. You got your blood drawn, more than a person should have donated to me, and using any of your pheromones could make it worse for you.”

“I understand.”

He glanced at the frame, then back at her. “And if you’re late again, you check in with Chen. I’ll cover you. But don’t make him guess. Did you know that our staff thinks you’re a terrible secretary?”

“Yes, President Sheng.”

He drew one more breath that didn’t argue. “All right. Put the sign to Available. We’ll keep the day as normal as possible. As much as it can be.”

“But… your stomach…”

“...is my problem, not anyone else’s.” Sheng sighed. “I got myself into this mess. I’ll deal with it.”

The driver wasn’t at the curb when Sheng walked out of the building that night. Hua Yong was.

“Get in,” he said, leaning across to pop the lock.

Sheng slid into the passenger seat. The car smelled like lemon wipes and cold air; the window on Hua Yong’s side was cracked just enough.

“You showered at the office again?” Hua Yong said, pulling into traffic. “New shirt. New soap. Thought I wouldn’t notice?”

“I felt sick,” Sheng said. “The cleaner on our floor–”

“Spare me the Facilities report.” A beat. “Trying to wash it off before you got into my car?”

Sheng watched the buildings lift past. “It was a busy day. I was sweating. Not that big of a deal.”

“Hm,” Hua Yong said. He paused before asking, “Answer a question for me. Who flips the sign when you’re busy? You, or your intern?”

“I do,” Sheng said. “During calls.”

“And the intern stands where?”

“In the room.”

“Doing what?”

“Room operations.”

“Smelling like apple blossoms,” he said, a mild voice with the edge underneath.

“You’re smelling the building’s cleaner,” Sheng said.

“Then why did you shower?” He didn’t look at Sheng. “At work.”

Silence took a block. The light turned red; the car stopped with a too-hard brake that jolted the belt against Sheng’s chest. Hua Yong’s knuckles were pale on the wheel; he flexed them open, closed, open again.

“You’re thinner,” he said. “You skipped breakfast again.”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“You’re never hungry when you lie. Is that intern baking you cookies?”

Sheng kept his face neutral. “Do we need to stop at the market? Peanut ate the last apple this morning.”

Hua Yong made a small sound that wasn’t amusement. “Our son asked me if Daddy would smell like them when he got home.” He rolled the window another inch. Night air pushed in. “He shouldn’t be craving a smell coming from your clothes.”

“I came home clean,” Sheng said.

“Today,” Hua Yong said. He let the car creep forward, then stop again. “Who is she?”

“Admin Support,” Sheng said. “You know that.”

“That isn’t a name.”

“Jiang Liya,” Sheng said. “She sorts paper. She moves lights.”

“And she stands behind you?” He said it like it was a diagnosis. “You like that?”

“I like meetings that end on time.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“I don’t have time to like interns,” Sheng said. “I’m doing my job.”

“By locking the door?” Hua Yong said.

“During calls.”

“You always had rules for that room,” he said. “Now there’s a sign. You never needed a sign for me.”

Traffic opened. He accelerated too fast, cut a lane, then settled one notch under aggressive. Sheng laid a hand against the door to steady the urge in his stomach.

“You’re bringing something home,” Hua Yong said. “On your sleeves. In your hair. On your mouth when you say it feels good in here.”

“Do you want me to stop saying that?” Sheng asked.

“I want you to stop needing to say it.”

They dropped into the tunnel, concrete, sodium light, the sound of the car a little louder. Hua Yong reached and hit the lock button. The clicks were small and very clear.

Sheng glanced at him. Hua Yong kept his eyes on the road. “You answer when I call,” he said. “If that door says unavailable again tomorrow, you still answer me. Not Chen. Not your pilot. You.”

“It depends on the call,” Sheng said.

“Answer mine.”

They came up out of the tunnel; the city returned. A motorbike cut too close; Hua Yong didn’t flinch. He took the next turn hard enough that the seatbelt caught again, then smoothed it out like nothing had happened.

“Do you miss being careful with me?” he asked suddenly, voice very calm. “Because I remember.”

Sheng turned his head. “What are we talking about?”

“We’re talking about you showering at work to make sure I don’t smell your day,” Hua Yong said. “We’re talking about a second chair, a sign on your door, and you coming home clean like that fixes it.”

“It fixes the smell,” Sheng said. “That’s what you wanted. To get the smell of the cleaner off of me.”

“What I want,” Hua Yong said, and for a second it wasn’t a voice, it was a held thing, “is for you not to bring other people inside our walls. You’re dirty, Mr. Sheng.”

The garage ramp came up. He took it slow, finally, the tires whispering on concrete. He parked too neatly. The engine ticked once as it went quiet.

Hua Yong turned to Sheng then, close enough that the lemon and cold air felt sharp. He reached over, not rough, but not gentle, and pinched the collar of Sheng’s shirt between two fingers, lifted it a fraction, and let it fall.

“You washed all of the apple off,” he said. “Be good, Mr. Sheng.”

The words landed where a bruise would. Sheng kept his breath steady.

Hua Yong leaned back, unlocked the doors, and his voice came soft like nothing had happened. “Shower again. In our house. I’ll pick out your clothes from now on. Then dinner.”

Sheng opened his door. The garage air felt colder than outside. He counted the steps to the elevator, just trying to make it to his own bathroom.

Behind him, Hua Yong added, almost lightly, “Flip that sign tomorrow and I’ll take the door off its hinges and bring it home.” He took a sharp breath. “And if I smell apples in our house ever again, I’ll bleach the walls until the building forgets you were here.”

The storm made the city small enough to fit in a rearview mirror.

He watched her leave the side entrance at 20:57, hood up, messenger bag tight, umbrella still furled because the wind turned rain sideways. She didn’t take the metro; she cut through the plaza, past a convenience store, then south along the buses where cameras faced the road instead of the sidewalk. He let a taxi and two black umbrellas sit between them and matched her lights at each crossing.

At 21:21 she keyed into a walk-up with a pharmacy on the ground floor and no concierge, just a cracked intercom and a camera that blinked a red dot but didn’t record. The stairwell smelled like damp concrete and boiled cabbage. Half the bulbs were out. Good building for ghosts.

He waited twenty-six heartbeats, pushed the door with his elbow, and slipped into the dark like he belonged to it.

Second flight. Her steps were quick and careful, counting the turns by touch. He listened to the rubber of her soles on wet treads and kept a story between them—close enough to reach, far enough to be a rumor.

She reached the third-floor landing and lost her key in her bag a second too long. That was the second he used.

“Evening,” he said, voice pitched low. “Secretary.”

She flinched small and stilled. The bare bulb behind her left her face unreadable. “Do you need something?”

“Your resignation.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know you. You have the wrong person.”

“You stand behind him,” he said. “You make rooms smell like green apples.”

“That’s the building cleaner,” she said. Calm. Trained. “File a ticket with Facilities.”

“Filed,” he said. “This is the other kind.”

She shifted half a step toward the corridor. He matched it. Rain thudded against the stairwell door below like a large hand wanting in.

“Sir, this isn’t appropriate. I’m calling Security.”

“Call,” he said. “Tell them what I smell like.”

She paused. “Orchids. A-class Omega.”

“You wish.”

She didn’t raise the phone. She chose the other lever, drew a measured breath and released an Alpha’s dominance. Not just any Alpha, but an S-class Alpha. A cool, oppressive wave pushed into the stairwell as a faint green apple blossom totem lit at her throat. Petal-bars blooming up her collarbone, each soft pulse asking the room to bend.

It hit him and slid off.

A beautiful trick.

“Don’t,” he said, turning the softness off like a light. “Not with me.”

She tried again. The blossom totem flickered, a petal dimming as it climbed. He stepped once and watched the quiet break against him like water on a curb.

“Walk away,” she said. Not fear. Instruction. “You think you can take me on?”

“You’ll quit tomorrow,” he replied.

“I can’t do that.”

He chuckled, slightly. “You parade around like an Omega in order to hide your pheromones, but no one is this stupid. There’s only one reason a dirty S-class Alpha like you would release pheromones like that all day long. Clean yourself up. You stink. Stay away from President Sheng. He doesn’t want you.”

“I’d rather stay dirty than take an order from a disgusting, low class Omega.”

He put his palm on the railing beside her and narrowed the passage. “Then tonight becomes memorable. Don’t say you weren’t warned.”

The umbrella came up fast and straight. Not wild. Trained. He took it mid-arc and leaned it against the wall. Not rough. Not gentle.

“Last time,” he said. “Quit.”

“I’m not taking orders from a dirty Omega.”

He reached to turn her by the elbow. What came back wasn’t a flinch, it was leverage: clean, low, weight under silk. Not a receptionist. For a beat her body said what her scent hadn’t: Alpha. She pulled a breath, drove out dominance again–the green apple blossom flaring brighter–and felt it hit him and die there. Her eyes flicked up, sharp with the realization.

“Enigma,” she breathed, but she was much too late.

His grip had already set. Her stance changed; she went for his wrist, trying to fold the joint and the night around it. He let her have the first angle and took the second. The stair rail was where it always is in old buildings: too near, too hard. Shoulder, metal. She hissed air through her teeth and drove a heel toward his knee; he caught, shoved, stepped across.

Her foot slid on the wet tread. Momentum did the rest.

Back of the head, concrete. A small, ugly sound.

The bulb above them flickered with the storm and went out. When it came back, she was on her side, breath knocked out, one hand searching the floor for something that wasn’t there. She tried to push up. He put two fingers on her shoulder and pressed her back down. Exact weight, exact spot. Her eyes tracked him and then didn’t.

He listened for the next breath. It came thin; then there was a beat with nothing in it.

“Quit,” he told the dark.

Her bag had spilled: a plain wallet, a folded gallery map, a lanyard she didn’t wear where people could see it, a pencil that rolled until it hit his shoe. He nudged it back with the toe like he didn’t want his prints on anything that simple.

He stood, very still, until the stairwell gave him only rain and his own pulse.

At the landing door he looked back. No movement. Water from her coat pooled and crept along the grout toward the step edge. The umbrella leaned where she could see it if she opened her eyes.

He went down one flight and out into the rain-slashed alley where every license plate blurred. He sat in his car without starting it. The cabin light didn’t come on; he’d made sure of that years ago. The phone lit his hands as he typed.

Mr. Sheng, I love you. We’ll always be together.

And then:

Come home early tomorrow. You won’t need to stop to take a shower.

Chapter Text

Sheng arrived at 08:31. The console waited. Lamp. Clock. Paper. Pencil absent. Frame angled the same.

Secretary Jiang was not.

He sat, opened the morning folder, and let the pages blur. Numbers he knew by heart tilted at the edges. He kept writing them, column after column, as if the ink could hold the day together.

At 09:12 he told himself she was late. At 09:45 he adjusted the blinds a notch, then another. At 10:00 he said subway delay, paperwork, reception.

By 10:37 the silence pressed wrong. His throat closed. He touched the console, waited, and said it once to the empty room: “I need some air.”

Nothing.

He said it again, softer. The vents clicked once and went still.

The nausea climbed. He pushed his chair back, found the wastebin, and bent over it. First dry, then not. The sound small, contained. He rinsed with bottled water and pressed his wrist flat against the desk until the shaking settled.

At 11:08 he set a reminder to check badge logs. At 11:30 he told himself she would walk through the door any minute.

By noon the air was sharp against his ribs. He thought, quick and mean, that she had walked away. That she had taken the money for her daughter’s surgery and decided she was finished. That kind of person.

He pushed it down. Opened his phone. Typed the words. I need some air.

The latch turned.

Hua Yong stepped in, Peanut behind him. He made his way to Sheng a bit too quickly. He leaned down and kissed Sheng without pause, mouth brushing his cheek, eyes cutting at the phone in Sheng’s hand. Sheng turned the screen down against his thigh before the message could light.

“Who are you messaging?” Hua Yong asked.

“Facilities,” Sheng said, even. “What are you doing here?”

“Is that any way to greet your family, Mr. Sheng?”

Sheng shook his head, slowly.

Hua Yong set a white box on the desk. “Cookies. Peanut wanted to bring them himself.”

Peanut clambered onto Sheng’s lap. Sheng held him close, steadying on the small, familiar weight. Better like this. Better with him here.

“Dinner tonight at Waitan Lan,” Hua Yong said, mild. “Wenlang, Gao Tu, Lele.”

Sheng’s hand stilled. “Since when is Gao Tu willing to sit through fine dining?”

“They need to work it out,” Hua Yong said. “Both idiots. And I’m not going to some cheap place.”

“Fine.” Sheng held Peanut tighter and let the clock keep its hand.

When Hua Yong left, the air stayed too still. Sheng opened the drawer, touched the vial, and shut it again. Then he pressed the intercom.

“Secretary Chen. Inside.”

Chen came in with his tablet, neat as always. “Yes, President Sheng?”

“Go to her apartment,” Sheng said. “Find out why she isn’t here.”

Chen hesitated, thumb tapping once against the screen. “Sir, if she doesn’t want to work here– if she’s walked away– maybe that’s better. She isn’t exactly… suited for this role. No training. No equipment. And frankly…” He stopped himself. “She doesn’t add anything I can’t do. Maybe… maybe she felt out of place here.”

Sheng looked at him, face unreadable. “You think she quit and just decided not to tell me?”

“I mean only that it’s unusual for an intern to be stationed in your office. People are asking questions already. Procurement, Legal Ops. If she’s gone, maybe we don’t need to keep making excuses for her.”

Sheng’s hand closed hard on the edge of the desk. The chair creaked. “Secretary Chen. You are completely out line. This is not like you.”

“I just thought–”

“Enough!” Sheng cut in, voice suddenly sharp. “I didn’t ask you to go find her. I told you to go find her.”

The words landed flat and heavy in the room.

Chen lowered his eyes at once. “Yes, President Sheng. Right away.” He gathered his tablet like a shield and went to the door.

The latch clicked behind him. Sheng stayed where he was, breath short, anger raw in his chest. The clock kept its minute.

He pulled the vial out again, turned it once in his hand. His eyes blurred, and a tear slipped free before he could stop it.

Chen stood in front of the apartment door, tablet tucked under his arm. He knocked twice. Waited. Knocked again. Nothing.

He pressed the bell once. Still nothing.

The latch next door shifted. An old woman leaned out, cardigan drawn over her shoulders. “Sir, who are you looking for?”

“Jiang Liya,” Chen said. “Do you know where she is? It’s imperative that I find her immediately.”

The woman sighed. “Ah, poor thing. Terrible accident last night. Xiao Jiang was almost up to the floor here. Rain so heavy, the stairs were slick. She slipped, went down hard. Landed on her head. Injured from head to toe.”

Chen tightened his grip on the tablet. “Her condition?”

“I don’t know. No one does. We don’t even know how long she was lying there. Rain-soaked, pale as a ghost.” The woman shook her head. “When we found her, she could hardly speak. She just kept saying she supposed she’d lost that new job. Said it was finally going to help her pay for her little girl’s surgery. Too bad she even had to take it. She loved the museum, you know. Being a docent was her passion. But it doesn’t pay enough to for her daughter to survive.” Her eyes lifted to Chen. “And you, sir, where have you come from?”

Chen fumbled one-handed through his jacket, pulled out a card. “Chen Pinming. Secretary at Shengfeng Biotech.”

She took the card politely, held it without looking. “Tell your boss… please. For the sake of the child. Forgive her. It wasn’t her fault. She shouldn't lose her job over this.”

Chen nodded once. “I'll tell him. Which hospital was she taken to?”

“Seventh Municipal. They took her there just a little after midnight. Nearly scared me into a heart attack. My husband and I ran outside and did what we could, but it wasn’t much of anything. Her condition was too poor.”

“Thank you for the information.”

He bowed slightly, pocketed his tablet, and turned for the stairwell. His pace quickened with every step down, until he was almost running. Sheng needed to hear this at once.

Chen followed Sheng through the ward doors. The corridor smelled of disinfectant, too bright under the fluorescent lights. No way to see into the ICU beyond the frosted glass.

A man stood waiting–work jacket damp, shoulders slumped with exhaustion. At his side was a little girl, her backpack hanging crooked.

Sheng slowed. “Secretary Chen,” he said without looking back, “this is Zhou Minghai. Jiang Liya’s husband. And their daughter, Zhou Qiaomei.”

Chen’s step hitched. Husband. Daughter. How did Sheng know an intern’s family?

Minghai straightened at once. “President Sheng,” he said, voice rough.

The girl raised her eyes. Sheng’s tone shifted, softer than Chen had ever heard. “Xiao Qiaomei.”

She nodded and stepped forward. Without hesitation she wrapped her arms around him. Sheng bent to gather her close, holding her as if she belonged there. His hand smoothed down her back, lingering. He closed his eyes for a second, breathing her in.

Chen blinked, unsure if he’d seen it right. Sheng never allowed touch, never let his guard drop. But here he was, kneeling on the hospital floor, listening intently as the girl whispered something in his ear. He answered her with a small nod, almost a smile.

Minghai began speaking quickly, like he’d repeated it a dozen times already. “We think it was the rain. It was so heavy you could hardly see. She must’ve slipped on the stairs just below our floor, fell, hit her head. No one knows how long she lay there. When they found her, she was soaked through. Freezing. White as chalk.”

Sheng’s arms tightened on the girl. “Why isn’t she awake yet?”

Minghai frowned. “Didn’t you get the vials? You should be just fine.”

Chen looked between them. The word caught sharp in his mind. Vials. He didn’t know what it meant, but the effect was plain, Sheng’s face, horrified, stripped bare.

“She’ll need to be transferred,” Sheng said quickly. “Heci Hospital. Neurology’s better there. She’ll have a room in the VIP ward.”

Minghai shook his head. “We can’t afford that kind of treatment.”

“I’m paying,” Sheng said. His voice allowed no argument.

Minghai lowered his hands. “We’re grateful. Truly. But sir—you should be resting yourself. Please. Be careful. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

Chen froze. The words landed like something already understood between them. Resting? Be careful? His thoughts scrambled. What had he missed? How could they speak to Sheng this way, as if they knew more than he did?

Xiao Qiaomei looked up then, eyes solemn, still clutching Sheng’s sleeve. Sheng brushed her hair back from her face, touched her cheek lightly with his thumb. For a second his expression cracked into pure affection, unguarded.

Chen’s chest tightened. He had never seen him like this. Not at home, not at work, not ever.

Sheng’s phone buzzed. He read the message once, pocketed the phone. His face smoothed to stone.

“We’ll arrange it now,” he said.

“Sir,” Chen managed, “your dinner tonight–”

“I’m dealing with an emergency,” Sheng said. “Shen Wenlang can work out his own problems with his wife. That has nothing to do with me.”

That was the end of it. Sheng turned back to Minghai and the child, still holding her hand.

Chen walked away, tablet too tight in his grip, hunting the doctor. None of it made sense—the hug, the warning, the word vials, the way Sheng looked at the girl like she was his own.

By evening, the private room at Waitan Lan was all low glass and pale wood, a wall of windows opening to the Bund. Two booster cushions were set neatly at the table.

They had been waiting awhile. The teapot steamed; condensation ringed the water glasses.

Lele wriggled onto a cushion and immediately kicked his heels. Peanut climbed onto his and twisted to look at the river lights.

Shen Wenlang tried first. “The view is nice tonight, isn’t it?” His voice was bright, too careful.

Lele tugged at Gao Tu’s sleeve. “Papa, I’m hungry.”

Gao Tu brushed the boy’s hair back, voice quiet. “Then we should order. He needs to eat.” He looked at Shen, steady. “If we’re not going to order, I’ll take him and go. I’m not watching my child go hungry. Especially in the middle of a restaurant.”

Shen stiffened. “It’s just... we were waiting for Sheng Shaoyou.”

“It’s fine,” Hua Yong said smoothly. “We can order now.” He raised a hand, and the server appeared with menus.

The children’s voices filled the pause– Peanut pointing at the window, Lele asking if they could have rice first. The server bowed, made notes, retreated.

Shen let out a breath and tried again. “President Sheng works too much. Always overtime. Even tonight, missing a dinner just to be at work.”

Hua Yong’s smile held. Inside, his jaw burned. He had expected Sheng to leave early, now that the little “mistress” was gone. Instead, Sheng was late again, wrapped up in something he wouldn’t share.

He set the thought down, hid it clean. “He’s diligent,” Hua Yong said mildly.

Shen reached for his glass, not looking at Gao Tu. “Diligent.”

The food order settled, Hua Yong turned to Gao Tu. “So. Three years. What have you been doing?”

Gao Tu lowered his eyes, fingers resting on Lele’s shoulder. “I found work, after Lele was born. Similar to what I had at HS Group. The pay was nowhere near what I had been making before, but enough to get by. I could care for him, and for my sister. They never went without.”

Shen’s gaze flicked over. “Gao Tu?” he asked. “Did you ever go without?”

Gao Tu’s face stilled. He looked down. Said nothing.

The silence pressed. Hua Yong broke it with a pleasant tone. “What was it like? Laboring without an Alpha’s pheromones to ease it?”

Shen’s head turned sharply, but he said nothing. His expression said enough, almost too much.

Gao Tu hesitated, voice almost gentle. “I tried to get through it, but it was too much and the doctor was concerned. Lele was born by surgery.”

Hua Yong noted the wording, tucked it away. “Peanut was also born that way,” he said.

Gao Tu’s eyes lifted, unguarded. “It must have been painful for you.”

“It was,” Hua Yong answered. Truth, but not the way Gao Tu thought. He let his hand rest against Peanut’s chair, fingers drumming once. “That’s why there won’t be another. One was enough. The pregnancy wasn’t easy.” His tone was vague, careful. “Do you want more children?”

Shen turned, openly curious now.

Gao Tu’s head dipped. “I don’t know,” he whispered.

No one spoke after that. The only sound was the clink of dishes being set down.

Hua Yong’s phone rang. He slid it from his pocket, glanced at the screen, and answered.

Sheng’s voice was even. “I won’t be coming. I’ll see you at home.”

“What about dinner?” Hua Yong asked lightly.

“I’ll figure it out.” The line went dead.

Hua Yong looked at the phone a moment longer.

Did she die, Mr. Sheng? Did Jiang Liya die the way she was supposed to? Did she choke on the rain, crack her skull on the concrete, bleed her apple-scent into the gutter where it belongs?

Tell me. Tell me so I can stop imagining you running to her bedside. Tell me so I can watch you finally crawl back into my arms where you belong.

His mouth curved, polite, harmless.

But no. Even if she’s half-dead, even if she never wakes up, you still choose her. You turn toward that stink of apple, not me. Always not me.

He set the phone down, fingers steady.

You forget, Mr. Sheng. I can take the door off its hinges. I can bleach the walls. If she’s gone, I’ll know it. And if she isn’t, I’ll make sure she wishes she was.

The smile stayed.

And tell me this, Mr. Sheng, if you’re so brilliant, so exacting, why cling to an Alpha stinking of green apple blossoms when your own scent is orange blossom? You said you would never take an Alpha. You said you would never leave me. Do you not love me anymore, Mr. Sheng? Why not someone proper? Someone who matched you? Someone I could keep under control. Not her. Never her.

Just remember who marked you, Mr. Sheng.

He lifted his eyes, mask untouched. “Tell us more about the years you were gone, Gao Tu,” he said, smiling.

By nightfall, Gao Lele was curled up on Shen’s couch, blanket askew, mouth parted in sleep. Shen had been staring too long, memorizing the boy’s small features, identical to his own at that age.

He’s me with Gao Tu’s eyes.

The thought was a bruise under his ribs. For years, he’d wanted this… wanted him. And sometimes, in the bitterness of being left behind, he had hated Gao Tu for taking his precious family. But Gao Tu hadn’t taken anything. Shen had given them away.

But he had never stopped caring. Never gave up hope.

“He needs to be sleeping in a real bed,” Shen said.

Gao Tu looked up. “He’s three. He can sleep anywhere, but I don’t want him in your guest room. The couch is low to the floor. He can climb in and out of it. He can’t climb out of the bed in the guest room.”

“So you don’t plan on sleeping there?”

Gao Tu glared. “I didn’t say that.”

Shen sighed, and forced his voice low. “I’ll set up a room for him. One of those toddler beds. I can buy him a toybox, whatever kind of toys he wants. He can use the extra bedroom close to ours.”

“Ours.” Shen knew Gao Tu wasn’t asking a question.

“It’s normal if an only child has his own room. He needs a bed, and a dresser, and lots of toys. A bookshelf.”

Gao Tu bent, adjusting the blanket, his touch practiced and tender. “No. He doesn’t need all of that. We won’t be here that often. The couch is fine for him.”

“Not fine,” Shen pressed. “He deserves a room. When you move in–”

“What makes you think I’d even want to consider doing that?”

The words cut like glass. Shen’s jaw tightened. “Why not? He’s my son, too. I can take care of him. I want to.”

“I can take care of my family by myself. Including my sister. That’s my responsibility.”

“I can help.” Shen’s words tumbled out, messy, desperate. “I can cover Xiao Qing’s medical bills. Whatever she needs. You won’t have to carry it alone.”

At that, Gao Tu looked up. No anger, just disbelief. “Is that all you think it takes? Pay a few bills, buy a few toys, and suddenly you’re Lele’s father? Being a parent is more than that.”

Shen’s chest ached. “I don’t want to buy my way in. I want to be with you. With him. Both of you.”

“You don’t know us.” Gao Tu’s tone was steady but heavy. “Peanut gets dropped on you sometimes and you think that makes you ready? I don’t plan on pawning my son off on you like Hua Yong does. Lele is a person and deserves to be respected as one. I'm going to raise him. Alone. And I always wanted him, despite any of your cruel words to me.”

The words hollowed Shen out. Because hadn’t he believed the opposite? That Gao Tu’s leaving had been proof of resentment? But Gao Tu’s face was calm, certain, not twisted with anger.

Shen knew he would regret it, but the words just came right out. “Then why the fuck are you even here?!”

Shen knew he had spoken too loud, but he couldn’t help himself. Gao Tu glared at him, but then quickly looked away.

On the couch, Lele stirred. His lashes fluttered, and in a drowsy voice he mumbled, “Papa…” His fingers curled in Gao Tu’s sleeve.

Shen’s throat burned. Papa. The soft word slid past him like a door clicking shut. 

Call me Dad, Xiao Lele. Just once. Let me have the name that means I’m not a guest in my own child’s life. I want you, too. I've wanted you for a long time.

He swallowed it back, because wanting didn’t make it true.

Gao Tu bent quickly, brushing Lele’s hair back. “We’re sorry. We didn’t mean to wake you up, sweet baby. You can go back to sleep. Papa’s here.” His voice gentled, warm, steady as the boy settled again, still holding on to Papa while Dad remained a wish sitting heavy behind Shen’s teeth.

Shen stayed frozen a moment, watching the little hand curl tighter around Gao Tu’s sleeve. The sight cut sharp, more than he meant to let show. He reached out but stopped halfway, fingers curling back. The boy barely knew him, looked at him with wide eyes like at any stranger, but Shen already loved him, wanted his love back with a desperation he couldn’t name. He had the same face. The same eyes. A mirror Shen couldn’t touch.

And still, with both of them here, Shen felt something he hadn’t in years– a small warmth, an old comfort. Just the shape of them together, Gao Tu’s quiet patience, Lele’s breath steadying in sleep, was enough to remind him what it had been like when Gao Tu’s companionship was his. When the nights didn’t end in silence. When he wasn’t alone.

His throat tightened. The words left him before he could stop them. “Gao Tu… I’m in love with you.”

Gao Tu didn’t answer. He just pulled the blanket higher, back turned, anchoring himself to the quiet rise and fall of Lele’s breathing.

And Shen knew that silence was an answer, too.

Across the city, the home of Sheng and Hua Yong was silent but for the faint whir of the air unit.

Peanut lay curled beneath his blanket, thumb hooked in the edge of the fabric, chest rising slow and even.

Hua Yong sat on the edge of the bed, mattress dipping under his weight. For a moment, he just looked. The boy’s face was open in sleep, lashes dark against his skin. Proof of what he and Mr. Sheng had built together.

Hua Yong leaned closer, whisper low.

“Difficult, weren’t you. Kept asking and asking for Daddy. Father tried and tried but you had to fight him. But Daddy wasn’t here for you when you needed him, was he?”

The child stirred faintly, turning into the pillow. Hua Yong’s mouth twisted bitter.

“Maybe Daddy’s forgotten. Forgotten about you, about the love he has for us. For all of us.”

He stood then, smoothed the blanket once, and left the room. The door closed with a slow click behind him.

In the kitchen, he poured a glass of water, set it on the counter, and didn’t touch it. The glass gleamed pale in the dark.

His voice came low, almost a murmur.

“Mr. Sheng… look at what we’ve made. Look at what I gave you. The home, the family, Peanut asleep in his bed. All of it yours. All of it ours.”

He leaned forward, fingers braced on the counter’s edge.

“She's dead, and still, you run to her. Still, you choose her over me.”

His mouth twisted, bitter.

“You said you’d never touch an Alpha. Never date one. Never betray me like that. Do you remember me, Mr. Sheng? Or does she smell too sweet to resist? Do you not love me anymore, Mr. Sheng?”

The water stayed untouched. His eyes gleamed cold.

“Tell me. What does she give you that I don’t? A desk full of apple blossoms and empty excuses? You’d rather be choked by her stench than breathe in my beautiful orchid?”

His voice thinned into a whisper, tight with venom.

“You’re supposed to be brilliant. Exact. So why cling to her, an Alpha that reeked the moment she walked in your office? If you wanted a match, you’d have chosen an Omega who carried orange blossoms. The orange blossoms you gave to me. Someone proper. Someone you could hide from me.”

The silence stretched, sharp as glass.

Finally Hua Yong smiled, slow and cruel.

“But not her. Never her. You’ll see. You’ll remember who you belong to.”

He left the water untouched.

The next morning, the conference room at HS Group was colder than Sheng liked. Light struck glass and steel; the Bund was a haze beyond the window. Chen set folders on the polished table, neat stacks. Shen Wenlang was already seated across from them, smiling too brightly. Secretary Mia hovered at his side, tablet in hand.

Secretary Mia. Omega. Once, Shen Wenlang would never have seated an Omega at his elbow. Not in public. Not here. Gao Tu must have softened him.

“President Sheng,” Shen said, rising a little. “Missed you at dinner last night. Gao Tu asked about you.”

Sheng set his bag down, expression unreadable. “How’s it going with Gao Tu?”

Shen didn’t flinch, but his smile held too long. “Really well,” he said quickly. “We’re… making progress.”

Sheng knew the lie when he heard it. He didn’t call it out. He sat, opened the folder, and let the numbers hold his gaze.

Secretary Mia leaned in, voice smooth. “We reviewed the procurement draft. Some inconsistencies still stand. I’ve flagged them here.”

Chen answered for him. “I’ll walk you through those after the session, Secretary Mia.”

She nodded crisply, fingers tapping notes onto her tablet.

The meeting rolled on. Shen kept the tone light, too casual for the weight of the contracts. “You’re burning yourself out again, President Sheng. Still overtime every night?”

Sheng’s hand stilled on the pen. “We work as much as it takes,” he said, flat.

Chen caught the slight tremor in his grip. Sheng set the pen aside before it showed more.

By the time the slides shifted to delivery schedules, Sheng’s stomach turned. The sourness rose fast, sharp. His throat tightened.

“President Sheng? Are you all right?” Chen asked.

Not now!

He pressed his wrist against the table, breath clipped. Pain bent through his ribs. Another wave surged.

Not now. Not here!

He pushed back suddenly, chair scraping the floor, and was gone before anyone spoke. The corridor outside spun with light and air. He barely made it two steps before the sickness forced itself out, sharp and wet against the sterile floor. He reached out, his hand using the wall for balance.

The sound echoed. Doors opened. Footsteps rushed.

“Sheng Shaoyou–” Shen’s voice, too close.

Sheng shoved him back, hand against his shoulder. “It’s nothing. Get back inside.”

Shen froze, startled. Secretary Mia’s heels clicked up behind him, her tablet clutched tight. Others crowded the doorway, whispering.

Sheng straightened against the wall, dizzy, the floor tilting under his feet. The smell of disinfectant and bile blurred together.

“Everyone back to the meeting,” he rasped. His voice was hoarse, command dulled but still there.

No one moved. The silence pressed closer than the walls.

Secretary Mia’s voice cut through the silence. “Call medical. Now!” Her tone was brisk, sharper than Chen had ever heard from her. She snapped at one of the HS staff lingering in the doorway, already issuing instructions, taking control.

Sheng tried to pull away, to stand alone, but his knees threatened to give. His vision clouded gray, a slow shutter closing. The voices blurred, Chen repeating his name, Shen still asking questions, Mia whispering into her tablet.

The last thing he felt was the cool air on his face, far too bright, before it all tilted away.

The blinds were half-drawn over the wall of glass, the terrace greenery a muted band beyond. Pale wood floors, a black-slat feature wall with HS GROUP in metal letters, and a slab of dark marble set the room. Bookshelves ran clean and lit, awards spaced between file spines. A low glass table sat before the light gray sofa. The air still held coffee. Sheng lay stretched on the couch, one arm over his eyes, his jacket folded on the armrest.

Sheng shifted on the couch, arm dragging down from his eyes. “I told you, I’m fine. Nothing worth dragging out.” His voice was thin, brittle around the edges.

Shen leaned against his desk, arms folded. “If nothing’s wrong, then why did you decorate my floor with your breakfast?”

Sheng shifted but didn’t sit up. “Takeout last night. Probably gastroenteritis.”

Shen’s eyebrows lifted. “Gastroenteritis.” His tone was flat. “Shaoyou, are you pregnant?”

The word hit like a slap. Sheng’s arm slid off his face. He stared at him, too stunned to try a lie.

Shen pressed on. “Hua Yong never mentioned it. In fact, he told Gao Tu point blank there wouldn’t be more children. Said the last pregnancy was too hard on him. So what, are you hiding this from him because you think he’ll make you get rid of it?”

“Don’t speak to me about my child that way!” Sheng snapped, sitting forward. The motion was too quick. A wave of dizziness hit, pulling the blood from his head.

Shen caught the shift at once, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder. “Careful,” he murmured, voice uncharacteristically soft. “Don’t push yourself.” He reached for the carafe on the side table, poured water, and set the glass firmly into Sheng’s hand. With his other hand he drew the wastebin closer, then shifted one of the couch pillows beneath Sheng’s neck, tucking it just so.

“Lie back a minute,” Shen said, quieter still. “You’ll make yourself sick again. Do you want something to eat? Crackers, rice? Something gentle. I can have Mia bring you something.”

Sheng frowned, glaring as if to swat him off, though his breath still came uneven. The touch unsettled him, not in danger, not in threat. Just… steady. It had been a long time since anyone tended to him without demand, without strings. He couldn’t place it, and that was worse.

“I don’t need you fussing over me,” he muttered. But the glass was cool in his hand, the pillow easing the ache behind his skull. And though he wouldn’t admit it aloud, part of him leaned into the care.

The air held still. Shen raised his hands, backing off a step. “All right. Sorry. I didn’t mean…” He hesitated. “But how long do you think you can keep this charade up? You going to secretly give birth in your office and keep the kid there until it graduates?”

Sheng’s lip curled. “What I do with my child is none of your business. Not yours, not anyone’s. You don’t get to stand there and lecture me like you know what this costs.”

Shen pressed once more, quieter now. “You know how psychotic Hua Yong is. If he finds out I knew before he did, he’ll kill me for it. And I have enough to deal with without the lunatic going after me.”

Sheng’s mouth tightened. “Just stop talking,” he said again, colder this time.

The latch clattered before Shen could answer. Hua Yong barreled in, coat unbuttoned, eyes locked on Sheng. He didn’t glance at Shen. He went straight to the couch, crouching down, hand on Sheng’s shoulder. “Mr. Sheng. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Sheng said. His voice was even, but he didn’t explain.

“What happened?” Hua Yong’s hand stayed there, warm, steady, waiting.

Sheng looked away.

Shen’s voice cut in, dry. “Sheng Shaoyou, if you’d shown up to dinner last night, maybe you wouldn’t have had takeout and come in sick. Fast food, Hua Yong. It’s not exactly a balanced meal. Sheng Shaoyou, you did this to yourself.”

Hua Yong’s eyes flicked toward him once, then back to Sheng. He smiled, thin and controlled. “I see.”

For a moment the room held three currents at once: Sheng’s silence, Shen’s sharp glance, Hua Yong’s steady hand. Then Hua Yong rose, smoothing his sleeve as if nothing had broken the air.

Hours later, the apartment was still. Sheng slipped in, the weight of the day pressing behind his eyes. He hoped he didn’t smell like the hospital. He had stayed with Jiang Liya for as long as he could. Her family couldn’t stay that late; the young daughter shouldn’t have been sleeping in the hospital with her comatose mother, and it just didn’t feel right leaving the woman alone. He stayed until visiting time was over and he was politely, but firmly, asked to leave.

It had been almost twenty-four hours. 

He moved softly, not wanting to wake anyone, and padded down the hall to check on Peanut.

The boy was sprawled sideways across the bed, blanket twisted, thumb hooked near his mouth. Sheng crouched beside him, chest warming.

His hand hovered a second before smoothing back Peanut’s hair. 

His other hand came to rest over his abdomen, cradling it, gentle and protective. He bent close and whispered, as if sharing a secret just for the two of them:

Xinxin, I love you.

Soon we'll get to meet you. Peanut will be your big brother and he's going to take care of you. 

Our family will be complete.

For a few minutes he just stayed there, watching, memorizing the sound of Peanut’s even breaths. He bent close, whispering, “Daddy loves you. Always.”

When he finally stood and pulled the door gently shut, Hua Yong was there in the hallway.

Sheng startled. “I thought you were asleep.”

Hua Yong’s smile was soft, almost fond. “Peanut kept asking for you all night. He wanted you there. I wanted you home. It would have meant a lot.” His tone was gentle, but the sweetness wrapped a hook.

Sheng’s throat tightened. “I’m sorry. Work ran late.”

Hua Yong tilted his head. “Just… make sure it doesn’t happen again. We don’t want to upset our guests.”

The words pricked. Before he could stop himself, Sheng muttered, “I don’t really care what Shen Wenlang thinks.”

Hua Yong’s smile sharpened, but his voice stayed airy. “Mr. Sheng has his own priorities.” He let the words hang a beat too long.

Sheng didn’t know how to answer.

Then Hua Yong’s smile softened again, as if nothing had happened. “Come to bed soon,” he said, and turned, disappearing into their room.

Sheng leaned back against the wall, exhaling hard.

His phone buzzed. He pulled it out, the glow sharp in the dark. A message from Zhou Minghai. Two words only:

She’s awake.

Chapter Text

The closet smelled of cedar and starch. Hua Yong sat languidly on the low bench, silk robe spilling across his knees, watching as Sheng fastened his cufflinks at the mirror.

“You’re leaving early,” Hua Yong murmured, voice smooth, too casual. “Stay. At least for breakfast.”

Sheng slid the second cuff into place, movements brisk. “I can’t. There’s too much waiting at the office.”

Hua Yong rose, padding forward barefoot. He plucked the tie from its hook and slipped it around Sheng’s collar with deliberate care, fingers lingering. His breath brushed close as he drew the knot tight, close enough to inhale–

–and caught it.

Not orange blossoms. Not orchids. Not even Shen Wenlang’s irises.

Green apples. Faint. Sweet. Fragile.

And then, he realized.

No. No. That’s wrong. That’s not possible. I watched her fall. I saw the way her skull split the sound open, like glass cracking on stone. I smelled her blood in the rain. That was supposed to be the end. She should have been nothing but a name carved into a file, a memory to rot.

His hand trembled, then steadied, nails carving crescents into his palm.

But you… you always ruin things, don’t you, Jiang Liya? You with your soft eyes, your weak little smile. Acting like a saint, like some fragile lamb staggering to slaughter. He looks at you and I can see it– see the pity, see the warmth. He calls you loyal, he calls you good, but I know what you are. Not loyal. Not good. Not his salvation. A thief. A leech. A ghost that refuses to stay buried.

The walls seemed too close, his breath too hot. Pheromones leaked sharp and heavy, sour-sweet with fury.

You survive, and you crawl back into my home, into my husband’s gaze. You don’t even have to ask. He offers you kindness. He lets you linger where you don’t belong. And him– my Mr. Sheng– he’ll let you. He’ll hand you everything I bled for. He’ll hold you like you’re his salvation, while I– his Enigma, his everything– stand here with nothing but this gnawing acid eating me alive.

He dragged his hand across the wall, leaving streaks where his nails bit into paint.

But I can fix this. I can still fix this. Maybe the doctors pulled you back once, but I’ll send you down again. This time I’ll watch the light leave your eyes. This time I’ll make sure your lungs never fill again. This time he’ll have no choice but to see you for what you are: a mistake. And he’ll come back to me. Because he belongs to me. Even if he forgets. Even if he looks at you like I’m not enough– I’ll remind him. I’ll carve it into his bones if I must.

The ward was too bright, the antiseptic smell sharp in Sheng’s nose. He walked in with his jacket draped over one arm, already tense from the way he’d had to leave the office. There was no sneaking this time. He was here now. That was all that mattered.

Jiang Liya stirred against the pillows, pale against the white sheets. A bandage wrapped her temple, and her lips cracked when she tried to form a word. “President Sheng?” Her voice was threadbare, barely above the hum of the monitors. “Why… are you here?”

“I’m here to check on you,” Sheng said, steady though his chest was tight. “Don’t try to move.”

“He’s been visiting since he heard you got here,” Zhou Minghai said.

She blinked slowly, the effort almost too much. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “What even happened to me?” The question was small, confused, as if she had just woken from a dream.

Minghai leaned forward at once. His voice rushed, as if saying it fast would make it easier. “The stairs. You must’ve slipped, Liya. The rain was heavy, too dark. You fell, struck your head. They found you outside, soaked through.” He smoothed the blanket along her arm, as if that could anchor her. “That’s all.”

Jiang frowned faintly, but her strength faltered before she could search further. “I don’t remember any of it,” she whispered. Her hand twitched once against the blanket, then stilled.

“That’s fine,” Sheng said quickly, keeping her gaze. “You don’t need to. The doctors said you need rest.” His tone was firmer than he intended, almost a command. She was too weak to argue.

Jiang’s breath rattled faintly, her eyes slipping closed again. Minghai kept his hand braced gently over hers, thumb stroking once as if to remind her she wasn’t alone. His face was lined with exhaustion, but there was no blame in it, only worry.

Sheng stood rigid at the bedside. “She gave blood before she left,” he said, voice even. “I let that happen after a long day. I didn’t call her a car because I didn’t want attention on her.” He looked at Minghai, then back to Jiang. “Already weakened– of course the fall nearly killed you.”

Jiang’s lashes fluttered. “I offered,” she whispered. “Not you. I did it on my own.”

“It was my fault,” Sheng said, decisive. “I kept her late, let her give blood, and sent her home into the rain and dark.”

He exhaled once, slow, as if forcing the words out past his own pride. “You don’t have to come back. She’s done enough already. The loan… she doesn’t need to worry about it anymore. I don’t need the money.”

On the bed, Jiang stirred faintly, eyelids fluttering. “No…” The word rasped out, frail but insistent. “I– I’ll work. I’m not that kind of person. I can still–” Her voice caught, strength failing before she could finish.

Sheng leaned closer, voice low. “No. Not another word. You’ve done more than enough.” He glanced at Minghai. “With your permission, I can offer her my soothing pheromones.”

Minghai didn’t look away from her. “President Sheng, I may only be an Omega, but I can take care of my own wife.”

“Please don’t do this,” Jiang whispered, eyes wet. “Not now.”

Minghai looked from her to Sheng, unsettled. Sheng’s face gave nothing away. He stood there, shoulders rigid, as though every syllable had been meant only for her.

She stirred faintly once more, eyes half-shut. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, so weak the apology barely carried. “I failed you. I just needed to do one thing for you–”

“No,” Sheng said at once, softer but absolute. “You didn’t fail. Don’t say that.” He pulled the blanket higher, smoothing it once across her shoulder. “Recover. That’s your only task now.”

Her lashes fluttered, and she slipped back into sleep, body slack against the pillows. Minghai kept his head bowed, his hand still on hers, murmuring something only she might hear.

Sheng stayed at the bedside, face unreadable, fury coiled tight under his skin. Outwardly, he accepted the story– the rain, the subway, the accident. Inwardly, he set a list: rides after dark, weekend protocols off her desk. He would not let her end a day like this again.

By two o’clock, the floor had thinned. Most staff had gone back to their own departments, leaving the executive wing quiet. Chen stayed. He had files to redistribute, access logs to send down to IT, reports to straighten before President Sheng returned.

He meant only to file the contracts, but the drawer caught. Inside, beneath neat folders, rows of slim glass vials gleamed in the low light. He lifted one, turning it in his hand. Faint green liquid clung to the glass. No smell reached him– just sterile glass– but it looked wrong, like it carried a secret he wasn’t meant to touch.

The latch turned.

Chen looked up too late. Hua Yong entered without knocking, eyes sweeping the room, settling at once on the vial in Chen’s hand.

The orchids came before the words… dense, suffocating, cloying the air until Chen’s lungs stalled.

“Mr. Hua–” Chen started, startled.

Hua Yong’s mouth curved. “What do you have there?” He inhaled once, deep, savoring. “Sweet green apple blossoms. That little girl. Of course.” His gaze slid over Chen, slow and cutting. “You’re pretty enough– anyone can see that. But don’t flatter yourself, Secretary Chen. Mr. Sheng wouldn’t crawl into bed for a Beta. Not you. Not ever.”

Chen’s throat worked, but no words came. His pulse hammered, the vial slick in his hand as he stumbled back a step, shocked into silence.

The vial slipped from his hand, hit the floor, and cracked. The apple blossom scent surged, filling the office. Chen staggered back, throat tight, head swimming.

Soothing… soothing pheromones? All this time…? Sheng Shaoyou…? What’s going on with you?

Hua Yong slammed himself past Chen, pushing him aside, and bent low, voice silken. He picked up another vial, inspecting it as close as he could without opening it.

“So this is what he hides. Bottled, neat. Does he use it when she’s gone? When the rotting apple leaves the building, does he take it out? Press it to his skin, to himself?” His voice dropped further, obscene. “Does he pleasure himself with it, Secretary Chen?”

Chen’s stomach twisted. 

Wait… is President Sheng…? The thought flashed, horrifying, unwanted.

“You’re covering for him,” Hua Yong hissed, eyes cutting back. “You keep the doors shut, keep the whispers down. The blinds have been closed every time I’ve walked in lately. Do you think I don’t see it? Mr. Sheng is mine. Always has been.”

“I swear I don’t know anything!”

He reached into the drawer, lifted the full container of vials, and without pause smashed it against the floor. The sound cracked sharp. Dozens burst at once, the sweet-green blossom scent exploding, crashing against Chen’s senses until the world tilted. Orchids surged with it, heavy and choking.

Chen gasped, staggered against the desk. His vision blurred. His knees hit the tile.

Hua Yong’s smile was thin, cruel. “Clean this up.”

The orchids pressed one beat longer, then receded with his steps. The door closed behind him, gentle as a lull.

Chen collapsed sideways, out cold, the floor slick with apple and glass.

The exam room was too quiet once the nurse left. Sheng sat perched on the narrow bed, gauze taped crooked at his elbow. His arm still tingled where the needle had gone in, and the silence pressed harder than the antiseptic smell.

Dr. Wang flipped through the chart, frown etched deep. “Your labs from last time, your complications… Mr. Sheng, you can’t dismiss the risk. Have you considered termination?”

“No.” Sheng’s answer came fast, ironclad.

The doctor’s brows rose. “You nearly died. You nearly bled to death and almost went into organ failure. Do you understand what another pregnancy could do to you?”

“I understand the risks,” Sheng said flatly. His jaw locked.

Dr. Wang leaned forward, tone soft but insistent. “It isn’t just about you. If you collapse again, neither of you may survive. But if you terminate now, you preserve your life and prevent a possible end to your life.”

Sheng’s head snapped up. His voice cracked sharp, raw. “What part of ‘I’m keeping her’ do you not understand?!”

The words hung in the sterile air. Even the clock on the wall sounded too loud.

Dr. Wang’s tone dropped, steady and grim. “Then you should at least consider permanent sterilization afterward. We can schedule the procedure immediately post-delivery. The moment the baby is out, we end the cycle. No more risk to your life. No repeat of this. Ever.”

The word sterilization hit harder than Sheng expected, like a blade to the ribs. A final cut, the choice gone forever. His throat felt tight, but his answer was cold. “I said no. It's my body, and I'll carry as many babies I want. You don't get to decide that.”

“Mr. Sheng–”

“I already have one child and I understand my love for him. How do I look at my son and admit I killed his sister because I was afraid? How do I look at myself in the mirror knowing what I purposely destroyed?!” His voice cracked, fury and grief braided together, but he didn’t waver.

Dr. Wang exhaled, leaning back. He rubbed at his brow with two fingers, then set the chart down with a quiet thud. “You don’t leave me much room.”

Sheng didn’t answer. His gaze stayed fixed on the sterile floor tiles, the words hammering in his chest: I won’t lose her. Not this one. She’s mine. She’s a little girl and she’s going to look like me. I just know it. I love her. I already know her name.

The knock at the door startled both of them. A runner passed in the fresh test slips. Dr. Wang scanned them quickly, then stopped. The lines of his face eased.

“The fetus is Alpha, most likely S-class like you,” he said at last. “That lowers certain complications. Not without risk, but a bit safer than an Enigma. And… you were right about the primary sex. She’s female.”

Sheng drew in a long breath, chest trembling with the release. He looked down at his hands– white-knuckled on his knees– then let them loosen slowly. A girl. He could almost see her already.

“Don’t talk to me about abortion anymore,” Sheng said. “You tell me how to get through this. You’re the damn doctor. Take care of us.”

Dr. Wang closed the file gently this time. “In that case, my advice changes. We monitor you closely, weekly at first. You’ll need support, and a partner willing to provide soothing pheromones consistently.”

“My husband is a lunatic. If he finds out, he’ll make me get rid of the baby. I won’t risk that.”

Dr. Wang’s sigh was long, weary. “I can’t force you. But you’ll need help, soothing pheromones, at the very least. Regularly. Without them…” He let the warning trail, then glanced up sharply. “What happens when more symptoms show up? The inevitable back pain from how your body forces you to carry?”

Sheng’s gaze flickered.

Dr. Wang closed the chart with more force than needed. “The surrogate pheromones are a temporary crutch, not a solution. If you keep leaning on that, both of you could collapse before term.”

Sheng’s shoulders went rigid. “It’s working,” he said, quiet but defensive. “I’m still here and my daughter and I are doing just fine.”

“You’re fine now,” Dr. Wang shot back. “But I’ve seen the files. I know what happened last time. Soothing pheromones saved you then, too, but you have the help of your Enigma… the baby’s biological parent. You can’t siphon strength from an Alpha, even S-class, that your baby doesn’t biologically belong to, indefinitely.”

Sheng looked away, jaw locked, words ground down to iron. “Then I’ll find a way.”

Dr. Wang shook his head, but softer now. “Find a way, or tell your husband. I don’t care which. But without that support, Mr. Sheng… this pregnancy may be the one you don’t walk away from.”

Sheng didn’t answer. His gaze stayed fixed on the sterile floor tiles.

She’s mine. No one can take my babies from me. Not even my husband.

I’d pick Peanut and Xinxin over Hua Yong any day of the week.

I don’t care anymore.

A buzz at his side broke the silence. Sheng pulled his phone from his pocket, screen flaring bright in the dim office. It was a text message from Xu Zhiyuan, Shengfeng Biotech’s Chief of Security.

“Urgent matter at the office. We need you to return immediately. Secretary Chen has been seriously injured.”

Sheng’s chest tightened. He slipped the phone away, his expression smoothing to steel. The walls of the consultation room seemed to close in. There would be no rest. Not yet.

Sheng was already striding through the rain-slick pavement before the car even came to a stop, jacket slung over his arm. He pushed into the building’s glass doors, breath sharp, his expression carved into something unapproachable.

Xu Zhiyuan was waiting just inside the lobby. The Chief of Security bowed his head quickly. “President Sheng– forgive me. We had no choice. Secretary Chen collapsed. He’s stable, but the medical team advised he be put somewhere quiet. We… we put him in your private lounge.”

Sheng didn’t slow. His eyes flicked once to Zhiyuan, unreadable, but his voice came curt. “You did right. Take me there.”

The elevator ride was silent, Zhiyuan stiff beside him. When the doors opened, Sheng was out first, steps echoing down the corridor. At the guarded door, he didn’t wait for it to be opened — he shoved it wide himself.

Chen lay half-reclined on the bed inside, pale under the dim lights. A tray with an untouched glass of water sat on the side table, his breath coming shallow, uneven. He startled faintly when Sheng entered, trying to rise, but his arms trembled too hard to push himself up.

“President Sheng…” His voice rasped, raw from the strain. “I need to speak with you. Privately. Mr. Hua… he was here.”

“Everyone out,” Sheng said. His voice was calm but carried the weight of command. The guards and Zhiyuan exchanged glances, then filed out quickly. The latch clicked behind them.

Sheng crossed the room, setting his jacket aside. He didn’t loom above Chen like a superior; instead, he sat on the edge of the bed and steadied him gently, lifting him enough to rest against the pillows. He handed Chen the glass of water and waited until the younger man’s hands stopped shaking enough to drink.

Chen swallowed once, then lowered the cup with effort. His voice was hoarse. “Mr. Hua came in. I’d been cleaning your desk, and the drawer caught– I found the vials. I didn’t know what they were at first. I was just looking when he walked in.” His throat bobbed. “He smelled it through the stopper. I promise you, I didn’t open it. He knew. He smashed them– every vial– across the floor.” A tear slipped down his cheek, and he made a pained noise. “President Sheng, I am so sorry. I didn’t know what he was going to do. I–”

Sheng’s hand tightened slightly on his shoulder. “No,” he said firmly. “None of this is your fault.”

Chen hesitated, then spoke again, weaker but urgent. “He said things, President Sheng. Accused you. Said you’d rather have someone else in your bed. That you’d never touch someone like me. He laughed about it. Called me pretty but not the type you’d risk your reputation for.” Chen’s lips pressed tight, breath shaky. “I didn’t know what he meant. I didn’t believe him. I never thought you’d step out on him. I just… don’t know…”

Sheng’s expression didn’t shift. His silence stretched a moment too long. Then he exhaled through his nose, almost a hiss of resignation. “You deserve the truth.”

Chen blinked, startled by the change in tone.

Sheng’s eyes stayed locked on his, steady, unflinching. “I’m pregnant.”

The words hit like a crack through glass. Chen’s breath caught; his mouth opened, closed, then opened again. For a second the room tipped, and he looked as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.

“When I thought of telling him,” Sheng continued, voice quieter now, “he made it clear. There would be no more pregnancies. Not ever. If I ever spoke about it again, he’d get sterilized. But when he said that… I already knew. I know my husband is insane and I didn’t know what he would do. So I didn’t tell him. I couldn’t risk it. Not yet.”

Chen’s pulse kicked visibly at his throat, but his voice came out anyway, ragged. “Mr. Hua can’t force you–”

“I don’t know what he’s going to do,” Sheng cut in.

And just like that, the rest fell into place for Chen. His lips parted in dawning realization, shock overtaking the fear. “Secretary Jiang…” His voice trembled, but it steadied as he said it. “She isn’t just covering meetings. She’s here as your surrogate. For pheromones. That’s why it always smells like her. She’s not an Omega with bad hygiene..”

Sheng closed his eyes briefly, then nodded once. “You’re right. And I owe you both an apology.”

Chen stared at him, disbelief edged with something smaller and sore. “If I’d known… I could’ve been more careful around him. I could’ve shielded you better. I wouldn’t have...” His voice thinned, not anger yet. “You could have trusted me. I could have helped.”

Sheng’s jaw flexed. For a moment, he looked older, worn. His hand at Chen’s shoulder tightened again, the smallest concession. “I was afraid. Afraid of him. Afraid of losing my baby. Afraid of losing everything.”

The silence lingered, heavy but not empty. Finally, Chen let out a long, shaky breath, lowering his gaze. “Then no more secrets. Not from me. If you want me to stand between you and him, I need to know what I’m protecting.”

Sheng didn’t answer right away. He only sat there, shoulders rigid, hand steady on Chen’s shoulder– the closest thing he had to admitting he’d finally given someone else part of his burden.

The knock at the door was firm, deliberate.

Gao Qing opened it a crack, her expression tight the moment she saw him standing outside. Peanut’s small hand was in his, tugging slightly as if sensing the tension.

“Mr. Shen,” Gao Qing said, voice clipped. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I’m here to see Gao Tu,” Shen replied, polite but steady. “Please, let me in.”

Her grip on the door didn’t loosen. “My brother doesn’t want to see you. He never gave you this address. How did you even–”

“I hired a detective,” Shen said bluntly. “Based on his phone number.”

Her eyes flashed, a cold anger. “So you paid someone to dig through his private life. Typical. You think being an S-class Alpha means you can just force your way into ours. He comes to visit you once, and now you’re all over him, obsessed with him. My brother isn’t just someone you can hunt down. Neither is his son.”

Peanut shifted at Shen’s side, wide-eyed at the hostility. Shen tightened his grip on his hand, lowering his voice. “I’m not here to hurt him. I just want to talk.”

“You say that,” Gao Qing snapped, “but I know what you’ve already done. The way you accused him. The way you abandoned him in so many ways. He doesn’t any need more of your damage.”

Her words hit like strikes, sharp and fast. Shen absorbed them silently, though his jaw tightened. He could’ve pushed through– physically, she couldn’t have stopped him, but he didn’t even try.

“He’s not the only one who took damage!” Shen fought back. “He lied to me about being pregnant and kept my child away from me. I have the right to know my son!”

“You didn’t want him in the first place!” Gao Qing cried out.

“Xiao Qing.” Gao Tu’s voice came from inside, weary but firm. He appeared behind her, one hand on the doorframe. “That’s enough. Let him in. It’s fine.”

“Ge,” she said quickly, turning to him. “You don’t have to do this.”

“It’s all right,” Gao Tu said. His eyes flicked once to Shen, unreadable. “I’ll be fine.”

Gao Qing hesitated, then stepped back reluctantly, giving Shen a dirty look. Shen entered, Peanut clinging close to his leg.

Inside, the apartment was small but neat. Gao Tu led them quietly down the hall and opened a door to a narrow bedroom. “Lele’s room,” he said.

As soon as Peanut’s feet touched the floor, he looked around curiously. “Where are all your toys?”

Lele, hovering near his bed, answered with shy pride. “In my toybox.” He pulled the lid open to reveal a handful of cars and worn blocks.

Peanut frowned. “Where are the rest?”

“There aren’t more,” Lele said simply.

Shen crouched, smoothing Peanut’s hair. “Play with what’s here. You’ll like them.”

The boys settled quickly, Lele shyly showing Peanut how his cars could race along the floor. Gao Qing lingered at the doorway. “I’ll watch them,” she said flatly. “If you two need to talk.”

The door closed behind them, leaving Shen and Gao Tu in the narrow living room. They sat on the couch, a space between them like a wall.

“She’s really protective of you,” Shen muttered.

“She’s an A-class Alpha,” Gao Tu said. “It’s her nature.”

“I see.” Shen paused. “Can we talk in your room? Is it that room over there?”

“I sleep in here, on the couch,” Gao Tu said.

“You don’t have your own room?” Shen asked at last.

Gao Tu shook his head. “Lele needs his space. And Qing’s still young. She deserves her privacy.”

Shen glanced around– the thin couch, a folded blanket on its arm, one lamp, no extra chair. No clutter. Air moved through a bare window; the room felt pared to bone.

“And what else do you go without?” Shen pressed gently.

Gao Tu didn’t answer. Instead, his eyes slid toward him. “Why are you here?”

Shen exhaled slowly. “Because we need to talk. Privately. To work things out.”

“There’s nothing to work out,” Gao Tu said, his voice hard. “You accused me of getting pregnant on purpose. That I wanted to extort you for money. You took my father’s side without even hearing mine. Do you think anyone could forgive that?”

“You lied to me, too,” Shen countered, leaning forward. “You told me you were a Beta. For ten years.”

“Because I couldn’t tell you.” Gao Tu’s voice cracked once, but he held steady. “I’m an Omega, Shen Wenlang. If my father ever found out…” His hands knotted together. “I’ve spent my whole life hiding it. From him. From everyone. Even from you.”

“Gao Tu–”

Gao Tu looked away. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Not here. Not where Xiao Qing or Lele might overhear.”

“Then come to my house,” Shen said. “Friday night. Alone. I need to know why things ended the way they did.”

“I can’t just leave,” Gao Tu said. “I have a three-year-old son.”

At that, the bedroom door cracked open. Gao Qing stepped in. 

“I’ll stay with him,” she said. “If you want to go.”

Gao Tu blinked at her. “Why would you–?”

“I know your true feelings,” Gao Qing said softly, though her eyes never left Shen. “You two just need to talk it out. I’m also not going to continue to be in the middle of this. Ge… you’re protecting everyone but yourself. Just this once, choose what you want, not what you’re afraid of.”

Still, Gao Tu hesitated.

Shen leaned forward slightly. “I’ll pay for the weekend. For you and Xiao Lele. Anywhere you want to go.”

Gao Tu’s head snapped to him. “Xiao Lele? Who gave you permission to call him that–”

Shen’s voice softened, though steady. “He’s my son, too. And I want to do something nice for him. Gao Qing, name it. Wherever you want.”

Gao Qing’s smile was all teeth. “You really think you can just buy your way into my brother’s life?” She leaned forward, eyes glittering. She thought for a moment. “Then… Shanghai Disneyland. Not just tickets– Magic Kingdom VIP suite. Park view. Breakfast included. The most expensive package they’ve got. Oh, and premiere passes.” She tilted her head, voice low with scorn. “Let’s see if your wallet is as big as your mouth.”

“No,” Gao Tu said at once. “That’s not what he meant–”

“Done,” Shen interrupted smoothly. “I’ll have my secretary arrange it.”

Gao Tu shook his head at once. “That’s too much. He doesn’t need Disneyland, he just needs his–” His voice caught. He looked down, breath tight, the rest swallowed.

“His what?” Shen asked.

Gao Tu bowed his head. “Nothing. He needs nothing. He’s taken care of.”

“He can have some fun this weekend. I’ll have Secretary Mia arrange it first thing tomorrow.”

Gao Tu’s expression shifted, surprised. “Mia? Mia has my old job?”

Shen gave a faint smile, but his voice was quiet, almost poetic. “It turns out that when I open my heart, I let in people I never expected. She may not make tea like you did, but she makes my life easier. She works hard and is there for me even when she doesn’t need to be. And I care about her.”

“But she’s an Omega,” Gao Tu said, faintly accusing.

“It doesn’t define her,” Shen replied. His gaze softened, piercing. “It doesn’t define you.”

Gao Tu froze, bright eyes fixed on him, unreadable. For a long moment, no one spoke. Then, at last, Gao Tu exhaled.

“All right,” he said quietly. “Friday.”

Shen’s smile was small, controlled. “Thank you.”

The ward was hushed, lit only by the dim glow of monitors. The hour was late enough that the halls were empty, the nurses absent, the night air heavy with disinfectant. Jiang Liya stirred, a faint rustle of sheets as she rolled onto her side.

Her eyes blinked open slowly, adjusting to the dark. At first, she saw nothing but the shadowed outline of the room. Then her gaze caught the figure seated in the chair beside her bed.

Hua Yong.

Her lips parted, confusion raw in her voice. “Who… are you?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The reply filled the air instead– a bloom of pheromones, heavy and choking, orchids thick and oppressive until her breath faltered.

“Orchids,” Liang whispered.

“Do you not remember my scent? After all I’ve done for you?”

Recognition sparked sharp in her eyes. Her body stiffened. “You… you did this to me! You tried to kill me!”

Hua Yong didn’t rise. He leaned forward, calm, predatory stillness in every movement. The pheromones tightened around her like invisible cords, squeezing until the sound strangled in her throat.

“You should have stayed down,” he murmured, voice soft but slick with venom. “The fall should have finished you. Do you understand the inconvenience you’ve caused me, crawling back from death like some pathetic insect?”

“But why–” she whispered, breathless.

“Why?” Hua Yong’s mouth curved, though his eyes stayed cold. “Because you’ve been spreading your filth where it doesn’t belong. Sliding your pheromones under my husband’s nose. Acting like you’re pure, while you crawl into his orbit like a whore in silk. Did you think I wouldn’t smell it on him? Did you think I wouldn’t know? Opening your legs for a married man– pathetic.”

Her chest heaved, the effort to breathe monumental. She tried to speak, words breaking apart under the weight pressing into her lungs. “I– never… I wouldn’t–”

His smile was sharp, mocking. “You mean to say you never touched him? Never let him pity you? Never batted your lashes at him like a starving little stray begging for scraps?” His voice dropped lower, silk pulled taut with acid. “Lies. Filth. I see exactly what you are.”

Her voice scraped out again, broken syllables. “Never– touched– ”

He chuckled once, bitter. “The strength you still have… admirable. But wasted.” He leaned back, exhaling another wave of orchids into the dark, thick enough to smother her words, then her breath, until her body trembled on the edge of collapse.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” Hua Yong said evenly, eyes glinting like a blade. “I didn’t realize I was dealing with an S-class Alpha. Otherwise, I would have tried harder the first time.”

Her fingers twitched against the sheets, a pitiful, clawing motion that slowed, then stilled. Her lids fluttered, her voice lost entirely.

He remained seated, perfectly composed, watching her fade into unconsciousness. The venom never left his voice. 

“Sleep well, Jiang Liya.”

Chapter Text

Jiang Liya’s fingers twitched against the sheets, clawing once, then stilled. Her lids fluttered, breath shallow.

The door slammed open. A pair of nurses staggered under the suffocating weight of orchids, alarms blaring behind them. Security surged in, masks strapped tight, voices clipped with orders.

“Step back! Restrain him!”

Hua Yong rose, fury radiating off him, and the first guard who tried to grab him was flung back against the wall with a crack of muscle and chain. Another rushed him, only to be caught by a vicious twist of his arm. It took three more, piling in with reinforced straps, to drag him off the chair, his roar shaking the sterile walls.

“Mr. Sheng is mine!” His voice carried through the corridor as they hauled him bodily away, every step a violent thrash against their hold.

Behind him, the orchids thinned. Doctors and nurses swarmed Jiang Liya’s bedside, voices urgent but steady as they checked her pulse, fitted an oxygen mask, and began clearing the residue from the room.

The last thing Hua Yong saw as the door shut was her chest rising under their hands– alive.

The restraints screamed against metal as Hua Yong wrenched with all his strength, the bed legs rattling across tile. His wrists were raw, the skin split, but his eyes burned brighter than the fluorescent light overhead.

“You think you can cage me?” His voice jagged, venom hissing through clenched teeth. “Mr. Sheng is mine. I marked him. He breathes me. You think a few cuffs and your smug silence will change that?”

Chang Yu’s voice was low and even. “President Sheng isn’t here. That is a fact.”

Hua Yong snapped his head to him, spit on his lips, trembling with rage. “Where is he then? Hiding behind you? Behind that apple-stinking whore you parade in front of me? He should be here– at my side. He belongs with me. He always has.”

Shen stepped forward, stare merciless. “No. He belongs wherever you aren’t. Right now that’s the only reason the air in this room isn’t poison.”

“You bastard!” Hua Yong lunged; the restraints snapped taut. “He carries me– every hour, every breath. You think I don’t know? You’ve smelled it too. My mark doesn’t fade. He stinks of me. And you–” His laugh split, wet and ragged. “You can’t wash it off him. None of you can.”

“You mean Jiang Liya,” Shen cut in, voice steel. “The woman you tried to kill. Twice. She’s alive, Hua Yong. Alive and breathing while you’re the one locked in restraints.”

Hua Yong’s eyes went feral. “Because you drugged me. Because you–”

“No,” Shen said, colder. “Because you’ve been flooding every room with oppression pheromones like a coward who can’t win without choking people. You burned yourself hollow. That’s why you’re panting. That’s why your hands shake. You can’t even slip a cuff.”

Chang Yu glanced at the monitor. “Your baseline’s wrecked. Keep forcing output and you’ll drop again.”

Hua Yong yanked uselessly at the chains, lungs burning. “Sheng is mine–”

“All you’ve proven,” Shen snapped over him, “is that you think you can’t keep him without choking everyone else first.”

The bed rocked under Hua Yong’s next attack. “She’s nothing. A parasite. I should have watched her drown in the rain. I should have snapped her neck with my own hands. Mr. Sheng pities her, but pity won’t save her when I finish what I started.” His mouth twisted into something uglier. “Next time, I’ll strip that apple-scent from her throat until she can’t breathe.”

Chang Yu spoke, calm but firm. “You’re delusional. The more you push, the faster you burn yourself out. Look at your pulse. You’ll collapse before you ever touch her again.”

“Then I’ll drag her with me!” Hua Yong bared his teeth; spit flew with the words. “If he won’t leave her, I’ll carve her scent out of the world. Sheng is mine. Until death.”

Shen’s mask muffled breath but not disgust. “Listen to yourself. Pathetic. You think a mark equals devotion? All it means is rot clinging to him like filth he can’t scrub away. You want the truth?” He leaned in, eyes hard. “The only thing keeping him from you now is disgust. You’ve made yourself unbearable.”

Hua Yong froze, chest seizing, eyes wild. The restraints rattled once more, weaker, then he slumped against the pillow.

Shen straightened, voice low and cold. “If you’re lucky, your own body will finish this obsession for you. Save the rest of us the trouble.”

Chang Yu snapped the file shut with a quiet finality. “We’re done here.”

They turned to go. Behind them Hua Yong’s curses dissolved into hoarse mutters, swallowed by the ward’s steady hum.

The door clicked shut behind them with that dull, final sound. The ward’s hum shrank to a muffled static; boots clicked in the corridor. A sliver of light pooled where the ceiling dimmed into shadow. Shen and Chang Yu stepped out, faces masked, moving toward the far end of the hall.

A figure waited halfway down the corridor– Sheng Shaoyou, coat collar up, face pale under the harsh light. He didn’t follow. He stood with an arm folded, the other clamped around himself as if to keep something from wobbling loose. When Shen looked his way, Sheng’s jaw clenched and he took one step forward.

Chang Yu’s voice, low enough that only the three of them could hear, cut the air. “Are you going in?”

Shen didn’t bother pulling his mask all the way down yet. His answer was clipped. “No. He can’t. Not here. Not with Hua Yong like that.”

Sheng’s lips twitched. “I need–”

“You’ll get him when it’s safe,” Shen said. The edge in his voice left no room for argument.

“You don’t think Mr. Sheng being there will calm him?” Chang Yu asked.

Sheng’s eyes flicked to Chang Yu. For a moment he looked like a man stripped of pretense; the fatigue in his face was a private kind of raw. He stepped closer, voice hushed. “Secretary Chang…  I’m pregnant.”

The words landed between them like a small, dangerous thing. Chang Yu’s hand went to the file at his hip, then stilled. The professional mask slid back on his face faster than his expression changed; his tone became authority in a heartbeat. “What?”

Sheng’s breath hitched. “It’s true. I– I don’t know what he’ll do to me…” He broke off, not finishing the sentence.

Chang Yu closed his jaw and the air around him shifted. “Stay back. Do not come any closer.” His voice was a wall. He looked at Shen, eyes narrow. “He has to be protected. Now.”

Shen pushed his mask down, the elastic snapping against his wrist. He regarded Sheng for only a second before his gaze snapped to Chang Yu. “He cannot go in. Not until the atmosphere is tested and Hua Yong is contained. The ward’s air is compromised. You heard the man– he’s been flooding places with pheromones. One misstep and the secret’s exposed.”

Chang Yu’s posture tightened, sleeves rolling up like a promise. “Jiang Liya’s cover holds the symptoms for now,” he said. “Green-apple S-class output– enough to veil pregnancy signs in controlled bursts. But it’s temporary. We buy time, not safety.” He turned to Sheng, voice low and fierce. “You stay where you are. We will not let you risk the baby. Not for him. Not for anyone.”

A nurse hurried past at the corridor’s far end. For a moment the faint trace of green apple trailed with her, sterile and sweet, fragile as glass.

Sheng’s shoulders slumped a fraction. There was a tremor in his laugh, more a release than humor. “I wanted to see him,” he said. “I thought–”

“You wanted to see a monster,” Shen finished, blunt. “You don’t. You don’t know how he’s going to react. Especially now.”

Chang Yu’s eyes hardened. “Then listen. We keep you out of that room. We test the air. We strip any staff who pass through. We control access. If Hua Yong escalates, we escalate harder. Nobody mentions this pregnancy. Not to him. Not to anyone who doesn’t need to know.”

Sheng nodded, small and furious with himself. “Okay. Do what you have to.”

Shen’s mouth twisted into something like agreement. “That’s the only plan that keeps us breathing.”

Chang Yu slid the file back under his arm. “So we wait. We guard. We keep him breathing and contained– until Sheng and that child are safe.”

His gaze flicked back toward the ward door. “But the more he recovers, the stronger he’ll get. Hua Yong needs time, and time cuts both ways.”

Shen’s mouth twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Then we make sure every day he gets back is one he spends chained.”

They walked down the corridor together, their footsteps swallowed by the sterile light, leaving Hua Yong’s muffled curses to wither behind the door.

Sheng stayed where he was long after the door closed, staring at the sterile white panel as if will alone could force it open.

He pressed a hand to his stomach without meaning to, a reflex he hated but couldn’t stop.

“President Sheng?”

The voice was careful, not sharp. Sheng turned. Chen stood there, coat draped over one arm, a paper cup of coffee in the other. His eyes said more than his voice ever did– worry, quiet loyalty, a refusal to leave Sheng alone like this.

Sheng exhaled. “Chen Pinming.”

Chen walked closer, pressing the coffee into his free hand. “You shouldn’t be here. The air–” He broke off, studying Sheng’s face. “You don’t need me to repeat what you already know.”

For a long moment Sheng said nothing. Then his voice cracked, lower than a whisper. “He’s chained to a bed like some kind of caged feral animal, and I still wanted to see him.”

Chen didn’t flinch. “Wanting is not the same as going. You stayed here. That’s what matters.”

Sheng shook his head. “Hua Yong won’t stop. Not until he takes me down with him. And Jiang Liya–” He closed his eyes briefly. “She’s in the middle of all of this because of me. Because I needed cover.”

“She agreed to it, didn’t she,” Chen said evenly. “You didn’t force her. She knew the risk.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“No,” Chen allowed, “but it makes it necessary.”

Sheng’s hand pressed harder against his stomach. “And the baby…? What happens if Hua Yong recovers, stronger than before?”

Chen’s expression hardened, not at Sheng but at the question. “Then we plan for it. Right now he’s weak, hollowed out from his own pheromones. That buys us time. We use it. We keep Jiang close enough to shield you, but far enough he can’t reach her. And Hua Yong? He recovers under watch, not freedom. Not ever.”

Sheng finally sipped the coffee. It burned his tongue, bitter and grounding. “And if he breaks the chains?”

Chen’s gaze didn’t waver. “Then I’ll be the first between you and him. You don’t need to carry this alone, President Sheng. Not now. You have many supporters.”

Something in Sheng’s chest loosened– not relief, but the faint reminder that he wasn’t the only one holding the weight.

“What about Jiang?” Sheng asked quietly. “She’s in the middle of this mess because of me. But what now? Do I just let her go?”

Chen folded his arms, the decision already turning behind his eyes. “If you cut her loose now, people will talk. The timing alone makes it suspicious. It’ll feed Hua Yong’s paranoia, maybe even reach him if the staff chatter enough. We can’t risk that.”

“So I keep her?” Sheng’s brow furrowed. “When all she’s done is suffer for me?”

“You give her the choice,” Chen said firmly. “Offer her a full-time contract, no questions asked. If she stays, it looks natural. If she leaves, at least it’s on her terms, not because we pushed her out.”

Sheng hesitated. “And the office? Hua Yong’s people will be watching. Every move I make will look like weakness.”

“That’s why I’m here.” Chen’s voice was steady, practical. “I’ll handle the transition. We shuffle Hua Yong’s staff into harmless positions. Put Jiang on projects that keep her in plain sight but out of his reach. Anyone asks questions, the story is simple: she’s competent, she was hired on merit, and you needed someone steady while everything else burned.”

Sheng let out a low laugh, humorless. “You make it sound clean.”

“It won’t be clean,” Chen said, eyes softening for the first time. “But it’ll be controlled. That’s the best we can do.”

“She’s a docent,” Sheng said. “She left a job she loves for a job she doesn’t know. If she even wants to stay, what would she even do?”

Chen sighed. “I can train her. We can go over her former job duties and create a position for her if she chooses to stay.”

Sheng looked down at his coffee, his reflection broken across the dark surface. “I don’t know if she’ll stay. After tonight… maybe she’ll want out.”

“Then we let her choose,” Chen repeated. “Choice is something Hua Yong never gave you. Don’t take it from her.”

Sheng’s grip tightened around the cup, but for once, he nodded.

After a moment he spoke again, quieter. “I want to check on her. Jiang. But I know it’s a bad idea. Hua Yong’s too close… and my husband– he needs me.”

Chen’s gaze held steady. “Then stay with him. I’ll check on her myself. You don’t need to divide yourself any further.”

Sheng exhaled, a breath half relief, half resignation. “Thank you, Chen.”

From behind the closed door came a sound– low at first, then sharp, a guttural snarl dragged into a broken scream. The restraints clattered against metal, the ward’s steady hum straining under the noise.

Chen didn’t even turn his head. “Withdrawal,” he said flatly. “The price of overusing his pheromones. It’ll get uglier before it burns out.”

Sheng’s hand pressed to his stomach again, as if shielding what lay beneath. For once, he didn’t argue.

The elevator ride down felt longer than the confrontation itself. Chen carried the flowers stiffly in one hand, the other resting on the file at his hip, as if ready to turn and march back into battle at any second.

The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and something subtler–  a sweetness undercut by orchid bitterness that still clung like damp smoke. The window was wide open, leaving the air cold but circulating. Chen braced himself. He had pictured silence, grief, maybe even machines keeping her tethered.

Instead, Jiang Liya was propped against her pillows, hair tied back, a thin blanket drawn across her lap. Her smile was small but steady, enough to stop him short in the doorway.

“Secretary Chen.” Her voice was warm, stronger than he expected.

For a moment Chen just stood with the flowers in his hand, as if his mind hadn’t caught up to what his eyes were telling him. Then he moved forward, setting the bouquet down on the side table.

“You’re–” He caught himself, straightened. “I came expecting the worst. And instead, I find you smiling.”

Jiang’s eyes softened with quiet humor. “Disappointed?”

“Relieved,” Chen corrected. “President Sheng was frantic when he called me. I was prepared to see the cost of that.”

“I’m grateful for the worry,” she said, “but I’m not as delicate as I’ve let people believe. If I were, I wouldn’t still be here.”

The man beside her—tall, gentle-featured, and visibly pale– rose quickly to his feet. He extended a hand with careful politeness. “Zhou Minghai. Her husband.” His eyes, though tired, held steady on Chen’s.

“Chen Pinming,” he introduced himself, taking the hand firmly. He felt the faint hitch in Zhou’s breath under the lingering pheromone haze– an Omega, then. Sensitive, but holding ground. Respectable.

“You’ve held up well, Secretary Jiang,” Chen added simply. “The residue in here would be heavy for anyone, especially after what Hua Yong left behind.”

Zhou Minghai gave a wry smile and sat back down, slowly, taking his wife by the hand.

Jiang squeezed her husband’s hand before looking back at Chen. “I’ve survived worse. The pity people put on me doesn’t fit. I’d rather be seen as useful.”

Zhou’s lips pressed into a thin line. His voice was quieter, but carried weight. “She isn’t the fragile one in this family.”

Chen glanced between them, a question in his eyes.

“Our daughter,” Jiang said, her tone softening. “Qiaomei. She’s four. Born with a heart defect that made her vulnerable to pheromones. A careless Alpha or an Omega in heat walking too close on the street could have stopped her heart.”

Zhou’s jaw tightened, breath catching faintly against the orchid residue still clinging to the room. “Even now, strong pheromones weigh on her. It will be that way until she presents. Maybe longer. But she’s alive because of President Sheng.”

Jiang’s smile wavered, fierce with gratitude. “He paid for her surgery. Gave her the chance to breathe, to run, to live. She’s not out of danger yet, but she has a future. That’s something we never thought she’d have.”

For a moment, Chen said nothing. Then he inclined his head, approval breaking through his usual reserve. “Then his trust in you was not misplaced. And neither is mine.”

He lowered himself into the offered chair. “About work. Hua Yong broke every vial. The cover you gave President Sheng... it was destroyed with them.”

Zhou’s jaw tightened at that, but Jiang only folded her hands neatly in her lap. “Then I’ll cover him another way, if he asks it. Or I won’t. I’ve lived through enough to make my own choices, Secretary Chen.”

Chen studied her a moment longer, then inclined his head. “Good. Choice should be yours. You’ve earned that, at least.”

For a moment the three of them sat in a quiet that wasn’t heavy–  the kind of silence that settled after fire, when the walls were still standing.

Chen leaned back, tone softening. “From here on in, I’d rather not see us as only colleagues. Consider me a friend as well.”

Jiang’s smile deepened, eyes glinting with something steady. “Then I’ll hold you to that, Secretary Chen.”

Zhou Minghai nodded in quiet agreement. “She could use more friends who understand what kind of fire she walked through.”

For the first time that night, Chen felt the weight ease from his chest. Not gone–  Hua Yong’s shadow still stretched far–  but lighter, as if something sturdier had been built in its place.

The noise started low, a guttural rasp pressed through metal and glass. Then it climbed– ragged gasps splintering into hoarse screams, restraints clattering in sharp, metallic bursts. The sound rolled down the corridor like an echo from a cage, jagged enough to rattle Sheng’s teeth.

He stayed rooted outside the ward, one hand pressed to his mouth, the other curling hard against his stomach. He knew what it was. Withdrawal. Hua Yong’s body tearing itself apart after flooding every room with pheromones, his system collapsing under its own poison.

The thought should have made Sheng pity him. For years, pity had been the seam stitched through his love. He had loved Hua Yong when it was reckless, when it was selfish, when it was cruel. He had clung to him through the worst of storms, believing that one day, some piece of the man he had first chosen would resurface.

But the sounds behind the door weren’t his husband’s. They were feral. Hollow. As if obsession had hollowed Hua Yong out until nothing human could echo back.

Tears slid down Sheng’s cheeks before he realized he was sobbing. He pressed his spine against the wall, sliding down until his knees bent under the weight. He didn’t want to leave him like this. Hua Yong was his husband. He loved him. He always would.

But if this was what Hua Yong was capable of when haunted only by imagined betrayals… what would he do if he discovered the truth? What would he do if he learned that Sheng was carrying their second child?

The image slashed through him: Hua Yong’s face twisted not with love, not even with rage, but with the feverish possessiveness that had nearly drowned Jiang Liya. If that was turned on him– on their unborn child– it would destroy them both.

Sheng’s breath caught hard, his chest shaking. 

If he finds out, he won’t stop. He won’t think. He’ll tear me apart with his own hands.

Peanut’s small voice echoed in his memory–  laughter from that morning, the tug on his sleeve, the warmth of tiny arms thrown around his waist. Hua Sheng. His son. His anchor.

No. He couldn’t risk it. Not for himself, not for his children.

Sheng dragged himself upright, clutching his coat as though it could shield him from the screams vibrating down the corridor. His tears hadn’t stopped, but his legs moved anyway.

If Hua Yong escaped– and he would, eventually, somehow, because he always did– he would go straight home. Sheng couldn’t be there when that happened. He couldn’t let Peanut be there.

The next roar ripped through the ward, shaking the hinges. Sheng flinched but kept walking. Faster, past the guards, past the antiseptic reek.

By the time he reached the elevator, his hands were trembling with the force of his decision. He knew what he had to do.

Pack. Take Peanut to safety. Disappear from my own home.

The ride from the hospital to the school felt endless, every red light a needle under Sheng’s skin. He sat forward in the back seat, hands clasped so tightly on his knees that the knuckles whitened.

“Faster,” he said once, quietly but firmly, and the driver pressed harder on the accelerator.

When the school gates came into view, Sheng’s chest tightened. He was out of the car before it fully stopped, striding inside to sign Peanut out early. His son blinked up at him in surprise when he appeared at the classroom door, bag slung carelessly over one shoulder.

“Daddy?” Peanut blinked up at him, still clutching the straps of his little bag.

“Home,” Sheng said. His voice came out too sharp, then softened. “We’re going home. I need your help packing some things.”

Peanut’s face lit up at the word help, and he nodded eagerly.

Back at the apartment, Sheng’s phone was already pressed to his ear as he directed Peanut toward his room. “Take your backpack. A few toys, some clothes. Only what you need.”

On the other end, Chen’s voice was low, steady. “President Sheng, listen to me. If you’re serious about this, we need arrangements. Somewhere secure. Somewhere Hua Yong can’t trace.”

Sheng dropped another armful of files into a case, his throat tight. “I can’t live here. If he escapes, this is the first place he’ll come. I don’t intend to disappear– I’ll still be at the office, Peanut will still go to school, even if I have to find him a new one. But I can’t take this risk, not in this apartment.”

There was a pause, then Chen said quietly, “I understand. And I won’t tell anyone. Not even President Shen. But let me find you somewhere safe.”

Sheng closed his eyes. Relief and guilt tangled sharp in his chest. “It’s fine if they know, but not until I find a safe place for my son. Thank you, Secretary Chen.”

They disconnected. Sheng kept packing, the rustle of Peanut’s things carrying faintly from the other room, punctuated by distracted laughter whenever he found a forgotten toy. Sheng’s hands shook as he folded clothes, slid notebooks into a bag, tucked away the small things that mattered.

The phone buzzed again about twenty minutes later. He snatched it up.

“I found it,” Chen said without preamble. “A hotel in Shanghai. Discreet. Private. They don’t allow access without permission, not even family. You and Peanut will be ghosts there.”

Sheng didn’t hesitate. “Help me leave.”

“I’ll handle it,” Chen promised. Then the line went dead.

Sheng set the phone down and pressed his palms to his eyes, swallowing hard. Then he drew a deep breath and walked into Peanut’s room.

The boy was sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by little piles of toys and books, his backpack forgotten beside him. He looked up with a grin. “Daddy, I’m ready! Are we going on a trip?”

Sheng crouched, smoothing his son’s hair back with trembling fingers. “Yes. Just a little vacation, while Father rests in the hospital. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

Peanut beamed, clapping his hands. “I like going places! I’m happy.”

Sheng forced a smile to meet his son’s. For a moment, just a moment, it felt almost true.

The restraints creaked like strained metal as Hua Yong writhed against them, his chest heaving, sweat cutting harsh lines down his temples. The air was thick with pheromone residue, bitter orchid strangling every breath. Shen and Chang Yu stood masked at his bedside, gazes sharp but weary, as though watching a man consume himself.

“You need to calm down,” Shen said, tone flat. “If you want out of these restraints, you recover first. Otherwise you’ll choke on your own pheromones before anyone else touches you.”

Hua Yong bared his teeth, eyes burning. “Release me and I’ll show you how recovered I am.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Chang Yu said evenly. “Not until you’re stable. Fight the restraints all you want– your body won’t survive another collapse.”

The bed rattled under Hua Yong’s weight, his wrists raw where the leather cut into skin. “You think I’m weak? You think a few chains will keep me from taking back what’s mine? Mr. Sheng is mine–”

Shen’s voice cut cleanly in. “Your husband has taken your child and left you. He won’t come back until you recover.”

The words struck like a blade. Hua Yong froze; disbelief flashed, then his scream split the sterile quiet, rage erupting from the pit of him. “No! No, he wouldn’t– he loves me– I marked him!”

He thrashed so violently the bed lurched against the floor, restraints straining. “Bring him back! Bring Mr. Sheng to me, now! Or I’ll–”

“You’ll do nothing,” Shen snapped. “You’re hollowed out by your own pheromones. I’m not wasting another second here. Gao Tu will be here in a couple of hours, and I won’t risk missing him because of your delusions.”

Hua Yong’s lips twisted into a feral grin. “Run along then, watchdog. Gao Tu left you three years ago and he was right to– who keeps a mutt no one wants? He’d rather rot in silence and die alone than touch you again. Tell me, Shen Wenlang, does it gut you every night of your life? Knowing you were never enough to keep him? At least we all know Mr. Sheng is marked as mine.”

His gaze jerked past them to the corner– empty, sterile wall– and lit with feverish certainty. “There,” he gasped, voice breaking into awe and terror at once. “Mr. Sheng… you’re here. You would never leave me.” His eyes followed air that wasn’t moving, fixed on a vision only he could see. “He’s taking Peanut’s hand. He’s walking away from me.”

“Hallucinations,” Chang Yu said.

“Don’t you dare leave!” Hua Yong roared at the phantom, body bowing against the straps. “Mr. Sheng– come back to me! You were never meant to leave me!”

Before President Shen could answer, Hua Yong lunged, chains screaming against metal. His bloodied hand shot up, caught the elastic, and with a vicious jerk tore Shen’s mask away.

“President Shen!” Chang Yu yanked him back, hand clamped on his collar, dragging him out of reach as Hua Yong laughed, wild and breathless.

“Breathe it in, Shen Wenlang,” Hua Yong hissed, voice ragged with triumph. “Feel what she felt. You can’t scrub me out.. You think you can hide Mr. Sheng from me? He stinks of me!”

Shen coughed, violently, but his glare stayed locked on Hua Yong even as Chang Yu slammed the mask back in place and secured it.

“You’ll kill yourself before you ever see him again,” Shen ground out. “Is that what you want?”

“Don’t tell me what I want!” Hua Yong strained forward again, muscles trembling, veins rising under his skin. “Bring him back! Bring my son back! Or you’ll regret leaving me here!”

“Enough.” Shen’s patience snapped, his tone gone cold steel. “You don’t want help from anyone, and now you’re stuck here in reinforced restraints.”

Something in Hua Yong’s expression cracked, rage folding into a hollowed sneer. His voice dropped, thick with venom. “Fine. Abandon me. Like everyone else.”

The words hit heavy in the stale air. Shen didn’t flinch. He turned sharply, pushing the door open, one hand tightening against his chest.

Chang Yu lingered half a heartbeat longer, gaze unreadable behind the mask. “Recover, Hua Yong. Or rot here. Your choice.” Then he followed Shen out, the door shutting firm behind him.

Left alone, Hua Yong’s screams tore through the sterile walls, restraints biting as he thrashed. The sound echoed down the corridor like an animal in a trap– furious, unbroken, and far from finished.

Gao Tu stood at the foot of President Shen’s house, overnight bag slick in his palm. The porch light glared down like an interrogation lamp.

He took a breath, but his mind slipped backward.

Qing folded her arms, glare sharp enough to cut. “Ge, you’re going. Don’t even try to argue. If Shen is shipping me and Lele off to Disneyland for the weekend, he means business.”

“You’re too happy about that,” Gao Tu muttered, jaw set.

“Why shouldn’t I be? He’s loaded and he knows it. He throws money at problems and calls it love.” She leaned in, voice turning harsh. “But don’t you dare forgive him. Not after what he put you through. He doesn’t get to buy back your silence with theme-park tickets.”

Gao Tu’s stomach turned. He wanted to tell her she was wrong, but the words stuck. Shen hadn’t been blameless– no– but neither had he. He had lied, even when proof stared him in the face.

Qing’s eyes softened, but her tone stayed hard. “I know Gao Ming forced you to that meeting. He’s the one who leaked your medical records. Shen Wenlang didn’t pull those strings. And maybe… maybe Shen was an idiot. And yes, you loved him– for a long time. But that was years ago.”

“Xiao Qing…”

Her hand came down on his arm, firm. “Go if you need to talk. Say what needs saying. If it’s about Lele, set terms. If it’s about the past, close it. But don’t go there to fall back in. You hear me? Get your closure. Cut the ties completely if you have to. Lele is well taken care of.”

Gao Tu had no answer then. He had only silence.

The silence followed him still as he reached out and pressed the doorbell. Once. Twice. The chime echoed hollow in the empty house.

His phone buzzed. A message.

“You can’t come in! Please leave!”

His grip tightened on the phone. He didn’t reply, just shouted at the door: “I can’t come in? Shen Wenlang, you literally tracked me down and begged me!”

Another buzz.

“It’s not a good time. Get out of here!”

“Get out of here?!” Gao Tu’s voice cracked. “You drag me into this, and now you’re telling me to walk away?!” He fired a message back, fingers trembling.

But silence answered.

His chest tightened, anger knotting into hurt. He raised his voice one last time, raw against the quiet street: “Shen Wenlang, if you don’t let me in, I’m leaving you. And I am never coming back!”

The silence stretched until his resolve wavered. He turned, ready to go.

The door clicked.

Gao Tu froze, spun back– and saw him. Shen Wenlang, standing in the doorway, breath shallow, eyes unfocused, body radiating heat. The air between them shifted, thick, charged.

Shen’s voice came ragged, desperate. “Leave. One more time, I’m asking you… leave.”

But Gao Tu knew. Knew instantly, viscerally–  Shen was in rut.

And for the first time in three years, Gao Tu didn’t have the luxury of hesitation. His choice carved itself in the space of a breath.

He shoved Shen back inside, followed him in, and kicked the door shut, locking it with a final click that echoed like a verdict.

Chapter Text

The door slammed shut behind them, Shen already shaking with the rut tearing through him. Gao Tu half-dragged, half-carried him up the stairs, the weight of a grown Alpha thrashing against his grip enough to buckle his knees. Shen’s voice was a low snarl in his ear, incoherent but fierce, and Gao Tu had to use every ounce of strength to keep him moving forward. By the time they reached the bedroom, Gao Tu’s pulse was a drum in his throat. He shoved Shen toward the bed, breathless.

“President Shen,” Gao Tu said, voice sharp with control, though his pulse betrayed him. “Lie down.”

The demand sliced through the haze, and before Shen could resist, Gao Tu had darted to the closet. He snatched whatever he could find– a tie, a couple of button-down shirts– anything long and sturdy enough to hold him down. In seconds, he was back at the bedside, fabric twisting tight around Shen’s wrists, winding fast against the headboard. The restraints were firm but careful, not meant to hurt– meant to hold him together when the rut threatened to tear him apart.

Shen thrashed, teeth bared, a guttural sound scraping from his throat. “Gao Tu… I’ll hurt you…”

“I’m staying.” Gao Tu’s tone was steel. His hand brushed briefly across Shen’s temple– not lingering, not tender, but grounding. Then his footsteps retreated, out of the room, down the stairs.

The sound of the kitchen filled the gap. Running water. A cabinet opening. The faint clink of glass. When Gao Tu returned, his arms were full– a bowl of cold water, folded towels, a bottle of painkillers, and a glass of water balanced carefully in his hand.

He set them down and pressed a cool towel to Shen’s forehead. The Alpha jolted at the touch, muscles straining against the ties, but Gao Tu held firm. “Breathe,” he said quietly. “Just breathe.”

Another towel slid along his jawline, soaking sweat from his skin. The pills were coaxed past his lips with a steady hand, water following after. Every move was methodical, precise– Gao Tu tending to him as if the rut were an injury to be managed, not a hunger to be fed.

But then the air shifted.

Sweetness, sharp and heavy, rolled out from Gao Tu’s body before he could stop it. His breath caught, shoulders tightening, pupils blown wide. It had been three years since he’d really touched suppressants– no inhaler, no pills, no injections, just the occasional patch to get through work days. He hadn’t needed them often since giving birth to Lele. So he certainly hadn’t been carrying any with him.

But on second thought, he should have had them with him.

Heat surged through him like a match dropped into oil.

Shen felt it instantly. His rut snarled, every sense dragging toward Gao Tu’s scent. His voice was raw, pleading, almost broken. “Gao Tu.. please… I can’t do this to you…”

Gao Tu was trembling, scared, unsure of what to do. He leaned closer, his own breath shaking. “President Shen,” he whispered, “what do you want right now?”

Shen’s eyes, fever-bright, locked on his. No hesitation. No lies. “I want you, Gao Tu. I’ve only ever wanted you.”

Thunderweight silence. Gao Tu met Shen’s fever-bright eyes, faltered, swallowed. His fingers returned to the knot– patient, precise– freeing one wrist, then the other, until the Alpha’s arms were bare of restraints.

Shen surged forward– but was caught, stilled, by the softest whisper brushing against his ear.

“I want you, too.”

The last restraint slipped free.

Shen caught him instantly, mouth crushing against his, years of hunger unleashed in a single, desperate kiss. Gao Tu answered without hesitation, his own heat tearing through any last defense. Clothes tore loose, forgotten, the cold towels abandoned on the floor. What followed wasn’t gentle– it was fire meeting fire, rut tangled with heat. But it was wanted.

Gao Tu’s hands framed Shen’s face, guiding him even in the frenzy, as though reminding him that this was love as much as instinct. Shen’s voice broke on his name, over and over, raw and unguarded. And when Gao Tu whispered back, it was not fear but truth.

And for the first time in three years, Gao Tu didn’t run.

Shen woke slow, the weight of sleep dragging behind his eyes. His head was heavy, his chest aching like he’d been running in circles all night. For a moment he thought it was fever, or a dream he hadn’t shaken. Then the faint sting on his wrists caught him– raw, faintly red where the ties had held.

His gaze shifted. The headboard still bore the evidence: a couple of shirts knotted there, slack and abandoned. Not a dream. Not a fever.

He pushed himself upright, throat dry, shoulders stiff. The house was still, morning light a thin seam around the curtains. He shrugged into a robe and stepped into the hall, moving on muscle memory toward the guest room.

The door opened quietly. The bed was neatly made. On top of it sat an overnight bag– Gao Tu’s– but no Gao Tu. For a beat, Shen’s stomach dropped, a cold, irrational spike of panic. 

Did he leave me so quickly he left his belongings behind?

He scanned the room again– no shoes, no jacket, only the bag. He backed out, pulse drumming a little too fast, and took the stairs down.

Gao Tu was curled on the living room couch, still fully dressed. His jean jacket was thrown haphazardly over his shoulders like a makeshift blanket, a shield he refused to set down. Early light pooled across the floor and touched his hair, softening the exhaustion in his face.

For a long time Shen just stood there, watching. He should have been angry, or ashamed, or something he couldn’t name. Instead, gratitude pressed fragilely against his ribs– because Gao Tu had stayed when he could have walked out the door.

He moved closer, slow and quiet, until the couch was within reach. Shen hesitated, then reached down and touched his shoulder, careful as if he might break the moment itself.

“Gao Tu,” he murmured.

Gao Tu stirred under Shen’s hand, brow furrowing, lashes fluttering but not lifting. His breathing stayed slow, the kind of exhausted sleep that clings.

He kept his voice low, almost to himself. “I’m sorry.”

The apology seemed to thread through the fog. Gao Tu shifted again, a small sound in his throat, still not opening his eyes.

“I lost control,” Shen said, steadier now. “I never meant to drag you into that. I… I would never hurt you.”

Only then did Gao Tu blink awake, lids lifting by degrees. His gaze found Shen first– close, careful– then slipped to the faint red marks circling Shen’s wrists. Silence settled between them, thick with things unsaid.

“You needed help and it was all I could offer you,” he said at last, voice rough with sleep.

Shen’s breath caught. “You untied me.”

“I did.” Gao Tu swallowed hard, but his voice didn’t break. “But you didn’t force me to do that. I decided on my own.”

The room seemed smaller then, the air caught between them charged with something heavier than scent. Shen let the silence linger, then nodded– slow, deliberate. “Then I’ll carry it as both of ours. Not just mine.”

Something in Gao Tu’s expression softened– just a fraction, but enough to fracture the walls he always held. He leaned back, eyes closing again, as though the confession had drained him completely.

For the first time in years, Shen felt like maybe there was no need to run.

He let the quiet stretch a beat longer before pushing himself upright, the ache in his chest flaring as his feet hit the floor. “Go get cleaned up,” he said, voice rough but determined. “I’m taking you out for breakfast.”

Gao Tu’s eyes opened, narrowing. “You don’t need to take me out to breakfast. I can get my own.”

Shen turned, meeting his stare with something firmer. “You let me treat our son to Disneyland this weekend.”

“I didn’t let you do that,” Gao Tu shot back– sharper now, though weariness still clung to his edges.

“Then let me do this,” Shen replied, the steel undercut by something almost pleading. His hand flexed restlessly at his side. “One meal. That’s all I’m asking.”

For a long moment Gao Tu didn’t move. His jaw shifted, like he was chewing down a retort– but in the end he only sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “Fine. Breakfast.”

The drive was quiet. Gao Tu sat rigid beside Shen, staring out the window as the city slipped past in pale morning light. His jean jacket felt too heavy, his palms damp where they rested in his lap. Shen said nothing. The silence between them had weight– thick, deliberate, like neither trusted their voice not to break it.

When the car slowed, Gao Tu blinked, frowning at the street outside. Narrow sidewalks, an old sign half-peeled, and the crooked characters over the window that he knew by heart.

He almost laughed, but it wasn’t funny.

Of all the places in the city, Shen had brought him here.

The old diner was exactly the same– yellowed tile, clouded glass, the smell of soy milk and fried dough spilling out the door. He used to come here after long shifts, half asleep, just to feel warm again. Back when rent had been late, and hope was smaller than the coins in his pocket.

He didn’t ask how Shen knew it. He didn’t ask why. Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe not. Either way, the thought sat uneasy in his chest.

Inside, the steam fogged the windows, turning the light soft and hazy. A waitress nodded them toward a corner booth. Shen thanked her politely, like he belonged here, which made something twist in Gao Tu’s gut. This was not a place for suits and silk ties.

Shen ordered before Gao Tu could speak– doujiang, youtiao, a basket of xiaolongbao– and passed the menus back with quiet certainty.

When the waitress walked off, Gao Tu finally looked up. “You’ve been here before, President Shen,” he said.

Shen glanced at him, then down at the table. “Once or twice a month. Found it about three years ago. I like that it’s quiet and the food tastes like they made it just for me.”

“Three years,” Gao Tu echoed to himself, the number lodging deep. Three years ago, when everything had fallen apart. When he’d packed a bag and left with nothing but a small bag of clothes with the scent of Shen still clinging to them, the same clothes he wore to this very day. He had been lucky he hadn’t gained much weight during his pregnancy, because he never would have been able to replace his wardrobe.

He didn’t ask if Shen had followed his old trail back then. He already knew.

Their food came quickly– steam rising, plates crowding the small table. The smell was the same as he remembered: fried dough, sweet soy, a hint of ginger. It hit him in the ribs, a memory too vivid to push aside.

Shen poured soy milk into his bowl first, then his own. The gesture was automatic, thoughtless, and somehow unbearable.

They ate in silence for a while, the clatter of chopsticks and the hiss of the kitchen filling the space neither dared to cross. Shen looked different in the daylight– tired, older, softer around the edges– but he still stirred something that Gao Tu didn’t have words for.

Finally, Shen set his chopsticks down. “Tell me about Lele as an infant.”

Gao Tu blinked, surprised by the gentleness of it. He stirred the soy milk absently before answering. “Quiet,” he said at last. “Didn’t cry much. Smiled early. He… he liked to be held.”

His lips pressed together. Still does, he thought but didn’t say.

Shen’s eyes softened. “It couldn’t have been easy. Raising him alone. Taking care of your sister.”

“Lele’s the best kid anyone could ask for,” Gao Tu said. “And Xiao Qing is eager to help. She’ll graduate soon, and she can’t wait to help out.”

“You don’t have enough money?” Shen asked, blinking.

“We have enough money.” Gao Tu’s voice was low, even. “You do what you have to. Make things stretch. Skip dinner if it means there’s breakfast in the morning.” He gave a faint shrug. “When you’re tired enough, even a couch can be a bed. It doesn’t matter, as long as Lele never feels it.”

Shen’s gaze tightened, the lines at the corners of his mouth deepening. “Never felt it?” he repeated quietly.

“I just want him to grow up happy,” Gao Tu said. His fingers traced the rim of his bowl. “A happy person who doesn’t have to hide who he is, whether he’s an S-Class Alpha like you or an A-Class Omega like me. That’s all that matters.”

He could feel Shen’s stare even without looking. The weight of it, the ache. But he didn’t lift his eyes. He couldn’t.

For a long time, neither spoke. Gao Tu focused on the youtiao between his hands, tearing it into small pieces until it cooled. Shen’s silence was heavy, the kind that made him want to apologize for surviving.

Finally, Shen’s voice came, rough around the edges.

“Gao Tu, do you hate me so much you’d rather go without dinner than be near me?”

The question hit like a bruise. Gao Tu looked up then, and the hurt in Shen’s expression almost undid him.

He swallowed, steadying himself, and said quietly, “It’s not about hate, President Shen.” He pushed his bowl forward. “It’s about raising my family.”

Shen didn’t respond. The only sound was the faint hiss of the steamer behind them, and the slow, fragile rhythm of two people remembering what it felt like to share a table.

After a long silence, Shen said quietly, “Should we get you the pill?”

Gao Tu’s brows knit, not understanding at first. Then realization flickered across his face. “You mean…”

“Yu Ting*,” Shen clarified, voice steady but low. “I’ll pay for it. We can go after we eat before we head back to the house.”

Gao Tu sat back, chopsticks lowering. His expression didn’t harden– if anything, it went still, like the surface of glass. “You don’t have to pay for it.”

“It’s my responsibility,” Shen said. “I don’t want you worrying about it.”

“It’s fine,” Gao Tu corrected softly. His gaze dropped to the bowl between them. “I can afford it.”

Shen’s jaw tightened. “It’s not about money.”

“I know.” The words came gentle but firm. Gao Tu reached for his glass, letting the condensation dampen his fingers before he spoke again. “But you’ve already done enough. I’ll take care of it. Just take me to the pharmacy.”

And pretend like last night never happened.

For a moment, Shen looked like he might argue. Then his shoulders eased, the fight bleeding out of him. “We’ll go after breakfast,” he said, quieter now.

“Thank you,” Gao Tu replied.

He meant it, and Shen could tell. Still, something in his voice carried an ache that wouldn’t leave the table– a shared understanding of what they weren’t saying.

Neither spoke after that. The waitress cleared their dishes, refilled the tea, and the sound of porcelain became the only conversation left between them.

Gao Tu exhaled, rubbing his hands together. “I’m going to use the bathroom.”

Shen stood up sharply and as quickly as Gao Tu had ever seen him move. “You’re going to the bathroom?”

Gao Tu paused halfway out of his chair, brow knitting. “Yeah. Why?”

Shen’s throat worked, but the words that came weren’t rational. “You’re coming back, right?”

That stopped Gao Tu cold. For a heartbeat, his expression wavered between confusion and something softer. “Of course I’m coming back.” His tone gentled, like he recognized the fear hiding in the question. “I just need to wash my hands.”

Shen gave a shaky nod, eyes dropping to his untouched soy milk as he sat back down. “All right.”

Gao Tu hesitated one second longer before turning away. The hallway stretched ahead, narrow and quiet. His footsteps echoed against the tile, and behind him came only the low murmur of the diner– clatter, conversation, the hum of a normal morning.

He was just a few feet from the corner when the sound hit.

A screech- rubber and metal, the sound of something coming undone. Too close. Too fast.

He turned– instinct, not thought–just in time to see the world unravel.

Headlights burst through the front window, glass raining like shards of ice. The scream of tires drowned out everything as a car plowed through the wall, tables splintering beneath its weight. Steam and dust exploded into the air.

For one terrible instant, Gao Tu’s eyes locked on the spot where Shen sat– then it was gone, swallowed by the crush of metal and debris.

“President Shen!”

The words ripped out of him, but the sound was lost to the chaos– the screech of impact, the crash of collapsing wood, the impossible stillness that followed.

And then there was nothing but smoke, silence, and the echo of his own name on Gao Tu’s tongue.

Sheng Shaoyou had checked in late the night before, long after the lights of the city had blurred into streaks outside the car window. Sheng had barely made it through the lobby before the nausea hit– sharp, sudden, and humiliating. He’d thrown up the entire room-service dinner he’d ordered afterward, though Peanut had happily eaten his share of fried rice and tanghulu. 

At least the boy had gone to sleep easily. Sheng had bathed him, tucked him in beside the open window where the night breeze could reach, and sat for a long while just listening to the quiet. The city noise felt far away here– muted, almost kind. He’d fallen asleep sitting up, one hand resting protectively over the small, restless ache in his stomach.

Now, in the morning light, everything felt softer. The water was warm against his sore back, cradling him like something alive. He exhaled slowly, sinking until the pool lapped at his shoulders, the weight easing from his muscles at last. Sunlight rippled across the surface, turning the water into a shifting mosaic of gold and blue.

A high-pitched laugh rang out. “Daddy! Look!”

Peanut stood at the shallow end, water up to his chest, grinning like the sun itself. He slapped his hands against the surface, sending a spray right into Sheng’s face.

“Hey!” Sheng sputtered, wiping droplets from his lashes, though the smile tugging at his mouth gave him away. “That’s not fair. Daddy’s resting.”

“No, you have to play with me!” Peanut crowed, splashing again– bigger this time.

Sheng couldn’t help it– he laughed. The sound rolled out of him, rich and real, echoing under the skylight. He drifted closer, the water rippling around him, and flicked a handful of droplets back toward his son.

Peanut shrieked with delight. “Daddy, you can’t splash me!”

“Daddy’s defending himself,” Sheng said, grinning.

The boy’s laughter filled the room, bright and unrestrained. Sheng let himself soak in the sound, the rhythm of water and heartbeat and joy all tangled together. The warmth seeped deep into his bones, loosening something that had been wound too tight for too long.

He leaned back, closing his eyes for a breath. The ache in his spine dulled, replaced by a quiet ache in his chest. 

Why am I like this? Why does everything feel heavier, closer, softer than it did before?

He hadn’t been this emotional during the first pregnancy. Then, he’d been confident, composed– the rational Alpha who could manage anything. But this time, every look, every heartbeat, every laugh from his son made something inside him tremble.

Maybe it was just hormones. Maybe it was just him changing, softening in ways he hadn’t planned. Or maybe fatherhood had rewritten him completely, stripped away the layers until only this remained: a man who would do anything for his child.

Peanut’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Daddy, catch me!”

Sheng blinked back to the moment just in time to see his son launch himself forward, half-splash, half-fall. Water surged around them as Sheng caught him with an instinctive sweep, arms tightening in reflex. Peanut giggled against his shoulder, arms wrapping tight around his neck.

“I got you,” Sheng murmured, holding him close. “Always.”

The pool was quiet again after that– just the soft lapping of water, the faint hum of the air conditioner, and the slow crawl of sunlight across the tiles. Sheng tilted his head back, letting his eyes fall shut once more.

For the first time in a long while, he wasn’t thinking about work, or meetings, or the noise waiting beyond these walls.

Just this.

The water.

His son’s love.

And the slow, steady rhythm of two hearts that, for this brief moment, needed nothing else.

The air wasn’t clean—just sterilized. Antiseptic bit the back of his throat, fighting the ghost of orchids that still clung to the room like damp smoke. Hua Yong sat upright against the bed rail, wrists stiff above the sheet. The restraints were gone, but pale marks ghosted his skin. He hated that. Evidence. As if he’d ever lost control.

Chang Yu stood by the door, mask in place, clipboard tucked under his arm. “Boss, you need to calm down. They won’t let you out of here until you’re cleared by psych.”

“Psych,” Hua Yong repeated, voice dripping with acid. “Do I look insane to you?”

The man didn’t flinch. “They almost threw you to the police!”

That landed like a slap. Hua Yong’s eyes narrowed, dangerous and cold. “Watch your tone. I’m still your boss.”

Chang Yu adjusted his stance, careful. “I’m just telling you the truth. I’m trying to help you.”

Hua Yong’s fingers drummed against the blanket, slow and deliberate. “You call this help? Being locked up in this sterile hole while my husband is out there pretending to be the victim?”

The air carried a trace of orchids– not suffocating now, but still sharp enough to sting the nose. Chang Yu’s gloved hand twitched toward his mask, though he didn’t raise it.

“You’re lucky they didn’t press charges,” he said quietly. “You assaulted a patient in recovery.”

“Assault?” Hua Yong laughed– a soft, brittle sound that didn’t reach his eyes. “I corrected a mistake. That woman was alive when she shouldn’t have been.”

Chang Yu didn’t answer. His silence was deliberate, practiced.

Hua Yong tilted his head. “What? No lecture?”

“I think,” Chang Yu said slowly, “that it doesn’t matter what I think. What matters is what happens next. They won’t release you until the doctors believe you’re stable. Let me make sure they do.”

Hua Yong stared at him, calculating. “And why would you do that?”

“Because you’re still my boss,” Chang Yu said simply. “And because someone has to handle what’s coming.”

That piqued Hua Yong’s curiosity. He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “What’s coming?”

Chang Yu hesitated, glancing toward the door as if checking they were alone. Then he lowered his voice. “It’s about President Shen. There was… an accident this morning.”

Hua Yong went still. “What kind of accident?”

“A car crashed through a diner downtown,” Chang Yu said. “He was inside with Gao Tu. The reports say he’s in a coma.”

For a long moment, there was only the steady beep of the monitor beside the bed. Then Hua Yong smiled– slow, almost serene.

“Poetic,” he murmured. “He always did have terrible timing.”

Chang Yu’s brow furrowed. “Boss– ”

“He deserves it,” Hua Yong said, voice silk-smooth now, the venom curling just beneath. “Everything that happens to him, he earns. Maybe now he’ll understand what it’s like to lose control.”

Chang Yu held his gaze for a beat too long before nodding, quiet. “Of course, Boss.”

Hua Yong turned away, watching the morning light crawl across the wall. His smile lingered, faint and brittle.

“Tell the doctors I’m feeling much better,” he said. “And make sure my clothes are pressed. I won’t spend another hour in this place.”

Chang Yu inclined his head. “Yes, sir.”

As the door clicked shut behind him, the scent of orchids deepened again– faint, invisible, but still poisonous.

The steady rhythm of a heart monitor was the only sound in the room.

Soft afternoon light spilled through the blinds, striping the sheets, the floor, the white cast around Shen Wenlang’s arm. Machines hummed low; an IV bag swayed faintly with each breath he drew.

Gao Tu sat beside him, half-dozing in the plastic chair, still in the clothes from the diner. His knuckles were scraped, his jeans dusted with dried plaster. His fingers were wrapped lightly around Shen’s hand without realizing it– not holding, just making sure it was still warm.

When Shen stirred, it was small– a twitch at first, then a soft, broken sound in his throat.

Gao Tu’s head shot up. “President Shen?”

The eyelids fluttered, heavy, confused. Shen blinked blearily at the ceiling, then at him. “What’s happening?”

Relief flooded Gao Tu so fast it made his chest hurt. “You nearly got crushed by a car. It slammed into the window at the restaurant. It ran right into the table.”

A ghost of a smirk tried to form on Shen’s lips. “Some stupid drunk hit me?” His voice was raw, rasping from the oxygen.

Gao Tu shook his head quickly. “No. It wasn’t that. It was a young girl– she had a seizure while driving. No alcohol, no drugs. She didn’t even have a medical record for seizures.” He looked down, voice thinning. “She’s lucky to be alive. You both are.”

For a long moment, Shen just stared at him, eyes glassy from painkillers, but something flickered underneath– a quiet calculation, the old self resurfacing. “Fucking hell…” He blinked. “Gao Tu… are you injured? Why aren't you getting checked out?”

“I'm fine,” Gao Tu said. His voice broke around the words. “I was about to go wash my hands, so I was walking away. If I’d stayed sitting, it would’ve hit me, too.”

“Then we'd both be laying in a hospital bed,” Shen muttered. “Thank goodness you're alright.”

Despite the faint smile, the words landed heavy between them.

A light knock sounded before a young doctor stepped in, clipboard tucked under one arm. He glanced between them, offering the practiced smile of someone who’d already seen too many emergencies that day.

“Fractured ribs, minor internal bruising, and a mild concussion,” he said, scanning the chart. “You’ll need at least two weeks of observation, and another six to eight weeks before returning to full work. Pain management, physical therapy, and no sudden movements.”

Shen’s eyes narrowed faintly. “Two weeks of observation? In this room?!”

“Yes, President Shen,” the doctor replied, adjusting the IV line. “Your ribs were dangerously close to puncturing a lung. We’ll keep you monitored for complications. You can start walking short distances tomorrow, but that’s it for now.”

He made a few notes, then turned toward Gao Tu with a small nod. “If he tries to stand on his own, call the nurse immediately. He’s stubborn, isn’t he?”

Gao Tu gave a humorless breath of a laugh. “You have no idea.”

“Most executives are,” the doctor said lightly. “I’ll check in again this evening. Get some rest.”

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the faint scent of antiseptic in the air.

Shen exhaled through his teeth, the momentary calm already dissolving. “Two weeks,” he muttered, glaring at the ceiling. “They expect me to sit here for two weeks?”

His pulse monitor beeped faster, betraying his frustration. Gao Tu opened his mouth to caution him, but Shen’s voice cut through the room first.

“I need to notify the office,” Shen said, forcing the words through clenched teeth. “Secretary Mia will start panicking if I don’t show up for the morning briefing.”

Gao Tu hesitated. “I can call her for you.”

For a beat, Shen just stared at him– gratitude and guilt flickering behind the exhaustion in his eyes. Then he nodded once, small but sure. “Tell her I’ll be out for at least two weeks. She’ll know what to do with the schedule. And tell her…”

“Tell her what?”

He paused, searching for control. “Tell her to postpone all board meetings until further notice.”

Gao Tu nodded. “I’ll let her know.”

“Thank you,” Shen said quietly.

He sagged back against the pillows, silence stretching just long enough to fool Gao Tu into thinking the conversation was over– then his tone snapped sharp again. “I have deadlines. A merger presentation. Contract renewals.” His voice was hoarse but cutting. “If I leave that to the board, they’ll cannibalize each other before I’m even out of the hospital.”

“You nearly died,” Gao Tu said. “You need to recover.”

“I don’t have time to recover,” Shen shot back. The words came fast, automatic, like muscle memory refusing surrender. His hand twitched toward the nightstand as if reaching for invisible documents. “Every hour I sit here, something slips.”

“Then let someone else hold it for you,” Gao Tu said, low but firm.

Shen’s jaw tightened– anger, pride, and something more fragile knotted beneath it. “You think that’s easy for me?”

The monitor beeped a little faster. Gao Tu’s hand twitched, half-ready to press the nurse call button. “Please. Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

Shen let out a slow, furious breath and sank back against the pillow. For a long moment, he stared at the ceiling, jaw tight, chest rising unevenly. “Chief Secretary Qin could handle it,” he muttered. “He has seniority. He’s competent. But…” He trailed off, voice rough with irritation. “He’s not decisive. He flinches when the board pushes back. The company can’t afford another weak front.”

Gao Tu said nothing. He just watched him think– the same sharp mind that used to terrify investors now racing through contingency plans in blue plaid hospital attire.

Then Shen went very still. His gaze drifted toward Gao Tu, focused, clear despite the haze of painkillers.

“Wait… you know the company inside and out,” Shen said slowly. “You could do it.”

The words hung in the air like a sudden drop in pressure– the kind that makes your ears ring.

Gao Tu blinked, unsure he’d heard right. “What?”

“Temporarily,” Shen clarified, like that softened it. “Secretary Qin can handle operations, but you’ll front the decisions. The shareholders respect you, even after three years. You’ll keep them calm.”

Gao Tu shook his head immediately. “President Shen, I’m not qualified for this.”

“You’re the only one I trust to do it.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is,” Shen countered, voice low but firm. “You’ve always been the one I trusted most. I just didn’t realize how much until you were gone.”

“I’m not comfortable with this.”

Shen’s eyes softened, but the business edge never fully left his tone. “I’ll make it worth your while,” he said. “Four times your old salary.”

The number hit hard enough to make Gao Tu’s breath catch. Four times. He could pay off the last of the hospital bills from Lele’s birth and Qing’s recent hospital stays. Fix the leak in the kitchen ceiling. Maybe even finally purchase a car that wasn't constantly breaking down.

But then came the other thought– being back at Shen’s side, every day, every hour, pretending the past didn’t ache between them. The money would solve everything except that.

He forced a breath through his teeth. “It’s not about money.”

“I know,” Shen said quietly. “But it would make things easier.”

“Easier for who?” Gao Tu asked, tone thin but even.

“Gao Tu… please,” Shen almost begged.

Gao Tu looked away, guilt prickling hot beneath his ribs. “I can’t. Lele’s still small. I can’t work those hours again. He’d have to be transferred to a school here, and I would need the time to be able to pick him up and take him home.”

Shen exhaled slowly through his nose. “The building has a daycare now. On the lower floor.”

Gao Tu blinked, caught off guard. “…A daycare?”

Shen’s eyes softened a fraction. “We created it three years ago. For the Omegas on staff. I wanted them to have a place where they didn’t have to hide.”

That landed harder than any offer. Gao Tu stared at him– at the quiet sincerity under the exhaustion. When did he change? he wondered.

Then Shen added, faint but deliberate, “Fifteen percent.”

Gao Tu’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“Fifteen percent of the company’s shares,” Shen said. “If I’d given that to you three years ago, you never would’ve left me.”

Gao Tu froze. His mind snagged on the words.

He’d said something like that once– not to Shen, but to Qin, during a conversation where he had been trying to convince him not to leave. Gao Tu knew he'd never get that kind of money, but now, Shen Wenlang was just going to throw the money around like it meant nothing.

How did Shen know that conversation had even happened? Had Qin told him?

He swallowed, pulse climbing. “That’s not– President Shen, you don’t have to–”

“It’s already done,” Shen interrupted softly. “Secretary Mia can process the paperwork on Monday. I’ll call her tomorrow and have her and Secretary Qin set it all up.”

“I don’t want your charity.”

“It’s not charity.” Shen’s voice weakened but didn’t waver.

The silence that followed was heavier than pain. Gao Tu wanted to argue, but Shen’s gaze was already slipping– drowsy from medication, determined all the same.

“I’d have to move here, move my son here,” Gao Tu said. “He’s in school. I can’t just pull him out.”

“Why not? There are schools here.”

“I know, but–”

“But what?”

Gao Tu sighed. “Where would I stay? I can’t afford a hotel.”

“You don’t need a hotel. Just stay at home with me.”

“Home with you?”

“Yes.”

Gao Tu paused. “No. I’m not staying with you. It’s not suitable for my son.”

“You mean our son.”

“I know what I said!”

Shen stopped for a moment, his heart starting to beat too fast.  “Then let me at least find you a house nearby,” he murmured. “I can buy one for you. We could find one with three bedrooms and no split level living room.”

“Don’t buy me a house,” Gao Tu said quickly. “It’s not even close to being a good idea.”

Shen’s lips curved faintly. “We’ll argue about that later.” He let his eyes close then, voice fading to a whisper. “For now, just say yes. I know I shouldn't be asking you for anything… but I am. Please.”

Gao Tu stared at him for a long moment before answering, quietly, “Fine. I’ll fill in until you’re better.”

A soft hum of approval left Shen’s throat, almost a sigh. “Thank you. I really appreciate this."

His breathing evened out. The monitor settled back into its steady rhythm.

Gao Tu sank into the chair again, his hand hovering above Shen’s– close enough to feel the warmth but not quite daring to touch.

Outside, the city kept moving, indifferent. Inside, beneath the sterile light, Gao Tu stayed exactly where he was– keeping watch over the man who had broken him once and, against all reason, still trusted him completely.

Chapter Text

Shen woke to pain. Not sharp– dull and vast, like waking inside a bruise that had forgotten its edges. His chest ached with every breath, his ribs pulsing in time with the heart monitor’s slow, indifferent beeps. For a moment he thought he was alone again. Then the weight against his palm registered– warm, real, unmoving.

Gao Tu.

He was slumped in the chair beside the bed, head tilted awkwardly, one arm folded over the rail, the other hand still clasped in Shen’s. The chair had been dragged so close it almost touched the mattress. At some point in the night, Shen must have turned toward him, searching even in sleep.

He kept still now, afraid that moving would wake him– or worse, loosen the fragile tether between them. The pain in his body felt earned, almost sacred, and he took it willingly. Better this than the thought of Gao Tu hurt, crushed under metal and glass, gone before Shen could reach him. He could live with pain. He could live with the limp, with the scar, with the memory of sirens. But not with that.

He flexed his fingers just slightly, tightening his hold. The contact grounded him more than the oxygen line ever could.

The light in the room shifted. Gao Tu stirred, a slow inhale pulling through sleep. His eyes opened, heavy and red at the edges, and when he realized where he was, his thumb brushed once across Shen’s knuckles– an unconscious check, the kind a parent gives a feverish child.

“You’re awake,” Shen murmured, voice rough with sleep and pain. “Are you all right?”

Gao Tu blinked, disoriented for a beat, then frowned softly. “Why are you asking me that? You were the one trapped under hot metal and glass.”

“I’m fine,” Shen said too fast. His jaw tensed. “It’s nothing.”

The lie didn’t survive the next breath. A grimace flickered across his face, involuntary, gone as soon as it came– but not fast enough.

Gao Tu leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “You’re in pain.”

“It looks worse than it is,” Shen managed, forcing steadiness into his tone. “Just bruises.”

“Bruises don’t make people turn white when they breathe,” Gao Tu said quietly. “Don’t lie. Remember I was here when the doctor came in. Broken ribs aren’t bruises. And your face looks worse than it did yesterday.”

Shen didn’t answer. The silence pressed between them, broken only by the rhythmic hiss of the oxygen and the faint creak of Gao Tu shifting closer.

After a long moment, Shen found a different place to rest his gaze– the window, the slice of sky beyond it. “When will Lele and Xiao Qing be home?”

Gao Tu glanced at the clock. “Late morning. They should be checking out of the hotel soon, but Lele’s been a fan of the breakfast, so Xiao Qing will take him down to eat first before they go.”

Shen nodded slowly. “And when you pick Lele up, just take him to my house. You don’t have to find a place of your own. Just stay there with me.”

That caught Gao Tu off-guard. “You said you were going to find a place for us. I’m not moving in with you.”

“I did say that,” Shen admitted. “But I’ll still be here another couple of weeks, maybe more. Our house is empty. It’ll just be you and Lele and Xiao Qing until I come home. It makes sense for you to stay there.”

Gao Tu hesitated, the crease between his brows deepening. “You mean your house.”

“It’s a roof,” Shen said. “Call it whatever you want. I just don’t want you running between the hospital and your apartment every day.” He paused. “And Xiao Qing… we only have two bedrooms, so I’m not sure what–”

“She can’t come with me.”

“What do you mean? She’s your sister. I absolutely want her there.”

“It isn’t that,” Gao Tu confirmed quietly. “It’s the middle of the semester. If she leaves school now, she might not graduate this year, and I’m not putting her through that for a temporary two month move.”

But I don’t want it to be temporary…

Shen’s voice softened. “But Lele…”

“Lele goes wherever I go,” Gao Tu said. “He’s mine. He’s always been mine.”

“Good.” Shen exhaled, even though he didn’t like Gao Tu’s possession of their child. “Bring him here today. I want to see him.”

The hesitation was immediate, visible. Gao Tu shook his head. “He shouldn’t see you like this.”

“Like what?” Shen asked, almost gently. “Like… alive?”

“Like hurt,” Gao Tu said. “Besides, this is a hospital. I don’t even know if he’d be allowed.”

Shen wanted to argue, but the effort felt heavier than the bandages. “Bring him anyway. I’ll demand it if they don’t allow it.”

“I’m not doing that.” Gao Tu stood, careful not to jostle the chair, and reached for his jacket. His free hand slipped reluctantly from Shen’s. The loss of contact was immediate, like air thinning. 

Don’t let go of me again… please….

“I need to go back to your house and get my belongings,” Gao Tu continued. “And my car is at your house.”

“I can have my driver take you,” Shen said. “Where’s my phone? I’ll call right now to have him pick you up.”

Gao Tu hesitated, then nodded. “All right. I’ll go and come back once I get packed.”

“Bring him,” Shen said again, softer this time. “Please.”

Gao Tu turned at the door, eyes meeting his. “President Shen,” he said quietly, “I promise I’ll come back. But I’m not bringing Lele here.”

Shen opened his mouth to protest, but Gao Tu was already moving,pulling the door open, thanking the nurse in the hall, vanishing into the brightness beyond.

Besides… who’s going to watch him while you come visit me? Or… do you not plan on coming back?

The room felt too wide without him. Shen leaned his head back against the pillow, hand still curved where Gao Tu’s had been.

If pain was the price of keeping him safe… and close by… then so be it. He could pay it forever.

The halls smelled too clean. Sterile air, filtered light, footsteps that weren’t his. Every sound in this place scraped the back of his skull like sandpaper.

He hadn’t been locked down this time. No wrist restraints, no security shadowing him– just a nurse who smiled too tightly and a door that never quite shut right. They thought he’d stopped being dangerous. They thought the quiet meant healed.

He walked barefoot down the corridor, IV needle still in his vein, the line coiled in his fist. The floor was cold. He liked the sound his steps made– soft, deliberate, enough to make the interns glance up and look away again.

He found her room without thinking. Her name was on the door in neat white letters: Jiang Liya.

He opened it without knocking.

The air inside was too sweet– disinfectant and the familiar green apples. She looked smaller than he remembered, hair pulled back, face too pale for the kind of sun she used to chase. The monitor beside her bed gave one polite beep as she looked up and froze.

“Hua Yong,” she said, voice catching halfway through his name. “You shouldn’t be here.”

He smiled thinly. “You shouldn’t have lied.”

Her hand twitched toward the nurse call button before she even spoke.

He saw it. He let her press it. The mechanical chime sang out, distant down the hall. “Go ahead,” he said. “Call your saviors.”

“I didn’t lie,” she whispered. “You almost killed me!”

“I didn’t kill you,” Hua Yong said, voice low, steady, dangerous in how calm it was. “And that’s what keeps me awake at night.”

She swallowed. Her eyes darted toward the door, then back at him. “You need help.”

“I needed help when you took him from me,” he said, stepping closer. The IV bag swung, fluid sloshing like slow thunder. “When you put me in this place and called it mercy.”

“Get away from me!” Her voice cracked.

He leaned in anyway, close enough to see her pulse flutter under her skin. “Do you know what it feels like,” he murmured, “to have poison under your tongue and no one left worth spitting it at?”

Her breath hitched.

He could feel it building– his scent, his heat, that sharp iron bite in the air. The monitors began to complain.

“Hua Yong,” she said again, softer now, but there was no plea in it, only horror.

He tilted his head. “Don’t say my name like it’s still yours to use.”

He let the pheromones slip, slow and deliberate. The air thickened with the burn of it– something electric, wrong, alive. The lilies on the side table wilted almost instantly, petals trembling.

Jiang Liya’s fingers slammed the button again and again, frantic now, the alarm blaring for real.

Footsteps. Shouts.

Hua Yong laughed once– dry, humorless. “Too late.”

The door burst open. Hands grabbed his shoulders, arms, voice after voice shouting his name. He barely heard them. His vision blurred, the fluorescent light carving into his skull until everything went white.

The scent of his own pheromones turned acrid in his throat. Someone yanked the IV free; someone else pressed a needle into his arm.

He tried to speak, but his tongue didn’t work anymore.

He saw Liya’s face one last time– tear tracks cutting down her cheeks, her lips moving like prayer—and then the floor came up to meet him.

Dark. Quiet.

And nothing but the taste of venom left to keep him company.

The sun had begun its slow descent, gold light slanting through the blinds and striping Lele’s walls. The air still smelled faintly of fried dough and sunscreen– leftovers from Disneyland and a too-long drive home.

The suitcase lay open on the floor beside the bed. Gao Tu crouched beside it, folding Lele’s shirts one by one, each piece of cotton soft from wear. Packing on a Sunday afternoon felt wrong; the day should have ended with cartoons, not goodbyes.

Xiao Qing stood in the doorway, a stack of folded towels in her arms that she’d forgotten to put away. “You let Shen Wenlang pull you right back in,” she said.

Gao Tu didn’t look up. “It’s just for two months.”

“Two months is how it starts.” Her voice trembled, half anger, half worry. “He says he needs help, you say yes, and suddenly you’re living his life again.”

“He’s in the hospital,” Gao Tu said. “Somebody has to keep things moving until he’s home.”

“That’s not a reason, it’s an excuse.”

He exhaled through his nose, smoothing a crease in a pair of jeans. “The salary he offered covers the rent, your medical bills, food, everything. We can finally get caught up, maybe even find a bigger place.”

“I’m not worried about money or the size of our apartment,” she shot back. “I’m worried about you.”

Before he could answer, a small voice came from behind her. “Papa?”

Lele padded into the room, still in his travel clothes, clutching his favorite plush rabbit by the ear. His hair stuck up where the headband had rested earlier. “Papa, you’ll feel better if you put the Mickey ears on.”

Gao Tu paused mid-fold. “Will I?”

Lele nodded solemnly and held them out with both hands. “They make the day not so sad.”

For the first time that day, Gao Tu smiled. “All right, then.” He settled the ears on his head. They tilted crookedly, one ear listing sideways. Lele giggled, the sound small and bright.

From the doorway, Xiao Qing sighed. “You look ridiculous.”

“Can’t my son just do something nice for me?” he asked, half-smile still there.

Her eyes softened for a heartbeat, then hardened again. “I’ve been in and out of the hospital. What if something happens to me and I’m here alone?”

He finally looked at her. The ears sat absurdly above a face that had forgotten how to rest. “Then call me. Or move one of your friends in for a while.”

“That’s not the same.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “But I can’t be in two places at once.”

She hesitated, voice dropping. “You said it’s only until he’s recovered.”

“That’s the plan.”

“And if it isn’t?”

He closed the suitcase with a slow zip. “Then I’ll figure it out when I get there.”

Lele climbed onto the bed, watching him. “Papa, can I bring my cars?”

“I packed all of them,” Gao Tu said.

“Even the noisy ones?”

“Especially the noisy ones.”

Lele grinned, darted off down the hall, and the sound of plastic wheels echoed across the wood floor.

For a long moment, Xiao Qing said nothing. The afternoon light cut a sharp line between them– warm, heavy, final.

“You really think you can keep it only about work?” she asked softly.

“I have to,” he said, lifting the suitcase upright.

“You want to.”

He didn’t answer. He adjusted the handle, the sequined ears catching the late-day light as he turned toward the door.

Behind him, she spoke again, quieter now. “You know he’ll pull you in somehow.”

Gao Tu didn’t look back. The sound of Lele’s laughter carried down the hall, bright against the hush.

He followed it.

The light outside had turned the color of honey, sliding through the blinds in soft, uneven bars. The air felt too still for a hospital room– too gentle to be real. Machines hummed low beside the bed, their rhythm steady enough to disappear into the quiet.

Shen’s book lay open on his lap, the same line staring back at him for the past hour. He wasn’t reading it. He was somewhere else.

The front door was opening, hinges catching on a familiar squeak. Then the voices, layered and alive. Lele’s laughter rang down the hallway, bright and high like the sound sunlight would make if it had a voice.

Toys clattered against the floor– small wheels rolling over tile, something soft hitting the couch. A cartoon theme song filled the background, muffled by the hum of the air conditioning.

He could almost see it: sunlight spilling through the wide windows of his living room, catching on glass, on picture frames that had never actually been hung. The house didn’t look empty anymore. There were shoes by the door– one small, one larger. A school backpack leaning against the wall.

In the kitchen, Gao Tu moved through the soft light like he belonged there, his sleeves rolled, wristwatch glinting as he poured hot water into a mug. Steam curled up, catching the scent of oolong. Shen could hear the quiet scrape of a chair, the low hum of Lele singing to himself between mouthfuls of rice.

He saw himself there too, somehow– on the couch, arm stretched along the backrest, pretending to watch the screen but really watching them. The light reached his face, softening what the years had sharpened.

“Baby,” he said into the dream, the word tasting both new and inevitable, “I love you.”

Lele turned in that impossible sunlight, grinning from ear to ear. “I love you, Dad.”

The word landed like a heartbeat, deep and full. For a moment, Shen swore he could feel the weight of that small body leaning into his side, the heat of a child’s hand slipping into his.

And then it all began to fade.

The cartoon’s music flattened into the low buzz of machinery. The scent of tea evaporated. The sunlight broke into thin strips again– the real kind, pale and sterile, cast by fluorescent bulbs and the single window half-covered by blinds.

He was still in the hospital bed. Still alone.

He closed his eyes, letting the silence fill with what he’d imagined—laughter, footsteps, the faint sound of cartoons from the other room. His hand shifted, unconsciously reaching toward the empty space beside him.

He once asked me what I’d do if an Omega became pregnant with my child.

I told him I’d make them abort it.

I said I hated kids.

The words came back like a taste he couldn’t wash away.

There were so many times I was so cruel to him and just couldn’t stop myself.

I constantly told him he stunk. 

I constantly harassed him about his Omega. 

Once, I even went after him for an error on a report he didn’t create.

I told him he wasn’t even good-looking enough to be a decoration.

He thought I was with Hua Yong because that’s what I kept telling Sheng Shaoyou. 

He didn’t even know Hua Yong isn’t an Omega and he didn’t know I was a virgin until… that night in the hotel. I still don’t think he knows either of those things.

He saw the worst in me and I gave him every reason to believe it.

His chest tightened.

I was so stupid. When he quit, I got angry and pushed him away. He asked for fifteen percent of the company shares and I refused– out of anger, out of jealousy over an imaginary Omega. If I’d given it to him, I could have talked him into staying. Hell, when we get married, he’ll get fifty percent of my shares anyway.

His sister was sick. He was pregnant. He even–

And this thought haunted him–

He even gave me so much money when I demanded he pay me for Xiao Qing’s surgery bill. He must have given me all that he had just to shut me up. I took money from a pregnant man all because I covered for that fucking lunatic and had to play along with it… but I was taking the little bit of Gao Tu’s money that he had. And then he changed his number, cutting off all ties with me.

He left me with nothing but my child inside of him and the clothes off his back.

The last thing I said to him before he disappeared–

He swallowed hard, hearing it in his own voice, sharp and cold.

‘You used my trust. You planned all of this just to get pregnant so you could demand ten million when it came time to abort your child.’

‘You’ve been by my side for ten years, Gao Tu. And this is what it was all for?’

He opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling. The quiet hum of the machines felt too loud now, too close.

It wasn’t my fault he left… was it?

The thought twisted like a knife.

All those years, and still he came back when I needed him.

He shouldn’t have had to. I shouldn’t have pressured him. He shouldn’t be doing my job. He wasn’t the cause of my accident.

The phone on his nightstand buzzed once, sharp enough to make him flinch. He turned his head, bringing himself back to reality, blinking until the words came into focus.

“We’re packed. Leaving now. I’ll let you know when we’ve arrived.”

He read it twice, thumb resting on the edge of the screen. The dream dissolved completely, leaving a kind of aching warmth behind it.

He closed his eyes, letting the silence fill with what he’d imagined– laughter, footsteps, the faint sound of cartoons from the other room. His hand shifted, unconsciously reaching toward the empty space beside him.

As much as he wanted all of this… he wasn’t sure he was doing the right thing. Maybe Lele shouldn’t have to grow up like this. Maybe he should just give up on his family. On his child. On the man he realized he loved three years ago.

But… Gao Tu was coming back. And it gave him hope.

He turned toward the window. The sky had dimmed to amber-gray, clouds sliding slow past the glass. The monitors’ hum softened to something like breath. For the first time, he hoped morning would come quickly.

“Good,” he murmured to the phone, voice so quiet it barely stirred the air. “Go home.”

Please… go home… and stay there with me.

I love you, Gao Tu.

The phone buzzed once on the nightstand. Sheng opened his eyes to the dim light filtering through the curtains, blinking past the ache behind them. The air was thick with the faint smell of sunscreen and baby lotion. Beside him, Peanut slept curled on his side, one arm stretched toward the cool patch of sheet he’d left when he sat up.

He answered before the second ring, instinctively lowering his voice.

“Sheng Shaoyou speaking.”

“President Sheng, this is Officer Ren from Central Medical Security,” came the reply– firm but cautious. “We’re calling about Hua Yong.”

The words snapped him fully awake. Sheng stood, slipped into the hallway barefoot, closing the door softly behind him so the latch didn’t click. The corridor was quiet, just the distant hum of the elevator.

“Go ahead,” he said.

“There was an incident in one of the recovery wings. Hua Yong left his assigned room and entered another patient’s. The staff responded immediately, but–” a pause, the sound of shuffling papers, “–he released a high concentration of oppressive pheromones before they could reach him.”

Sheng pressed his thumb and forefinger to his temple. “Was anyone hurt?”

“Fortunately, no permanent injuries. The nurse on duty hit the emergency alarm in time. However, the exposure caused temporary nausea and disorientation in several staff members. Hua Yong himself collapsed shortly after; we believe the pheromone surge triggered a vasovagal reaction. He lost consciousness.”

Sheng leaned against the hallway wall, eyes tracing the faint pattern of the carpet. “What happens next?”

Ren hesitated. “President Sheng, there is corridor footage– him leaving his room and entering the patient’s, the response, the collapse. It’s sufficient for an administrative review.” His tone stayed careful. “But the hospital is treating this as a medical escalation, not a criminal event. The current plan is pheromone regulation therapy, behavioral-health consults, and a monitored stabilization period. No transfer to detention is being pursued at this time.”

Sheng let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “And the patient?”

“Ms. Jiang Liya was not injured, and she is declining to press charges,” Ren said. “However… she isn’t giving a statement, either.” Another small pause. “Off the record, it reads like protection, but we’re not sure why.”

Sheng’s jaw tightened. He understood exactly whom Jiang was protecting.

“We’ll forward the clinical incident report to your office,” Ren went on. “Compliance may still request a formal statement from you within the week– for their records. We’ll keep everything discreet.”

“Understood.” He hesitated, then added, “Thank you for letting me know.”

The line clicked off.

For a long moment, Sheng didn’t move. The phone hung loosely in his hand, the faint hum of the hotel’s central AC filling the silence where his heartbeat should’ve been.

When he finally went back inside, Peanut was still asleep, his hair damp and sticking to his forehead from the earlier swim. He sat on the edge of the bed, set the phone down, and just watched his son breathe. Peanut’s chest rose and fell in tiny, even rhythms.

He thought of Hua Yong– the restraints, the locked room, the sterile walls closing in– and forced the image away before it could take shape. The laptop sat open on the desk, its cursor blinking in a blank search bar. For a moment he imagined typing short-term rentals near Shengfeng headquarters.

He could move, start over, give Peanut quiet walls and new air.

He could– but he wouldn’t.

Running would only turn the silence louder.

He shut the laptop, dimmed the lamp, and turned. Peanut slept on, one small hand curled around the blanket’s edge. Sheng rubbed his eyes and whispered, more to himself than to his son, “We’ll figure out how to be a family again– you and me, and Father, and Xinxin. We’ll get through this.”

The drive was long enough for the world to fade into blue. Streetlights blinked on one by one, stretching their reflections across the wet pavement. Gao Tu kept one hand on the steering wheel and the other curled loosely over the blanket covering Lele in the back seat. The boy hadn’t stirred once since they left the apartment.

By the time they reached Shen Wenlang’s house, the rain had stopped but the air still smelled of it. Gao Tu parked near the gate, engine ticking in the silence. The porch light came on automatically when he stepped out. He opened the back door carefully, slipped his arms under Lele’s small body, and lifted him with practiced ease.

Lele’s head fell against his shoulder. The weight was comforting.

The key Shen had given him earlier in the day felt foreign in his hand. He fumbled with the lock, trying not to jostle the boy, finally pushing the door open with his shoulder. The entryway light came on– soft, dim, warm. Inside, everything was too clean, too deliberate. The faint scent of cedar polish and something antiseptic lingered in the air.

He crossed to the living room, lowered Lele onto the couch, and tucked the blanket around him again. The boy’s lashes didn’t even flutter.

For a moment, Gao Tu just stood there. The silence pressed against him.

He took out his phone and sent a short message:

“We’re here.”

The reply didn’t come right away. He set the phone on the counter, looked around again– the wide windows, the careful symmetry of the furniture, the sterile neatness that screamed of a life lived alone.

The phone rang.

He snatched it up quickly, instinctively lowering his voice. “Hello.”

“Why are you whispering?” Shen Wenlang’s tone was light, edged with fatigue but soft.

“Lele’s asleep,” Gao Tu said.

“Oh.” A pause, quiet enough to hear the static hum between them. “You can put him in the guest room. He should be fine tonight.”

“The bed’s too big for him,” Gao Tu murmured, glancing toward the hallway. “I need him to be able to get out of bed in the middle of the night if he needs to use the bathroom or get a drink of water.”

“Someone is coming over about that tomorrow,” Shen said.

“What?” 

“They’re taking the bed out and setting up a toddler bed. I’ve bought the bedding and a couple of pillows. I’ve also purchased him a new dresser, a toybox, and toys. I didn’t know if Lele likes plush animals or not, but I got him one. It’s a wolf.”

“A wolf?”

“You think he’d like it?”

Gao Tu sighed. “I never asked you to do any of that.”

“I’m taking care of my son.”

“President Shen, we’re not going to be here that long. Lele can sleep on the couch for now.”

“I have it all thought out. Lele’s sleeping in the guest room and you’ll sleep on our bed.”

“Our bed?”

“Yes. It’s all taken care of. I had my housekeeper come over and change the sheets on our bed. You can take a shower and just sleep.”

“I’m not moving into your bedroom!” Gao Tu cried out. His voice had risen without meaning to. Lele stirred, shifting under the blanket, crying a little.

Shen caught it immediately. “Did Lele wake up?”

“Yes,” Gao Tu said, sitting down on the couch as Lele blinked awake and reached for him. He lifted the blanket and let the boy curl into his side.

Shen’s voice softened again. “Since he’s awake, bring him to the hospital right now. I want to see him.”

“It’s late,” Gao Tu said. “He’s tired. You should be resting too.”

A pause. Then: “Tomorrow, then. I had Secretary Mia reschedule all of the meetings for tomorrow, so you could start Tuesday. Do you need a new suit? I can send someone to take you shopping.”

“No. I brought my own. I’ll be fine.”

“Are they the same suits you wore as my secretary?”

“What’s wrong with that? I take care of my things!”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

Then how did you mean it, Shen Wenlang?

“It’s fine,” Gao Tu said. “I’ll take a shower and try to relax.”

“Good,” Shen said. “Get some sleep.”

“Yeah.”

“Remember… they’ll be there in the morning with the bed.”

“I’ll strip that bed in the morning before they show up,” Gao Tu said.

“You don’t have to.”

“If you’re insisting on buying a bed for my son, I’ll help out with it any way I can.”

Shen paused, and a few moments of silence followed.

And Gao Tu knew he was thinking. He knew what he had said out loud.

“Gao Tu… I’m really glad you’re here with me.”

“I’m just trying to help you.”

“I know, and I appreciate it. Really.”

“I know you do.” He paused. “I need to get Lele into his pajamas and ready for bed.”

“Of course,” Shen said quickly. “You… you two have a good night. Will you come see me tomorrow?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“Ok,” Shen said, but he didn’t sound like it was ok. “Good night, Gao Tu.”

“Good night, sir.”

The line went quiet, then disconnected.

Gao Tu set the phone on the coffee table and leaned back, his hand absently smoothing Lele’s hair. The house was too big, too clean, too quiet. The only sound was Lele’s breathing– slow, even, safe.

He stared at the ceiling, the question rising before he could stop it.

Did I do the right thing by agreeing to help Shen Wenlang?

Am I doing the right thing by letting my child into his life?

He said he never wanted kids. My father demanded ten million to make sure I didn’t have one. And Shen Wenlang… he was angry, but wasn’t he going to agree?

He never wanted kids. If he had known I was carrying his child, he would have made me abort it anyway. 

He hates kids. He said so.

But he took care of Hua Yong’s child. So does that mean he doesn’t hate kids anymore?

What’s he planning to do with my child?

Why does he want him here so badly?

Is that why he offered all that money– to make me say yes?

Does he know… I still love him after all of these years?

When consciousness came back, it arrived in fragments– sterile light, the slow tick of a heart monitor, the ache in his wrists. Hua Yong blinked up at the ceiling and realized he was back in his room. Restrained again.

A quiet shuffle drew his attention.

Chang Yu sat in the corner, tablet in hand. When Hua Yong stirred, he rose.

“You’re awake.” His voice was low, professional. “You collapsed during restraint. They stabilized you and adjusted the dosage.”

Hua Yong’s throat burned. “They always do.” The words came out like venom, rough and tired.

Chang Yu ignored the bite, poured water from the pitcher, and lifted the straw to his lips. “You need to calm down. None of this helps you.”

For a moment, Hua Yong wanted to spit it back– every sharp edge, every reason he shouldn’t be here– but the effort bled out of him. He exhaled. Took a sip.

The silence after felt dense, like the air before a storm.

Then his phone buzzed on the tray table.

Both men stared at it.

Unknown number.

Chang Yu hesitated. “You shouldn’t–”

“I know.” Hua Yong reached anyway, awkward in the restraints, thumb grazing the screen. He hit speaker.

Static first. Then a calm, low voice: “Hua Yong. Sir, there’s something you need to know.”

He froze. “Who is this?”

“I can’t tell you that. It isn’t safe right now.”

Chang Yu’s gaze flicked between the phone and Hua Yong, uneasy.

The voice continued, even, measured: “There’s been a misunderstanding. Jiang Liya isn’t who you think she is. She was hired for her soothing pheromones– to keep Sheng Shaoyou stable.”

Hua Yong’s heart stumbled. “You’re lying. What the hell does my husband need surrogate soothing pheromones for?! He’s my Alpha!”

“It’s the truth,” the voice said. “It’s– Sheng Shaoyou is pregnant. Jiang Liya was protecting him and the baby, not seducing him. She’s stronger than you think.”

Hua Yong’s breath caught. The words didn’t land all at once– they crawled under his skin, burned through the air.

“No,” he said, shaking his head against the pillow. “No, he can’t– he can’t be. His body… I almost lost him… I can’t go through it again…” The rest broke apart, half-word, half-sound. The restraints clinked as he pulled against them, shallow breaths stuttering out. “Do you know what that means? What it could do to him?”

“I do,” the voice answered quietly. “That’s why I’m telling you.”

Hua Yong’s eyes blurred. “He’ll die,” he whispered. “If he’s carrying– if he–”

“The baby is an Alpha,” the voice said again, softer now, almost kind. “His pregnancy is still high risk, but he has a lot less chance of bleeding out this time. He may even carry to term.”

“He would have told me!”

Hua Yong could hear a sigh. “You flat out told him, didn’t you. That he wouldn’t be having any more kids. You can’t stand the thought of him dying. The problem is… he was already pregnant when you said that. He wanted to tell you, but he was scared. He doesn’t want to lose the baby. He loves Hua Sheng. He already named this baby and everything.” 

The voice softened, almost kind: “You need to leave Jiang Liya alone. She’s not pressing charges against you. She won’t. She knows her secret could’ve destroyed him. And she owes him– he paid for her daughter’s surgery when no one else would. They’re both protecting each other’s children. And honestly, you’re not going to murder a woman trying to provide for her own child. You can’t do that. You wouldn’t.”

Hua Yong stared at the phone as though it had turned to glass. His pulse thundered in his ears.

“Who the hell are you?” he whispered.

“It doesn’t matter,” the voice replied. “Just… don’t make this worse for Sheng Shaoyou or his unborn child. Otherwise, you will lose him, forever. He just won’t be dead. He’ll just be gone and you’ll also never see either of your children again. By the way, the new baby is a girl. You’re going to have a daughter, but at the rate you’re going, you’ll never even get to meet her.”

The line went dead.

For a long moment, there was nothing– only the quiet hum of the machines and Chang Yu’s steady breathing.

Hua Yong bowed his head. His chest tightened, a sound caught between a laugh and a sob, then broke open entirely.

Chang Yu reached for the call button but stopped halfway. “Are you all right?”

“I can’t lose him,” Hua Yong said, the words collapsing into tears. “I can’t lose him!”

Silence gathered, heavy and bright. Then the first sound came– small, raw, torn from somewhere deep. The restraints rattled as his chest hitched, once, twice, then gave way completely.

He sobbed– hoarse, unrestrained, the kind that left his throat scraped and his lungs shaking. He hadn’t cried, not since Peanut’s birth and Sheng Shaoyou had almost left him, and hadn’t ever cried before that; once, he’d even seen a doctor about it. Tear ducts healthy, they’d said. Nothing wrong with him. But there had been, and now it broke loose all at once.

Now it broke open. He sobbed– raw and guttural– until the monitors blurred and there was nothing left in him but breath and salt and the sound of a name he couldn’t say.

Chapter Text

The city moved beyond the glass in slow motion, cars glinting under morning haze. From this height, everything seemed ordered– small, manageable, quiet. A week and a day had passed since Hua Yong’s collapse, and the building had finally gone still again.

Sheng Shaoyou sat behind his desk, the surface cleared of everything but a laptop, a stack of reports, and a cup of warm ginger tea he hadn’t touched. He told himself this passed for normal– quiet on the surface, fragile underneath. Peanut was at school. Hua Yong remained under restraints, watched around the clock. For the first time in days, no one was shouting, bleeding, or crying..

A soft knock came at the door.

“Come in,” Sheng said.

Chen Pinming stepped inside with his usual composure, tablet under one arm and a tea cup in his hand.

“Good morning, President Sheng.”

Sheng looked up. “Morning.”

“It’s chamomile,” Chen said, setting the cup down. “I figured it would help your stomach.”

“Thank you,” Sheng replied, a faint smile ghosting across his face. “My stomach is definitely off.”

Chen smiled– polite, easy. “It’s been quiet lately. You deserve a calm morning.”

“Quiet’s good,” Sheng murmured. “Let’s keep it that way.”

Chen hesitated for only a second before adding, “Secretary Jiang is here.”

Sheng’s hand stilled above his reports. “Here?”

“She’s waiting outside for you,” Chen said. “She insisted it was important.”

A line formed between Sheng’s brows. “She was already released from Heci? She should still be out.”

“She seems steady,” Chen replied. “I stayed for a few minutes to be sure. She said she wanted to speak with you directly.”

Sheng sighed quietly. “All right. Let her in.”

A moment later, the door opened again. Jiang Liya stepped inside, her posture straight, expression polite– too polite. Sunlight from the wide window painted her silhouette in pale gold as she bowed slightly.

“President Sheng,” she said softly. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“You haven’t been cleared to return to work yet,” Sheng replied, surprised but not unkind. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

“Resting’s easier said than done,” she said with a faint, tired smile. “Besides, I didn’t want to disappear without saying thank you.”

“For what?” he asked.

“For not hating me,” she said. “For not blaming me for what happened. I know your husband was only trying to protect you, but I was the reason it started.”

Sheng’s brows drew together. “You weren’t the reason.”

She sighed. “President Sheng, I wanted to thank you, and to accept my dismissal in person.”

“You’re not being dismissed,” Sheng said at once. “I never told you that.”

She blinked, faint surprise softening her face. “I assumed that now that our secret is out in the open, you don’t need me around anymore. I’ll take my leave. And I’ll still figure out a way to pay you back for my daughter’s surgery. It’s… it might just take longer. I’m very sorry.”

“That’s your choice to make,” he continued, his voice even but kind. “If you want to resign, you can. But you’ve done nothing to warrant it.”

Her hands folded in front of her. “You’re being generous, but it would be easier for everyone if I stepped away quietly.”

“What do you mean by everyone?” Sheng asked, voice tightening. “If you mean my husband, I can make sure he’s not a threat to you anymore. I’ll have protections put in place– a private driver, security at your building. You won’t have to worry about being followed or taking the subway home.”

At that, Chen Pinming stepped closer, resting his tablet on the table as though to balance the air between them. “Secretary Jiang,” he said lightly, “we confirmed the pheromone vials were destroyed. That means there’s no replacement source now. President Sheng still needs stability. You’re the only one who can provide that safely.”

She hesitated, surprise flickering across her features before her composure softened into something gentler. “You told me that already, Secretary Chen. I know. It’s… part of why I came back.”

Sheng watched the exchange, unreadable. “Then it’s settled,” he said finally. “You’re staying?”

She hesitated before nodding once. “If you’ll allow it. I still have debts to repay.”

“You mean the surgery?” Sheng asked quietly.

Her eyes lowered. “Debts aren’t always about money.”

A moment passed. Chen’s gaze flicked toward her– quick, almost gentle– before he looked away again. It was subtle enough to disappear between breaths.

Sheng exhaled. “Whatever you think you owe me, you don’t. Just do your job and stay out of harm’s way. I don’t want Hua Yong hearing your name again, understand?”

“Yes, sir,” she said softly. “I’m not afraid of him.”

“You should still be cautious,” he answered.

Chen gathered his tablet, his voice calm. “We’re glad you’re all right, Secretary Jiang.”

She gave him a fleeting look– something quiet, complicated– and bowed again. “Thank you. I’ll get back to work. I just need to let my husband know I’m staying, and I’ll be right back in the office.”

When she left, the room felt suddenly larger. The faint scent of chamomile and her green apple blossom scent lingered in the air.

Chen also lingered, a beat too long, eyes following her until the door closed behind her. Then he blinked, as if remembering himself, and straightened his tablet against his chest before walking out of the office.

Behind him, the door clicked softly. In the glass, Chen’s silhouette passed through– head tilted, expression unreadable– before disappearing down the hall.

Sheng watched him go, unsure which of them had just lied to his face.

The room smelled like antiseptic and boiled linen. Machines murmured beside him, their rhythm precise, indifferent.

Shen Wenlang stared at the ceiling until every faint crack in the paint became a map he’d already memorized.

Ten days.

He knew it from the meals. Breakfast trays instead of meetings, lunch when the light hit a certain angle, dinner when the hallway outside went quiet again.

Ten days of being still while everyone else kept moving forward.

And Gao Tu seemed to be moving the quickest.

It started with “Can you talk?” then “Call me when you’re free,” and finally, “Pick up.” Each time, Gao Tu’s voice stayed calm, distant.

“I’m busy running the office, President Shen.”

“Lele spent too long at daycare. He’s not used to being apart from me, so we’ve been making dinner together.”

“You need to focus on healing. Don’t worry about us.”

And the one that lodged deepest, quiet but brutal:

“I’ve been looking for a new place– something safer for Lele. No stairs, no sunken living room. Lele has already fallen once.”

All practical. All reasonable.

And all of them felt like walls being built higher.

He told himself it was fine. That Gao Tu had responsibilities now. That this was what he wanted– for them to have stability, even without him there to anchor it.

But the silence in the room pressed down until it hummed against his ribs.

He’d given Gao Tu the job. Offered him the house. Thought it would bring them closer.

Instead, it felt like Gao Tu had built a life just out of reach.

It seems like he doesn’t even care about me, Shen thought, and immediately hated himself for it.

He’d tried calling twice that week. Once in the evening; it rang until voicemail. Once during the day; the line cut off mid-ring, followed by a message hours later. 

“Sorry, in a meeting.”

Monday again. The nurses said he might be released soon, but that promise only made the restlessness worse

He reached for his phone. The last message from Gao Tu was two days old, and he had only given him an update about work.

He typed out a new one before he could talk himself out of it.

“How was the shareholder meeting?”

He barely had time to set the phone down before it buzzed back.

“Just ended. Everything’s under control.”

For a second Shen just stared at the screen, pulse flicking higher. Then he pressed call.

The ringing dragged long enough to make him doubt it– and then the line clicked.

“President Shen?” Gao Tu’s voice was low, careful.

Shen forced his own tone steady. “Good timing. I was about to ask for the reports anyway. How did the meeting really go?”

He heard the faint shuffle of papers on the other end, the hum of office air conditioning. Gao Tu slipped easily into work mode, answering in clean, measured phrases.

“President Shen?” Gao Tu said again when the silence stretched. “Are you still there?”

“I’m here.” Shen sat up slightly, adjusting the phone against his ear. “Tell me about the meeting.”

Gao Tu hesitated before answering, voice dipping into his work cadence. “It went as expected. The shareholders were satisfied with the quarterly reports. A few raised concerns about the budget reallocation for Heci, but I explained that your medical leave was temporary.”

“Good,” Shen said, focusing on the rhythm, the numbers, the one language that never betrayed him. “And the production schedule?”

“Back on track,” Gao Tu continued. “Supply chain delays cleared faster than we thought. Secretary Mia handled the paperwork, but…” He hesitated, barely a breath. “She’s not very organized.”

Shen raised an eyebrow. “Not organized?”

“I mean no disrespect,” Gao Tu said quickly. “She’s good– very good with people– but she forgets details. Leaves documents in the wrong folders. Sometimes, she mixes up meeting times. Does Secretary Mia do this when you’re around, too?”

Shen leaned back, rubbing his temple with two fingers. “Yes.”

Gao Tu paused. “If you know she can’t keep up, why do you keep Mia as your personal secretary?”

Shen didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched, filled only by the faint hum of hospital ventilation.

Finally, he said quietly, “Because she’s good with people. That’s what matters right now.”

“I know,” Gao Tu said again, softer this time. “She really cares about the team.”

Something in Shen’s chest tightened at that tone– how careful it was. “You like her,” he said quietly, not as a question.

“I respect her,” Gao Tu replied. “She’s been helping with the staff transitions. Everyone seems more comfortable when she’s around. She was also always very friendly with me and I’ll always remember that kind of kindness.”

Shen’s gaze dropped to the sheets, tracing the crease with his thumb. “I see.” He let the quiet settle before adding, “How’s Lele?”

The shift in subject caught Gao Tu off guard. His voice softened, losing the formality entirely. “He’s fine. Happy, actually. He likes his new bed. Sleeps with the wolf plush every night. Well, both actually, the wolf and his rabbit.”

Shen’s brows lifted slightly. “Rabbit?”

“A stuffed one,” Gao Tu explained. “He’s had it since he was born. My sister gave it to him.”

“Oh.” Shen’s tone softened, faint surprise flickering beneath it. “I didn’t know.”

“He doesn’t go anywhere without it,” Gao Tu said quietly. “If it goes missing, even for a minute, he panics.”

“Hmm.”

For a moment neither spoke. The distance hummed in the line, filled only by the faint static of breath and memory.

He let the line breathe a moment, then said, “I’ve been making arrangements for when you’re released. We picked a hotel nearby– quiet, short drive to HS Group. We’ll move there once you’re home.”

Shen’s hand tightened on the blanket. “Why would you do that?”

“It wasn’t the plan to stay,” Gao Tu said, keeping his voice even. “You’ll need space to recover. And the house isn’t safe for Lele– the stairs, the step down in the living room. I can’t watch my son every second.”

“The house can be made safe,” Shen replied. “Rails. Gates. We can fix the sunken living room somehow. You don’t have to move out.”

“I don’t know how you can consider this moving out,” Gao Tu said gently. “The hotel isn’t overly expensive. There’s breakfast downstairs at the hotel and a park across the street. They have family suites on the first floor so we’ll never even have to worry about stairs. For the time being, this will work for us.”

“That’s not what I was saying–”

“I know what you were saying.” Gao Tu’s voice softened again, almost a whisper. “But this is what I’m choosing to do.”

The silence that followed wasn’t sharp. It was hollow. Shen pressed the phone tighter against his ear, as if that could pull them closer through the distance neither of them wanted.

“Can’t you at least come and see me?” Shen asked finally. “No one’s come to visit me.”

“Not even Hua Yong?”

“I told them not to let him in. I can’t deal with that lunatic right now.”

“I’m sorry,” Gao Tu said. “You put me in charge of your company. I need to find a balance between that and being a single parent.”

“You don’t need to be a single parent–”

“I need to get my son in the bath so I can feed him dinner. Have a good night, President Shen.” The call suddenly ended.

Gao Tu… 

Please… stop calling me that…

The house was quieter than usual, the kind of quiet that felt alive–  humming faintly under the clink of spoons and the soft scrape of rice against a bowl.

Evening light streamed through the wide windows, brushing the marble countertop in shades of gold and rose. The same light caught the back of Lele’s head as he stood on a stool by the island, sleeves rolled up, determination in his tiny hands.

“Gentle,” Gao Tu said, voice low, guiding him with a hand over his shoulder. “Fold the rice, not mash it.”

“I’m doing it!” Lele puffed, his tongue poking out just a little as he stirred with exaggerated care.

The pan hissed from the nearby stove– sesame oil and garlic filling the air with warmth. Gao Tu crossed between the counter and the range, graceful in motion even as he reached for soy sauce, half-bent to Lele’s height so the boy could watch him pour.

“See?” he said. “Just a little. It’s not soup.”

Lele giggled, lifting the spoon higher. “Like this?”

“Perfect,” Gao Tu said, smiling. “Chef Lele’s first fried rice.”

The boy’s grin widened, proud and bright. A single grain stuck to his cheek. Gao Tu brushed it away with a thumb, gentle as breath.

He didn’t remember ever being touched like that as a child– not like this. No guiding hands. No patience. Just shouting.

So he made sure Lele got the opposite. Always.

“Want to crack the eggs?” Gao Tu asked.

Lele nodded solemnly, both hands gripping the shell. A little too much pressure– a soft crack, a burst of yellow across the bowl and his knuckles.

Gao Tu laughed quietly, handing him a towel. “That’s okay. You did it right. Cooking’s messy.”

Lele looked up at him. “You never get mad when I mess up.”

“Why would I?” Gao Tu asked. “It’s how we learn.”

The words landed heavier than he meant them to. He stirred the rice, let the sound of it fill the quiet. The scent of egg and soy wrapped around them like a memory.

When the food was done, he lifted Lele off the stool and carried him to the table– the same one Shen Wenlang had once sat at, drinking tea in the morning light.

Now there was a child’s placemat, two small plush toys propped at Lele’s spot: the wolf and the rabbit.

“You hungry?” Gao Tu teased softly as he set the bowl down.

Lele giggled, cheeks puffing. “Yes!”

“I thought so.”

He sat beside him, watching Lele scoop mouthfuls of fried rice with intense focus. The boy offered him a bite– a messy one, half falling off the spoon. Gao Tu leaned in and took it anyway. “Delicious,” he said. “Chef Lele outdid himself.”

Lele kicked his feet happily, the plush rabbit tumbling into his lap. “The bunny likes it too,” he said.

Gao Tu smiled faintly. “Then we did a good job.”

They finished the meal together, side by side, the plates empty but the air still full– with warmth, with steam, with the faint laughter of a child who knew nothing of the hurt between adults.

After dinner, Lele helped carry the dishes to the sink, humming tunelessly. Gao Tu washed them, watching his reflection blur in the marble backsplash– a man who still didn’t quite know how to let himself be loved, but was learning every day how to give it.

When Lele yawned, Gao Tu scooped him up, small arms looping around his neck.

“Bedtime, Lele.”

Lele’s voice was already drowsy. “’Kay. Night, Papa.”

He carried him to the bedroom, tucked the rabbit under his arm, and stood there a while– watching the slow rise and fall of his son’s breathing, the soft curve of safety in sleep.

“Good night, Gao Lele,” he whispered. “Thank you for saving me.”

Then he turned off the light and went back to the kitchen, where the scent of fried rice still lingered– the closest thing to peace he’d ever known.

The lights dimmed at seven every evening, but the room never really got dark.

Even the shadows felt sterile.

Hua Yong lay against the incline of the bed, wrists still bound by soft restraints. It had stopped hurting days ago. Now it just reminded him where he was.

The machines beside him hummed in rhythm with his pulse. It was the only sound he trusted.

He didn’t count days anymore. There was no point.

He marked time by the way his chest ached when he thought of Sheng.

I miss the weight of you in our bed– the way your body runs cold and I always reach first.

I miss the quiet mornings, the faint clatter of dishes, Peanut’s laughter in the next room.

I miss the smallest things: the scent of your hair, the rasp in your voice after too little sleep.

I want to leave this place and make you soup.

I want to go home.

Every memory felt like a blade he pressed to his own chest, just to feel something that wasn’t regret.

He turned his head toward the window, where dusk had painted the sky the color of smoke.

“Mr. Sheng…” His voice broke. “I’m sorry.”

The tears came before he could stop them– hot, soundless, unrelenting.

He cried for the words he’d thrown like weapons.

For the fear he’d mistaken for love.

For the man who was carrying their child and too afraid to let him near.

He cried until the monitors complained, until his throat burned and his shoulders shook.

Chang Yu, only observing from the corner, said nothing.

When the storm finally ebbed, Hua Yong lay there in the dim light, eyes swollen, breath unsteady.

He whispered it again, quieter this time.

“Please… just let me see you.”

For a moment Shen Wenlang stood in the entryway on his own home, one hand braced against the wall, breathing through the ache that flared with every step. His ribs protested even the smallest movement. The air smelled faintly of wood polish and detergent, clean, but not lived in.

He’d insisted on coming home alone. The nurse had offered a wheelchair, the driver had offered to help him up the walk, but he’d refused both. He wanted to see the house on his own feet, even if each breath caught at the edge of pain.

The doctor’s voice still followed him like an echo:

Keep the binder on when you move. No lifting. No stairs unless necessary. Take the painkillers before the pain starts, not after. Let the body rest; it knows how to heal if you let it.

He’d nodded, half-listening, already planning which files to review once he was back in his own bed.

Now, in the quiet hallway, that resolve faltered. Every muscle trembled with exhaustion. He climbed the stairs one slow step at a time, his hand gripping the rail so hard the wood creaked. The prescription bag swung lightly from his wrist– a rattle of pills and paper instructions.

At the top of the stairs, he paused. The door to Lele’s room stood slightly ajar, a spill of afternoon light warming the floorboards. Shen leaned against the frame and looked inside.

The sight made him smile.

Toys lined the low shelves, a few picture books stacked beside the bed. The small blanket– blue with tiny rabbits– was half folded at the foot. The plush wolf he had personally picked out for Lele, lay face-down on the pillow, as if mid-dream. The room smelled faintly of baby shampoo and something sweeter: the soft, clean scent of a child’s sleep.

He stayed there longer than he meant to, watching the stillness and letting the ache in his ribs quiet. 

How have I missed this baby’s entire life? What has Gao Tu taken from me all this time?

The thought hurt in a way he couldn’t name.

He imagined the sound of them downstairs– the clatter of chopsticks, Lele’s giggle as rice scattered across the counter. Gao Tu would pretend to scold him, voice low and steady, only for the child to laugh harder. Then that laugh would carry up the stairs and find Shen where he sat, like sunlight spilling through an open window.

In his mind, he could almost see it: the three of them gathered at the table, the faint steam rising from a pan, Lele trying to balance on his knees. Gao Tu’s hair falling into his eyes as he leaned over to wipe sauce from the boy’s cheek.

A domestic rhythm. Simple. Quiet.

He’d never thought he’d want something like that. A life where mornings meant coffee instead of conferences. Where he could wake to the sound of soft breathing beside him, and not feel the need to run from it.

He pictured Gao Tu sitting across from him, reading through Lele’s homework or checking the day’s reports, the air between them scented faintly with that Gao Tu’s wood sage– cool and grounding. The scent was always subtle, never demanding space. It was the smell of someone who brought steadiness without asking for credit.

Maybe this was what peace looked like. Not the sterile calm of a hospital room, but the imperfect warmth of a home that belonged to three people learning how to be a family.

He reached for the doorframe, steadying himself. His chest ached– not just from the healing ribs, but from wanting that life to be real.

Shen exhaled softly and turned toward his own room. The moment the door opened, Gao Tu’s scent met him stronger this time, threaded with the faintest trace of baby powder and the clean starch of folded laundry. Gao Tu’s presence lingered in every detail: the mug left on the nightstand, the neat fold of the duvet, the shirts arranged by color in the open closet.

He sat carefully on the edge of the bed, the binder pulling tight across his ribs. The sheets were smooth beneath his palms. He closed his eyes and let the smell surround him, as if the air itself remembered better than he did how to feel safe.

In the quiet, he let the daydream drift back in.

Dinner, laughter, the small weight of a child asleep between them. Gao Tu’s voice low, asking if he was comfortable. The ghost of that voice made him smile.

Husband, he thought. The word startled him–it felt too tender, too private to belong to him. But it stayed.

My husband. My son.

For a moment, it didn’t matter that none of it was official, or that he’d nearly destroyed it. The house felt alive again, as if some invisible part of them had come home before he did.

He sat carefully on the edge of the bed, the binder pulling tight across his ribs. The sheets were smooth beneath his palms. He closed his eyes and let the smell surround him, as if the air itself remembered better than he did how to feel safe.

He let the daydream drift deeper.

He pictured Gao Tu again– but this time, the image blurred, softened by painkillers and longing. Gao Tu in the kitchen, sleeves rolled to the elbow, one hand resting absently over a rounded stomach as he turned a pan on the stove. The curve of it made something twist warmly in Shen’s chest.

He’d always wondered how he would have looked then– during that brief, secret time when Shen hadn’t known. Gao Tu with that same calm smile, wearing it like armor, pretending he wasn’t afraid. Maybe pausing mid-sentence to rest a hand there. Maybe sighing softly when the baby kicked.

The thought made Shen smile through the haze. He could almost hear the faint rustle of movement, the soft hum Gao Tu always made when he concentrated. 

He would’ve been beautiful, Shen thought, and the realization left him strangely breathless. He already was.

The painkillers began to pull at the edges of his thoughts, softening everything. His breathing evened out. The scent of wood sage blurred into the quiet hum of the house.

He fell asleep imagining Gao Tu’s hand in his, the rhythm of two heartbeats and the faint sound of Lele’s laughter in another room.

He woke to voices.

Soft, indistinct at first– just the gentle murmur of conversation, the rise and fall of a tone he knew too well. For a second, he thought it was part of the dream. Then came the clatter of a pan, followed by a small burst of laughter.

Shen blinked awake. His ribs ached, but not as sharply. The clock beside the bed glowed dimly. Early evening.

He pushed himself upright, slow and careful. Every motion felt deliberate, measured. He followed the sound down the hall, hand trailing along the wall for balance.

The scent of food reached him before the voices did– something mild and comforting, butter and soy and the sweetness of corn. He stopped halfway down the stairs and listened.

Gao Tu’s voice, warm but focused.

Lele’s, high and earnest.

They were talking about something– no, arguing– about how much sauce belonged on something that clearly was the dinner they were preparing.

Shen smiled, then made the mistake of stepping down one stair too fast. The floorboard creaked.

Both voices went silent.

Shen took one more careful step, and the stair creaked. The sound snapped both heads toward him– Gao Tu’s eyes going wide, Lele’s mouth parting in a tiny O. The wooden spoon in Gao Tu’s hand froze midair.

Lele didn’t squeal. He flinched, then pressed himself hard against his father’s leg, little fingers fisting in denim. When Shen reached the bottom step, Lele hid his face, peeking out only long enough to make sure the shape by the stairs was real before tucking back in again.

“It’s me,” Shen said softly, hands open. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Gao Tu shifted the spoon to his other hand and lifted Lele without thinking. The boy latched on at once– arms tight around his neck, chin tucked to his shoulder. Only then did he look back at Shen, still wary, eyes shining.

“When did you get released?” Gao Tu asked, voice low, caught between relief and confusion.

“A few hours ago,” Shen said, stepping carefully down the last few stairs. “I didn’t tell you. I just wanted to come home.”

 Gao Tu nodded once, still holding Lele close, the boy’s small heartbeat tapping against his collarbone. “You should’ve called,” he said quietly. “I could’ve–”

“I know,” Shen cut in, gentle. “But I needed to walk through the door myself.”

For a long moment they just looked at each other. Lele broke the silence, not by much, the words were muffled as he spoke into Gao Tu’s neck. 

“Papa, I’m hungry,” he declared.

That made Gao Tu exhale a small, helpless laugh. “Right. We’re in the middle of making dinner.” He carefully put Lele down. He hesitated, searching Shen’s face. “Are you hungry? We have plenty.”

Lele shifted on his feet, not bouncing this time. He stayed close to Gao Tu’s side, one hand hooked around the edge of his father’s shirt. His voice was quiet when he spoke. “Mr. Shen can help us, too?”

Gao Tu hesitated, searching Shen’s face before answering. “If he wants to,” he said gently. Then, to Lele, “That’s polite of you to ask.”

Shen nodded, smiling a little despite the fatigue pulling at his ribs. “I’d like to help,” he said. “What are we making?”

“Corn soup and dumplings,” Gao Tu replied, setting a pot on the stove. “Something easy.”

Lele peeked up at him, then at Shen. “You can make the flat ones,” he said at last, holding up a lopsided dumpling with too much filling, like a peace offering.

Shen’s smile deepened, soft with exhaustion. “Flat ones,” he repeated. “Understood.”

He moved closer, careful not to intrude. Gao Tu passed him a spoon without meeting his eyes, and the faint tension in the air pressed at Shen’s chest– something unspoken, cautious, like a line they both knew not to cross.

Still, the kitchen filled with the rhythm of small sounds: the gentle boil of soup, the soft drag of dough, Lele’s quiet humming. It wasn’t the joyful chaos Shen had imagined earlier– it was tentative, fragile– but it was real.

He folded the dumpling, sealing the edges one by one, thinking how strange it felt to be home yet feel like he didn’t even belong in his own house.

And every time he looked up, Gao Tu was watching him– not angrily, not even guarded exactly, just with that flicker of fear behind his eyes, as though any wrong word might shatter the small peace they’d managed to build.

It should have felt ordinary. But to Shen, it didn’t. It felt like standing in the center of something fragile and precious, something that might dissolve if he breathed too loudly. The sound of Lele’s laughter, the soft scrape of spoons, the glow of light on Gao Tu’s face– it all fit together too perfectly.

And yet, beneath it, he could feel the furtive glances between motions, the edge of fear in his eyes, as though this version of Shen might vanish as suddenly as he’d appeared.

Shen said nothing about it. He only smiled, pressed the edge of a dumpling shut, and thought, So this is what happiness looks like.

And how easily it trembles.

The soup simmered gently, the scent of corn and broth wrapping the kitchen in warmth. The soft hum of the stove filled the quiet while the last few dumplings hit the pan with small splashes. Lele had faded into concentration now, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth as he pressed the edges together. Gao Tu adjusted the folds when the boy wasn’t looking, smoothing each one with practiced care.

They sat down together once everything was ready– the three of them at the small table, the overhead light muted to a soft amber glow. Shen moved slowly, lowering himself into the chair opposite Gao Tu. His ribs twinged as he sat, but he didn’t mention it.

Lele climbed into his seat beside his father, clutching the small rabbit plush against his chest. He ate quietly, spooning broth with both hands around the bowl like he was afraid of spilling.

For a while, there was only the soft clink of dishes and the sound of the boy’s steady chewing.

Shen tried to focus on the food– it was good, warm, comforting– but his gaze kept drifting. Gao Tu wasn’t eating much. He picked at the edge of his plate, taking small bites that barely counted as a meal. His focus stayed entirely on Lele: cutting the dumplings into smaller pieces, wiping a drip from his chin, reminding him not to talk with his mouth full.

“Here,” Shen said quietly, sliding a small piece of dumpling toward him. “You barely touched anything.”

Gao Tu shook his head without looking up. “You need it more than I do,” he said. “You should get your strength back.”

“It’s enough,” Shen replied softly. “I can share.”

But Gao Tu didn’t answer. His attention had already shifted back to Lele, asking if he wanted more soup, if it was too hot, if he was getting tired.

Shen watched them in silence. The way Gao Tu’s tone softened for the boy. The way Lele leaned toward him unconsciously, safe within that circle of calm. It was ordinary, domestic– and it left Shen feeling like an intruder standing just outside the light.

He’d imagined this too many times to realize how little of it included him.

He sipped his broth slowly, the salt faint on his tongue, and said nothing.

When Lele finally pushed his bowl away and rubbed his eyes, Gao Tu stood. “All right,” he said quietly, gathering the dishes. “Time for bed.”

The boy nodded, already half-asleep on his feet. Gao Tu scooped him up easily, his arms steady under the small weight. Lele’s head dropped against his shoulder, rabbit plush dangling from one hand.

Shen stayed at the table, watching them disappear up the stairs. Their voices softened, fading into the rhythm of a bedtime routine he hadn’t been part of in too long.

The house went quiet again, the way it always did when no one was left to fill the silence.

Shen stared down at the half-empty bowl in front of him, the spoon balanced on the rim.

It wasn’t loneliness exactly– just the ache of watching something good that no longer belonged to him.

The sink steamed as he gathered the bowls. He told himself he’d only rinse them, but his hands didn’t stop– soap, water, the slow clink of porcelain. Each reach pulled along his ribs like a wire; he braced his hip to the counter and kept going, careful not to knock anything together. When he set the last plate in the rack, his fingers trembled. He dried them on the towel and stood very still until the room stopped tilting.

The dishes were still warm when Shen finally stood. He moved slowly, careful with every step, and made his way upstairs. The hall light was dim, only a narrow strip of gold spilling beneath Lele’s door. He could hear the faint murmur of Gao Tu’s voice inside– soft, patient, the rhythm of a story being read aloud. Then silence, then the creak of bedsprings, and the gentle thump of footsteps moving away.

Shen slipped into his own room. He’d already unpacked earlier, setting the small prescription bag on the nightstand beside a glass of water. He changed into his pajamas with slow, deliberate movements, biting down a wince as the binder shifted against his ribs.

The bed looked exactly the same as it had before– the sheets neatly turned down, but with the faint scent of wood sage still clinging to the pillows. He pulled the blanket back and sat for a moment, staring at the space beside him.

He told himself it was foolish to expect anything, that things needed time, that Gao Tu had every reason to be cautious. But the longer he sat in the quiet, the more the house began to feel too large again.

He lay back carefully, head sinking into the pillow, and listened to the soft rhythm of the house– the distant sound of running water, then the quiet tread of feet on the stairs.

The door opened.

Gao Tu stepped inside, still dressed from the day, sleeves rolled up, a faint tiredness in his eyes. He went straight to the dresser, opened a drawer, and pulled out a folded pair of pajamas.

“You’re still awake,” he said softly, without looking up.

Shen smiled faintly. “I was trying to see if I needed another dose of painkillers before I went to sleep.”

Gao Tu nodded once, setting the clothes over his arm. “You should take another pill before bed. The first dose obviously has worn off.”

“I will.” Shen paused. “Come lay down for a while. We can fall asleep to a movie.”

Gao Tu froze. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Shen smiled faintly. “Why not? You don’t like movies?”

Gao Tu kept his eyes on the drawer. “You need to rest. I should go finish the dishes.”

“I already did them.”

He blinked. “You did?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re injured. You shouldn’t be doing that.”

“Are you scolding me after I helped?” Shen asked, gentler than he meant. “You made dinner, and I ate your portion.”

“My portion…”

“You barely ate. You made sure Lele and I had food, and you went without. You’re still hungry.”

“I’m not,” Gao Tu said quietly. “I had a big lunch. Just didn’t have an appetite. Lele had to eat.”

Shen watched him twist the pajama top. “That’s not true,” he said, softer.

A breath, then: “I’m going downstairs. I’ll take the couch.”

“The couch?”

“It’s late,” he said. “I don’t want to bother you.”

“I want you here with me, Gao Tu.”

He didn’t look up. “We’ll move to the hotel tomorrow. It’s better for Lele.”

The words landed heavier than Shen expected. “Please don’t–” The protest came out too loud for his ribs; he swallowed the rest.

Gao Tu’s hands tightened on the fabric. “Good night, President Shen.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Shen stared at him, the room suddenly colder for it.

“Good night,” Shen whispered, almost against his will.

Gao Tu nodded, turned off the light, and left. The soft creak of the stairs followed, then the faint rustle of the couch cushions below.

Shen lay in the dark, the ache in his ribs blending with something deeper. He stared at the ceiling, listening to the house breathe around him, and wondered when home had started to feel so far away.

Chapter Text

The smell of toast and cheap coffee pulled Shen out of sleep.

He blinked at the ceiling for a moment, heavy with that strange half-dream weight where everything felt too still. The other side of the bed was cold.

He pushed himself up, ribs aching faintly under the bandages, and listened. The faint clink of dishes, the scrape of a chair. Peanut’s laugh. For one brief heartbeat, he thought everything was normal again.

Then he saw the suitcases by the door.

He froze. Two large ones. Two smaller duffel bags. Packed. Ready.

For a moment Shen stayed in the doorway, unseen, trying to understand why the house felt different– why it suddenly felt like goodbye.

“Morning,” he said finally.

Lele looked up, startled but polite. “Good morning, Mr. Shen.”

That formality landed harder than it should have.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Shen said. “Too loud with you two stomping around.”

Gao Tu looked up sharply, the faintest furrow between his brows. “Sorry. We were trying not to wake you.”

“I didn’t say it was a problem.” Shen’s tone was lighter than his eyes.

A silence passed between them– short, but it said enough. Gao Tu adjusted the knot of his tie. “I wanted to thank you for letting us stay these past few days,” he said at last. “We’ll be checking into the hotel tonight. I didn’t want to leave without saying that.”

"You just in a hurry to escape again?”

“You’ve already done more than enough for us,” Gao Tu said, tone steady but clipped. “You need rest.”

“I can rest with you here.”

“President Shen–”

The use of his name like that hit harder than it should have.

“You’re still healing,” Gao Tu said quietly. “I’m still figuring things out. It’s better this way.”

“You’re figuring things out?” Shen’s voice went colder. “While I’m here, half drugged, barely able to walk straight, and you’re packing bags like this is some casual vacation checkout?”

Gao Tu flinched. “That’s not fair.”

“Neither was getting crushed under a ton of hot metal and glass. But here we are.”

Lele’s spoon paused halfway to his mouth.

The silence stretched until Shen’s guilt started to itch beneath the anger. He tried to recover, softer but still barbed. “You’re not fine, Gao Tu. You keep saying you are, but you didn’t even eat last night. You’re still thin as hell and pretending it’s normal. I thought people gained weight when they gave birth. You’re wearing the same suit you wore when you worked as my personal secretary three years ago, and now its practically sliding off of you.”

“I said I’m fine.”

That tone. Quiet. Final. It stopped Shen cold– until the pain in his chest pushed him to speak again.

Shen swallowed. “I chose that restaurant because you used to go there,” he said. “I thought if we went back together, it might feel… familiar to you. Safer. Something good.”

Gao Tu went still, mug halfway to his lips. “You took me back there on purpose?” His voice stayed soft, but it cut. “I spent three years running from that life. That restaurant is just next to the place I lived where I spent all of my time being afraid.”

Shen’s breath hitched. “I was trying to give us one meal that wasn’t miserable.”

“You don’t get to decide which parts of my memory weren’t miserable.”

The words hung in the air like smoke.

“I wanted to remind you of better days,” he said weakly.

“There were no better days there.” Gao Tu set the mug down with a hollow clink. “Nothing about my previous life here was better!”

“Papa?” Lele’s voice wavered from the table.

That broke the air between them. Gao Tu crouched beside his son. “Finish your breakfast, Lele. We’ll leave soon.”

Shen watched him gathering himself and said, quietly but with just enough edge, “Gao Tu… stop running away from me.”

Gao Tu stood again, smoothing his tie, face unreadable. “Thank you for everything, President Shen.” The title landed like armor. “Come on, Lele. We’re leaving.”

Lele ate another spoonful, then whispered, “Bye, Mr. Shen,” before running to the front door and finding his shoes.

Then Gao Tu followed behind him, grabbing the luggage. The door shut softly behind them, but the echo lingered.

Shen sank onto the couch, every movement sending a dull ache through his ribs. The house still smelled faintly of their shampoo, of cereal milk and clean laundry and morning light. He stared at the spot where Gao Tu had been standing, the untouched mug on the counter, the door still slightly ajar.

“Fine,” he muttered to no one. “Run away again. You’re good at that.”

The silence answered him, heavy and merciless. He leaned back against the couch, pressing a hand to his ribs, and finally let himself sob.

A month later, the bruises had faded, but the silence hadn’t.

Shen woke to empty rooms and the sound of his own breathing. The house no longer smelled like shampoo or cereal milk– just disinfectant and stale air. Even the sunlight felt foreign. He’d stopped opening the blinds halfway through recovery; the light made the quiet seem louder.

Lele’s room was exactly as they’d left it. Spotless. The bed was made tight, the wolf plush sitting upright among the other toys Shen had bought– each one perfectly arranged, untouched. Sometimes, when the loneliness clawed too deep, he went in and sat on the edge of the toddler bed. The mattress barely dipped beneath his weight. The toys stared back, silent witnesses.

He’d stay there for a long time, elbows on his knees, trying not to cry– and failing every time.

The doctor said his ribs were healing well, though pain still came and went in waves. He’d learned to move carefully, to time his steps between the throbs, to hide the wince when it hit too sharp. But it wasn’t the pain that bothered him most– it was the stillness.

Gao Tu texted him every few days. Always polite. Always about work.

Meeting at one. The finance reports are ready and need your approval.

Client call rescheduled to Thursday.

Reminder: sign off on the new approval paperwork.

Nothing else.

He told himself it was fine– that professionalism meant Gao Tu was adjusting, stabilizing. But each time he saw those messages light up his phone, his chest clenched like the bones had mended wrong.

Once, Shen had gone to the hotel. He didn’t even know why– maybe to prove he could. But the woman at the front desk had blinked at him politely and said she couldn’t give out guest information.

He’d stood there too long, hands in his pockets, before murmuring a thank you and leaving.

Outside, the glass doors had reflected his own face back at him– tired, angry, alone.

After that, Gao Tu stopped taking Lele to the daycare at HS Group. Shen had found that out by accident– he’d gone down to the daycare one afternoon and asked to see Lele, and the receptionist had smiled apologetically.

“President Gao withdrew him full time last week. He's in the care of a private nanny now and only shows up unscheduled.”

That night, Shen had texted him. 

Why did you pull Lele out of HS Group’s daycare? 

Who is this nanny that’s been picking Lele up from school? 

Did you even do a background check on them?

He’d recalled the messages right after he sent them.

At home, he worked late into the night, the sound of typing filling the space where his child’s laughter should be. 

The painkillers made him dizzy if he forgot to eat, but sometimes he let himself forget on purpose.

He told himself this was discipline. Control.

But most nights, when the house creaked in the dark, he wondered who he was trying to convince.

The elevator doors opened onto the lobby, and Hua Yong stepped out slowly.

The nurse had called his name with that tone– the kind reserved for patients who’d been in the ward too long. “You’re free to go, Mr. Hua.”

Free.

He wasn’t sure he remembered what that meant.

Chang Yu carried the discharge folder and held the car door open for him. “You’ll feel better once you’re home.”

“I won’t feel better until Mr. Sheng is back home with me.” Hua Yong slid in carefully, his voice flat.

The car hummed through traffic. Hua Yong watched buildings blur by, every turn bringing him closer to an emptiness he already knew was waiting. Sheng and Peanut were gone– it was never a secret– but some reckless part of him still hoped he’d open the door and smell Sheng’s pheromones, hear Peanut’s laughter, something.

He didn’t.

The apartment was spotless. Sheng’s orange blossoms lingered faintly, but it only made the air feel wrong and lonely. No shoes by the door, no toys on the rug. Just stillness.

Chang Yu hesitated at the threshold. “He must’ve had it cleaned before they left.”

“He always did like things clean,” Hua Yong muttered. He sank onto the couch, hand curling around the edge of a cushion. “Sanitized. Perfect. Like nothing ever happened.”

Chang Yu shifted, uncertain. “Do you want me to make you some tea, boss?”

“No.” His voice cracked. Then, quieter: “Call him.”

“Mr. Sheng?”

“I’ll do it myself.”

He scrolled through his contacts with shaking fingers. When Sheng answered, the sound of his voice hit like a blow.

“Hua Yong.” Paper rustled faintly in the background; office noise, calm, distant– too normal for what Hua Yong felt.

“You sound busy,” Hua Yong said, sharp but trembling beneath.

“I’m at work,” Sheng replied softly. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“Of course you’re at work. Always at work.” Hua Yong gave a short, empty laugh. “Did you even tell anyone where you moved to? Does your secretary know this information, Mr. Sheng?”

“Hua Yong, please–”

“I’m just asking you to come home,” Hua Yong cut him off, voice breaking. “You and Peanut. Please. I don’t care if you hate me. Just come back.”

Sheng’s breath caught. “It’s not that simple,” he said, quiet and strained. “You’re still healing. I didn’t want to–”

“I don’t care!” Hua Yong’s voice cracked through the line. “You push until your body breaks– working yourself sick, pretending nothing’s wrong–”

“Hua Yong…”

“Close your mouth.” The words came shaking. “I know, Mr. Sheng. I know you’re pregnant and hiding it from me.”

Sheng froze. For a moment he didn’t breathe.

“I didn’t–”

“You didn’t tell me,” Hua Yong whispered. “You were going to hide it until I couldn’t do anything about it, weren’t you? Until it was too late.”

“That’s not what I–” Sheng’s voice faltered, gentler now, almost pleading. “I just wanted to tell you when things were more stable. I didn’t want to worry you.”

“You almost died last time,” Hua Yong said, and the words broke apart under their own weight. “I can’t go through that again. You think I care about anything else? I don’t care about the company, or whatever you’re doing with Jiang Liya, or even the baby– none of it matters. I just need you alive. I don’t want you to bleed to death.”

Sheng closed his eyes, pressing his free hand over his stomach. “I know,” he whispered. “I know you do.”

“Then let me take care of you, Mr. Sheng,” Hua Yong said, voice shaking. “Come home. Let me keep you alive.”

Sheng listened, unable to find words that wouldn’t make it worse. When he finally spoke again, it was barely audible. “You should rest, Hua Yong. Please.”

The line went dead.

Hua Yong stared at the phone in his hand until the screen dimmed.

Chang Yu stood by the door, helpless. “Boss…”

Hua Yong lowered the phone slowly, his voice barely a breath. “He’s going to kill himself trying to give birth to this damn baby.”

The call ended.

Sheng sat there for a long moment, the phone still pressed to his ear, the dial tone humming like static through the silence. When he finally set it down, his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

He drew in a slow breath and looked out the window. The skyline blurred against the glass, gray and shapeless. His chest ached– not from fear, but from the echo of Hua Yong’s voice.

He didn’t hear Chen Pinming knock.

“President Sheng?”

Sheng blinked hard and straightened, reaching for the nearest folder like he’d been working the whole time. “Yes?”

Chen stepped in, closing the door halfway behind him. The faint scent of ginger tea drifted from the takeout cup he carried, sharp and clean. “I thought I heard you talking. Everything alright?”

Sheng nodded once. “Fine. Just a personal call.”

Chen lingered. “Hua Yong?”

Sheng’s jaw tightened. “He knows. About the pregnancy. I don’t know how, but he knows.”

For a heartbeat, Chen froze– but the concern that followed was smooth, measured. “How… how did he find out?”

“He didn’t say.”

Chen blinked, and then, “What did he say?”

“That I shouldn’t do this again. That he doesn’t want me to bleed to death.”

Chen frowned. “No one wants that, sir.”

“I survived it.” Sheng forced a smile, his fingers tracing the edge of a report. “I’ll survive this, too.”

Chen shifted his weight, resting a hand on the desk for balance. “What if… he tries the worst…?”

Sheng’s tone hardened. “He won’t. No one’s taking my daughter from me, even if I have to hide her until the day she’s born.”

Chen nodded slowly, his expression unreadable but soft at the edges. 

“Let’s keep this quiet for now,” Sheng said. “I don’t want any problems.”

“Of course, sir.”

Sheng’s gaze drifted to the window. “I’ve decided to reassign Jiang Liya. Hua Yong’s tried to kill her twice already. If he finds out she’s still under my supervision, it could set him off again. My marriage is already hanging by a thread.”

Chen blinked, startled but quick to recover. “With respect, sir, moving her now would draw attention. People already talk about the incident. Now that we all know Mr. Hua is out of the hospital, any sudden transfer would only stir it up again.”

“I don’t care about whispers, I care about my family,” Sheng said, his voice rising, brittle. “Hua Yong almost ended up arrested because of my actions. If he finds out she’s still here, still working under me, he could take it out on her again. I can’t let that happen.”

“I understand,” Chen countered, still calm but a note of urgency seeping through. “But keeping her here means you know where she is. If she leaves, you lose sight of her– and you know what Mr. Hua is like when cornered.”

Sheng’s eyes narrowed. “You’re fighting awfully hard to keep her here. What’s it to you? She doesn’t even do real work half the time.”

For a heartbeat, Chen froze. Then: “Everyone does the work they can, sir. She’s capable. Reliable. We need that right now.”

“She’s a liability,” Sheng said. “And I’m tired of managing liabilities.”

Chen didn’t move, but his voice softened just enough to feel deliberate. “If she goes back to her old job as a docent, she won’t be able to pay off the loan for her daughter’s surgery. You approved that yourself.”

Sheng looked away, guilt flickering across his face before hardening again. “You're overstepping your bounds, Secretary Chen. What's gotten into you?”

Chen hesitated, then added quietly, “If I may, sir… I’ll be requesting a leave of absence soon. For a month. Since Secretary Jiang already has clearance for internal meetings, I was going to suggest she could serve as my temporary replacement while I’m gone.”

Sheng looked up sharply. “Time off?”

“Yes, sir. Just– personal reasons.”

“Personal,” Sheng echoed, voice flattening. “When are you leaving?”

“In seven weeks.”

“Seven weeks?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s awfully specific.”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“And you didn’t think to mention this before?”

Chen’s fingers tightened around the edge of his laptop. “It wasn’t finalized yet. And I also wanted to make sure the department wouldn’t be disrupted by my absence, so I thought–”

“You mean my department, that you would be disrupting,” Sheng corrected. “You want to hand my schedule– my life– to a woman who I’ve allowed to help destroy my marriage? Someone who could still be a target for my lunatic husband?! Someone I need to leave my life?!”

“With respect,” Chen said, careful but firm, “this would keep things stable while I’m away. She already understands your calendar, your workflow–”

“I don’t care what she understands,” Sheng snapped. “You’re asking me to let her step into your place without even telling me where you’re going. What are you hiding, Chen Pinming?”

For a heartbeat, Chen’s composure faltered. He shifted subtly, the laptop he’d been holding angled a little higher– just enough to cover the lower half of his torso, the edge of his blazer pulling forward with the motion.

Sheng caught the movement, his frustration twisting into suspicion. For a moment he almost pressed– almost asked what could possibly be so private– but the answer in Chen’s posture was the same one he’d seen a hundred times before: quiet, defensive professionalism.

When he spoke again, his voice was smooth, professional, practiced. “I’m not hiding anything, sir. It’s private, that’s all. You’ll be informed of all arrangements before I leave.”

Sheng’s eyes narrowed, the silence between them stretching thin.

Chen didn’t look away. He only adjusted his grip on the laptop, a quiet barrier of metal and glass between them, and waited.

“Private,” Sheng repeated, his pulse hammering. “You’re supposed to be my right hand, and you think I’ll just accept that answer?”

“I– I’m sorry, I just–”

“Why is she so damn important to you? You didn’t want her around in the first place!”

“Her husband left her, sir,” Chen said quickly.

“What?”

Chen nodded. “Right after she was released from the hospital. Mr. Zhou took their daughter and left. She doesn’t know where they are. She just puts money into their bank account.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Their daughter had to have surgery due to her high intolerance of pheromones,” Chen said. “Look, I’m not saying it’s right for her to be here…” He trailed, thinking for a moment. “But she and I… we’ve become friends.”

“Chen Pinming…” 

The air shifted– warm, electric, heavy. Orange blossom pheromones flooded the office, sharp and commanding. Even the air vents seemed to hum with it.

Chen didn’t speak. Sheng saw his throat move once, a single swallow, before he nodded– quick, tight.

“Please, sir,” Chen choked out, his breathing becoming erratic. “I’m asking you. As a friend and a colleague. I promise I’ll keep her and her green apples away from you. I just… it’s not right letting her go right now. I can take her on as my responsibility. Please… President Sheng. Please.”

Chen started coughing, and Sheng immediately stopped the flow of his pheromones.

“I don’t even understand this,” Sheng said. “This is such an uncharacteristic fight from you.”

“I know,” Chen said.

Shen took a beat, but finally: “I’ll allow her to stay, but only because you're going to leave. But she's gone as soon as you get back. Don’t let her leak pheromones at work anymore. Move her to your office and train her on a real job. Create one if you have to. I’m not paying her to do nothing anymore. I don’t want Hua Yong ever walking in here and smelling her again. He’s out of the hospital and I don’t need nor want her anymore.”

“I will, sir. I promise.”

Sheng didn’t respond. He sat there, jaw locked, feeling the weight in the air begin to ease as Chen turned and left. The door clicked shut, soft but final, leaving behind only the faint ghost of ginger tea and dominance.

Sheng stayed still for a long moment, staring at the door he’d closed behind him. Then he looked down at his hands– still trembling– and pressed them to his abdomen.

“Xinxin, don’t worry,” he murmured. “I’m going to fix this and get our family back together. Somehow.”

“So,” Gao Tu was saying evenly, “all client correspondence is filed under the fiscal quarter of the first meeting, not the contract date. We use numerical prefixes– Q1 through Q4– then sub-folders by department.”

Mia scribbled fast, tongue caught between her teeth. “So if someone signed in July, that’s Q3, even if accounting processes it later?”

“Exactly.” Gao Tu tapped the column on the spreadsheet open on the screen. “And always duplicate your uploads to the shared drive before printing. President Shen hates hard-copy errors.”

She nodded. “Right. Upload, confirm, then print.”

“Good.” He allowed himself the faintest smile. “Once you memorize the pattern, it’ll feel automatic. You’re picking it up quickly.”

Mia beamed a little. “You’re a really patient teacher, President Gao. President Shen usually just sighs at me.”

“That’s because he’s efficient,” Gao Tu said, a trace of amusement in his tone. “Efficiency isn’t the same as cruelty. You’ll learn that.”

He reached over to straighten the stack of forms she’d just collated. “And these– color tabs by project type. Blue for R & D, green for distribution, yellow for external audits. If you mix them up, President Shen will have a fit.”

Mia winced. “He actually notices tab colors?”

“Always.” Gao Tu shut the folder neatly. “Attention to detail keeps people calm. Including him.”

The gentle rhythm of instruction settled the room– paper sliding, pens clicking, the low hum of the air system overhead. It almost felt peaceful.

Then came the knock.

“Come in,” Gao Tu called out.

“President Gao,” Qin said from the doorway, smiling. “You have a visitor.”

Gao Tu glanced up, polite but distracted. “Who is it?”

Before Qin could answer, someone brushed past him.

“Gao Tu.”

The sound of his name stopped everything.

That voice– smooth, deliberate, familiar enough to make his stomach twist.

Gao Ming.

Gao Tu froze, his pulse going still for a second before racing ahead too fast to catch. He stood automatically, the practiced calm of years slotting into place. 

“President Gao,” Gao Ming said, holding out a bouquet of flowers.

Irises.

When Gao Tu didn’t grab the irises right away, Mia straightened beside him, startled but polite, and took them from Gao Ming, who had stepped in a bit closer.

“It’s been a long while,” Gao Ming said. He didn’t look at Mia or Qin, only at him. “I was nearby. I thought I’d take my favorite child to lunch.”

Child. His mind caught on the word like it had teeth.

“I’m afraid I have a full schedule,” Gao Tu replied, forcing the syllables through a dry throat. His fingers tightened around the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening.

Qin chuckled. “We can move your 1:30 meeting, President Gao. It’s just an internal follow-up.”

“Yeah,” Mia smiled brightly, oblivious. “He just said it’s been a while… you two can go catch up.”

They meant well. They had no idea what they were doing.

Gao Tu rose from his chair automatically, smoothing his jacket like armor. “Dad,” he said, his soul not even wanting to spit the word out, “you should have called. I have a full schedule today.”

Gao Ming stepped inside as if he owned the office, eyes sweeping over the polished desk and tidy folders. “And yet you still make time for everyone else,” he said lightly. 

“This isn’t a good time,” Gao Tu said, forcing the calm back into his tone. “If this is about business, please contact our legal department. If it’s personal, then–”

“It’s personal.” Gao Ming’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Lunch. There’s a place near the river– quiet, private. We can talk properly.”

“Oh, nonsense.” Gao Ming straightened his cufflinks, the faint metallic click loud in the quiet room. “You can spare an hour for your family. Maybe afterward we can pick up Xiao Lele from school. I’d like to visit my grandson, after all.”

The sound of Lele’s name landed like glass shattering inside Gao Tu’s chest. His hand froze on the desk; the other tightened into a fist so hard his nails left crescents in his palm.

How did he know Lele’s name?! Who has he been talking to?!

Get my child’s name out of your despicable mouth!

The words hit like a fist to the gut.

For a second, Gao Tu couldn’t breathe.

Every nerve screamed to say no– to run, to hide, to get Lele somewhere safe.

Gao Tu’s pulse pounded in his ears.

At least this way, he thought, he could keep control. If Gao Ming already knew where Lele was, going with him might be the only way to protect his son.

He’d give Gao Ming every bit of money he had in his bank account if it meant Lele was safe.

He forced a breath, shaping it into something that sounded almost calm. “All right,” he finally said. “A meal. Then I have to return to work.”

Gao Ming’s smile returned, slow and satisfied. “Good boy.”

The words scraped like sandpaper against Gao Tu’s skin, but he only nodded, already reaching for his jacket with hands that wouldn’t quite stop shaking.

As they left the office, Gao Tu caught a glimpse of Mia fussing with the irises, humming, and Qin back on the phone, oblivious. Neither noticed how tightly he clutched his briefcase strap.

I’ll go. I’ll keep him calm. I’ll make sure he doesn’t go near the school. As long as he doesn’t go anywhere near Lele… it’ll be fine.

But even as he followed Gao Ming down the hallway, his hands trembled. Because deep down, he knew nothing about this was fine.

The apartment was too quiet.

Hua Yong had turned off every light hours ago, but sleep wouldn’t come. The silence felt alive– pressing in from the corners, whispering in the hum of the refrigerator, the tick of the clock.

He paced through the dark, every step echoing too loud against the tile.

The city outside was a smear of wet lights through the window, the world going on as if he hadn’t just fallen apart.

On the table, his phone glowed faintly. We’re fine. Please rest.

Fine.

He let out a bitter sound– half laugh, half choke. “Fine,” he repeated to no one. “That’s what you said last time, too. You were fine right up until they dragged me out of that hallway and told me they couldn’t stop the bleeding.”

He turned away, pressing a hand to his chest, pacing faster now. “Do you even remember what that sounded like? The alarms? The nurses screaming for help?” His voice cracked, rising, trembling. “I do. Every night, I hear it again.”

The phone buzzed once– just a calendar reminder. Hua Yong snatched it up anyway, thumb hovering over Sheng’s name. But he didn’t call.

Instead, he whispered, “You’re doing it again, aren’t you? Working yourself to death. Pretending you’re untouchable. You think carrying that child is bravery?”

He laughed again, softer this time. “No, it’s suicide with better manners.”

The words hit the empty room and fell flat.

He walked to the counter, picking up one of Sheng’s old mugs still sitting by the sink. Clean, unused, porcelain cold against his palm. “You’d hate seeing me like this,” he murmured. “You’d tell me to calm down. To get some sleep.”

He stared into the cup like it might answer him. “But you never listen when I tell you to rest, do you? You always have to prove something. Prove that you can survive again.” His jaw trembled, and the venom in his voice broke open into raw fear.

“You can’t keep surviving forever, Sheng. One day your luck’s going to run out.”

He set the cup down hard enough to crack the handle.

“I told you I’d protect you,” he whispered. “Even if you hate me. Even if you leave me. But you don’t get to die.”

The lights from the city flickered across his face– gold, then blue, then gone.

He rose slowly, walking toward the bedroom, the phone still in his hand.

The sheets were cold when he lay down. He placed the phone on the empty pillow beside him, screen facing up, as if the faint glow were someone breathing next to him.

His voice broke in a whisper. “You promised me you’d survive,” he said to the empty room. “Don’t make me a liar again.”

The hotel suite was dim except for the slice of city light slipping through the curtains.

Peanut lay curled under the blanket, his plushie beside him, his breathing soft and steady.

Sheng sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. The city outside murmured faintly– cars, wind, the dull hum of life that didn’t care he’d torn his own apart.

The ache in his body wasn’t new. It wasn’t even sharp anymore, just constant– a deep reminder that the world hadn’t stopped spinning while he tried to keep it from falling apart.

His gaze drifted toward the window. The skyline blurred in the glass, all silver edges and motion. Somewhere out there, Hua Yong still waited in that apartment– probably angry, maybe hurt, but alive.

“Xiao Hua Sheng,” he whispered. The words hung in the air, raw and unsteady. “I need to get you out of here. We'll go find Father tomorrow. But tonight… we’ll sleep peacefully.”

He leaned forward, pressing a hand against the base of his spine as another small cramp tightened. He breathed through it, jaw set.

The ache subsided slowly, leaving only exhaustion. He glanced toward Peanut’s sleeping form, his voice softening.

“Don’t worry, Xinxin,” he murmured. “Nothing’s going to happen to us. Father is going to love you as much as he loves your big brother. We just need to get you here.”

He lay back, his hands cradling his unborn daughter, and stared up at the ceiling. The decision settled heavy but certain in his chest.

Tomorrow, he and Peanut would go home. And he knew Hua Yong would be waiting for him.

The house was spotless.

That was what pissed him off most.

Not the silence, not the ache in his ribs when he moved too fast– just the damn neatness of it all.

The counters gleamed. The floor looked freshly polished. Every mug in the cabinet faced the same way. Even the faint scent of citrus cleaner hung in the air, sharp and sterile.

A house with no life in it.

Shen sat on the couch with his coffee gone cold, watching the sunlight crawl up the wall until it reached the clock. Almost noon.

Noon meant Lele was at school by now, probably drawing something bright and ridiculous, or talking to one of his little friends at lunchtime. He could just picture it.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, scrolling through his phone.

Every message from Gao Tu was neat, professional, safe.

“Meeting rescheduled for 3 p.m.”

“Quarterly review sent to your inbox.”

“Please rest, President Shen.”

The politeness of it made his teeth grind.

He’d tried to be patient. He’d offered to meet halfway, to start small.

Dinner, maybe. Just the three of us.

Lele would like that, wouldn’t he?

He’d said it a dozen ways, phrased it softer every time.

He’d invited them to the park once, even called the driver himself so Gao Tu wouldn’t have to worry about parking.

Then a Saturday lunch. A Sunday walk.

Each time, Gao Tu turned him down with the same quiet apology.

Gao Tu’s “schedule was full.” Lele was “worn out.”

All excuses.

All lies.

He could hear Gao Tu’s voice now, that maddening calm: You should focus on recovery. Don’t push yourself. We’ll talk soon.

Soon. That word had started to sound like a threat.

He turned toward the side table, where a single photo frame stood facedown. He hesitated, then lifted it. Behind the glass, the gray blur of an ultrasound gleamed faintly in the morning light.

That was all he had of his own child…

One frozen image of a child, for a long time, that he’d never met.

He traced a finger along the warped edge of the photo, remembering the day Gao Ming had handed it to him, explaining in a low voice that it was “proof” that Gao Tu was a pregnant Omega. Shen hadn’t been able to throw it away since. Sometimes he carried it in his coat pocket; sometimes he left it by the bed. Lately it lived here, where he could look at it every morning and tell himself it meant something.

He’d tried to give them space. He really had. But space just made the silence louder.

And now?

Now Gao Tu was sitting in his chair at his office, playing the part of the perfect employee, pretending Shen didn’t exist while keeping his son away like some dirty secret.

Something in his chest snapped.

He stood abruptly, pain flaring under his ribs but not enough to stop him. The coffee cup hit the table harder than he meant it to, sloshing cold liquid across the surface.

He didn’t care.

“Enough,” he muttered.

He crossed the room, grabbed his jacket off the hook, and checked his reflection in the mirror. The man staring back at him looked pale, tired, furious.

Good.

“Hide behind my job all you want,” he hissed under his breath. “You can keep my office, but you don’t get to keep my son.”

He shoved his arms into his jacket, snatched his car keys off the counter.

And the slam of the door behind him felt good. Final.

By the time he backed the car out of the driveway, the sky had already begun to darken.

Rain spattered across the windshield, slow and deliberate, until the city blurred in streaks of gray.

The pounding came just after two.

Three hard knocks– sharp, deliberate.

When Hua Yong opened the door, Shen Wenlang pushed past him without a word, fury and panic trailing like static.

“Good afternoon,” Hua Yong said dryly, shutting the door. “Are we skipping basic manners now?”

Shen ignored him. He paced the room like a caged thing– coat half-zipped, hair disheveled, eyes red from sleeplessness.

“He’s ignoring me,” Shen muttered. “Won’t answer, won’t let me see Lele. I’ve called, texted, begged– nothing.”

“Ah.” Hua Yong leaned against the counter. “Problems with your wife?”

Shen’s glare snapped up. “Shut up.”

“Fine,” Hua Yong said, amused. “We’ll pretend that’s not the issue. Idiot.”

Shen exhaled sharply. “I’m trying to fix it and Gao Tu won’t give me the chance!”

“So you show up at my home, right when I’ve gotten out of the hospital, to yell at me about it?”

Shen stopped pacing, voice rising. “He’s keeping my son from me. My own son. And I don’t even know if he’s planning to disappear with him again after I get cleared to go back to work!”

“This could have been a phone call.”

Shen slammed his hand against the wall. “Damn it, Hua Yong! Can’t you just be my friend for one fucking minute?!”

Before Hua Yong could reply, Shen’s phone rang. The screen lit up with a call from HS Group.

He hit the speaker icon, voice clipped. “Shen Wenlang.”

“President Shen,” Chief Secretary Qin’s voice came through, tight and uneasy. “I’m sorry to call unexpectedly, but Heci Hospital just contacted the company. President Gao was admitted about twenty minutes ago.”

Shen froze mid-stride. “Admitted? Why?”

“They didn’t specify, sir– just that he was found unconscious. Security confirmed he left the office earlier today with his father and never came back. The hospital said someone found him collapsed near the west transit station.”

“His father?!” Shen blinked. “Gao Ming shouldn’t be allowed into the building. I specifically banned him for life three years ago!”

Hua Yong’s expression darkened, his posture straightening as Shen’s hand tightened at his side.

“There was no alert when he was checked in,” Qin said quickly. “I double-checked with reception. We had no idea he was a security risk, sir.”

“We’ll figure that out later.” Shen’s voice dropped low. “Was Lele with him?”

“No, sir,” Qin said quickly. “The school confirmed Lele is still there. His nanny’s been notified and will pick him up at dismissal.”

Shen pressed his hand to his chest, forcing a breath. “Good. Keep it that way.” Then his tone hardened. “Qin, pull every security record from this morning. Visitor logs, access badges, entry camera feeds– everything. Gao Ming would’ve needed clearance to get into the office and I need to know how he managed it. He should not have been allowed through the door, let alone anywhere near Gao Tu. I want names, times, footage. Now.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And keep the breach internal,” Shen added. “No one outside executive staff hears a word until I say so.”

“Understood.”

The call ended.

For a long moment, the room was silent except for the low hum of rain against the windows.

Shen stared down at the phone, the reflection of his trembling hand in the glass. “He’s in the hospital,” he said finally. His voice was flat, but the edges shook.

“I heard,” Hua Yong said quietly, already reaching for his jacket.

Shen blinked. “You don’t have to–”

“Shut up,” Hua Yong interrupted. “I’ll have my driver take us. Come on.”

Shen hesitated, then nodded, slipping his phone into his pocket. “I can’t lose him again, Hua Yong.”

“You won’t,” Hua Yong said, his tone gentler but firm. “We’ll make sure of that.”

Shen didn’t answer– he just followed, heart hammering in his chest as the rain swallowed the sound of the closing door.

Outside, the storm was heavier now, soaking through Shen’s coat as they crossed the parking lot. Hua Yong unlocked the car, and Shen climbed in silently, staring straight ahead.

Neither of them spoke as the city blurred past, headlights slicing through the rain.

Chapter Text

Rain hammered the awning outside, spilling through the open doors as Shen pushed inside. His coat was soaked through, his breath uneven.

“I’m looking for Gao Tu,” he said to the clerk, voice too loud. “He was brought in less than an hour ago. He’s– he’s my– ”

Hua Yong’s hand came down gently on his shoulder. “His Omega,” he said, finishing it for him. The tone was low but certain, the kind people didn’t question.

“Gao Tu is my Omega,” Shen said, scared but proud. “If he's hurt, he needs my pheromones. I should be on his access list, too.”

The clerk blinked, checked the screen, then pointed toward the elevators. “Fourth floor, end of the hall. Trauma ward.”

Shen didn’t wait for the rest. The echo of their steps followed them up the stairwell– Hua Yong just behind, umbrella dripping onto the tile.

When they reached the ward, a nurse stepped out, clipboard in hand. “Family?”

“He’s my Omega,” Shen said before Hua Yong could. “What happened?”

“The attending will explain,” she murmured, and moved aside.

Gao Tu lay half-turned on the bed, skin mottled with bruises the color of stormwater. His hair clung to his forehead, still damp. A cut marked his lip, gauze trailed from one wrist.

For a second Shen thought he was just sleeping– somehow, impossibly, sleeping through all this noise. Then the monitors registered: heart rate too high, oxygen low– and the thought broke.

His stomach turned. The air felt too thin, the kind that hums inside your ears when your body’s trying not to fall apart.

He’d seen blood before, but only in controlled ways– accidents sanitized by distance. A cut above his eye once from broken glass, a nosebleed at a meeting that made everyone look away until it stopped. He’d never seen it like this– raw, uncontained, staining the sheets of someone he loved.

This was different. This was Gao Tu.

The reality of it hit with the kind of force that made his knees lock.

He took a step forward, stopped himself, then another.

“Gao Tu,” he whispered, as if the name might undo the damage, call him back.

Hua Yong hovered near the door, saying nothing for once.

Shen’s throat ached. He reached out but couldn’t make himself touch him. His hand hovered over the blanket like he could protect him from the memory of what happened just by being near.

He’d loved Gao Tu quietly for so long that it had turned into something he no longer knew how to name. Not romance, not pity– just that unbearable pull toward someone he could never stop worrying about.

A breath escaped him that sounded almost like a sob.

Hua Yong shifted closer, voice cautious. “He’s alive, Wenlang.”

But the word alive didn’t feel like enough.

The monitor’s green line tremored with each beat. Shen followed it with his eyes until it blurred, until all he could see was the rhythm of it, fragile and stubborn, refusing to stop.

If he dies, I won’t survive it either.

Hua Yong’s reflection flickered in the window. “He’s stable,” he said quietly, though the words were more wish than fact.

Shen was staring at Gao Tu’s hand, limp under the gauze, the faint pulse at the wrist that proved he was still here.

Hua Yong moved a step closer. “Wenlang.”

“I called him,” Shen said finally. The words came out thin, strangled. “When Gao Tu disappeared, I called Gao Ming. I thought if I could just talk to him, he’d tell me where Gao Tu was. I didn’t know what kind of man he was.” Shen’s throat tightened. “I asked him to arrange a meeting. He did. He brought Gao Tu to the restaurant without telling him I’d be there.”

The rain hit harder against the window, filling the pause between sentences.

“He told me Gao Tu was pregnant,” Shen continued, voice breaking. “I didn’t even know he was an Omega until you told me. I didn’t even consider that Gao Tu was the pregnant Omega when you said that, but it all came together when–” He stopped himself, pressing his fingers against his eyes. “Gao Tu said it wasn’t true, that he was a Beta. I wanted to believe him… wanted to believe that he wasn’t lying to me.”

Hua Yong’s expression shifted– something close to pity. “And Gao Ming?”

“He laughed.” Shen’s laugh was empty. “Pulled out medical records like they were proof of ownership. Said I was a ‘promising young man’ who didn’t need a child with questionable origins.” His voice cracked, shaking now. “Then he said– ten million to make Gao Tu get rid of the baby. Nothing less.”

Hua Yong’s jaw set. “You didn’t agree to it. You told me about that.”

“I said such stupid things. I got on his case about trust and… Gao Tu left for the restroom, and I–” He swallowed hard. “I stayed. I thought if I just stayed calm, he’d come right back and I could just talk to him. Apologize for being so stupid… tell him…” Shen paused, not continuing that thought.  “But I sat there and listened while that man talked about buying his own grandchild’s death. Hua Yong, I listened. For a split second…”

“For a split second, what?”

“For a split second… I considered it.”

“But you didn’t,” Hua Yong said. “Wenlang… you wanted that baby.”

“It didn’t matter what I wanted.”

He turned toward the bed again, every word trembling out of him. “Now look at him.”

Hua Yong didn’t reply right away. He looked at the bruises, the IV line, the steady climb and fall of the monitor. “You think Gao Ming did this?”

“I know he's responsible,” Shen said, barely above a whisper. “And I couldn't protect him. I thought I banned him from the building. I don’t know how he got in. And I don't know why Gao Tu would even go with him in the first place.”

The monitor beeped steadily, indifferent. A second, smaller sound pulsed just beneath it– something too fast to belong to one heart. Shen’s eyes flicked to the display, not yet understanding what he was seeing.

The door opened behind them. A man in a white coat stepped in, surgical mask lowered, chart under one arm.

“I’m Dr. Yin,” he said. “I was on duty when Mr. Gao was brought in.”

Shen straightened automatically. “How is he?”

Dr. Yin’s tone stayed even. “He was found collapsed behind an old cafe nearby, in the rain. Paramedics report he was conscious briefly but disoriented. He has multiple contusions and lacerations and evidence of restraint. We’ve cleaned and dressed the wounds.”

He paused, scanning the chart again before continuing more carefully. “There are also indications of sexual assault. We’ve taken samples for evidence and started him on prophylactic treatment. He’s sedated and resting now. Physically, he’s stable.”

The words fell with clinical precision, each one too light for what they meant.

“You mean… he was…?”

“Yes,” the doctor said bluntly.

Shen stared at him. “You’re sure?”

Dr. Yin nodded once. “The findings are consistent. We’ll continue running tests and see if we can learn more. We're hoping he can give us more information when he wakes up.”

Hua Yong exhaled slowly. Shen’s fists clenched until the knuckles whitened.

“Who did this to my Omega?” Shen asked finally.

“We don’t know,” the doctor said. “Security footage was compromised by the weather. He hasn’t woken up since arrival. If you can help the police fill in any missing details, it may help the investigation.”

Shen’s throat nearly closed up.

Dr. Yin closed the chart. “Whoever it was, they messed him up good. We're doing a tox screen, too.” He sighed. “Please alert us when he wakes up.”

The door clicked shut behind Dr. Yin, and the sound felt final.

Shen stood there, the words still hanging in the air, every one of them branded into him.

Sexual assault.

Prophylactic treatment.

Stable.

The word meant alive, but nothing else. Gao Tu had felt everything.

Hua Yong was the first to move, rubbing a hand over his face. “Wenlang…”

But Shen barely heard him. His eyes were locked on Gao Tu– on the way his chest lifted too shallowly, on the faint trembling of his fingers even under sedation. He wanted to reach out, to anchor him somehow, but the IV lines and sterile smell made him feel like an intruder in someone else’s tragedy.

“This is all my fault,” Shen said, his voice rough, half-swallowed. 

Hua Yong didn’t respond right away. He’d known Shen long enough to recognize when he was circling guilt like prey. “You didn’t know what was going on.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Shen snapped– then immediately softened, voice cracking. “He’s in there because of me”

He turned away, pressing both hands to his face, trying to breathe. The scent of disinfectant filled his lungs instead.

Outside, the rain pounded harder, heavy enough to drown the street below.

For a moment, the room was only sound– the rain, the hum of the fluorescent light, and the machines. Then something shifted in the rhythm of the monitors. A double pattern– faint, uneven, but there.

Shen froze. “Do you see that?”

Hua Yong frowned, stepping closer. “See what?”

“The heart rhythm,” Shen whispered. “There are two and one is going too fast.”

He pointed toward the monitor, to the smaller set of readings running just beneath the first– a faster, lighter pulse threading through Gao Tu’s own.

Hua Yong leaned closer, expression tightening as he followed the wires to a separate sensor clipped near the bed. Understanding flickered behind his eyes.

Hua Yong hesitated, then spoke carefully. “That’s a fetal monitor.”

Shen blinked, uncomprehending. “A what?”

“A fetal monitor,” Hua Yong said again, gentler this time. “They must have hooked it up after the assault screen.”

Shen’s eyes flicked to the readout– one steady line, one racing. “Fetal?”

Hua Yong stepped closer to the machine, his tone shifting into something clinical and practiced. “Babies’ hearts beat faster– anywhere between a hundred and fifty and a hundred eighty beats per minute. It sounds wrong until you know what it is.”

Shen just stared at him.

“When Mr. Sheng was pregnant with Peanut,” Hua Yong continued, voice quieter now, “he was in and out of the hospital for months. I used to sit by the bed and watch those same monitors. That high one–” He nodded toward the rapid pulse. “–that’s what kept me sane. The doctors said as long as it was fast and steady, the baby was fine.”

The smaller rhythm flickered on the screen–bright, insistent, alive.

“So that’s…” Shen couldn’t finish.

“That’s his child,” Hua Yong said simply.

For a long moment, neither spoke. Shen’s reflection trembled in the glass, washed out by the rain-light. He swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the monitor as if it might vanish if he blinked.

“He didn’t tell me,” he said finally, voice breaking apart. “Why didn’t he tell me he was pregnant?”

Hua Yong watched him, the practiced detachment gone. “Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he was trying to protect you– or himself.”

Shen pressed a hand over his mouth, shaking. “He shouldn’t have had to lie.”

The monitors kept talking for them: one slow and fragile, one impossibly fast.

The rain had stopped by the time Gao Tu stirred. The room smelled of rain, antiseptic, and exhaustion.

Shen sat in the chair beside the bed, jacket hanging over the backrest, eyes heavy and rimmed red. He’d been watching the rise and fall of Gao Tu’s chest for so long that the smallest movement felt like a hallucination.

Then Gao Tu gasped.

His whole body jerked as if he’d been dropped back into it. The heart monitor spiked, a warning pulse that jolted Shen upright.

“Gao Tu– hey, easy,” Shen said, reaching instinctively. “You’re in the hospital. You’re safe.”

Gao Tu’s eyes flew open, wild and unfocused. He tried to sit up, but the IV pulled taut. “No– no, don’t– stay away from me–!”

“Stop, stop, it’s me!” Shen pressed one hand to his shoulder, the other to the nurse call button. “You’re safe, do you hear me? Gao Tu, it’s me!”

Gao Tu thrashed weakly, breath coming in short, sharp bursts. The bruises on his neck darkened with the strain. “Where’s Lele?! They can't go anywhere near him!”

“He’s–” Shen started, forcing his voice steady even as his pulse roared in his ears. “He’s fine. He’s with his nanny, remember?”

“Where's my phone?!” Gao Tu cried out. He looked around, panicking. “My phone!”

And Gao Tu kept fighting, panic overriding logic. His hands clawed at the blanket, trying to tear the IV free. Shen caught his wrists before he could.

“Don’t– please don’t do that,” Shen murmured, voice cracking. “You’re hurt. You can’t move like this.”

The nurse burst in a second later, skidding to the bedside. “What happened?”

“He woke up– he’s panicking–” Shen said without letting go.

The nurse leaned in, checking Gao Tu’s pupils, murmuring something about sedatives. Gao Tu’s voice broke through the chaos– “Where’s Lele? Where’s my baby?” –and Shen’s heart nearly collapsed at the sound.

“He’s safe,” Shen said again, firmer this time, almost pleading. “I’ll call the nanny right now, okay? We’ll get Lele here. Just breathe, Gao Tu. Please.”

Gao Tu’s breathing stuttered; his strength drained almost as fast as it had come. His body sagged back against the pillows. Shen still had his wrists, still holding on, but now the grip was just to reassure himself that Gao Tu was real.

The nurse adjusted the IV line and glanced at Shen. “He’s stabilizing. Keep him calm. No loud noises.”

Shen nodded, unable to speak. His pulse was racing harder than either of the monitors.

“Where’s my satchel?” Gao Tu asked. “I need it! I need-”

“I'm sorry, sir,” the nurse said. “They didn’t bring any of your belongings.”

“They robbed you, too?” Hua Yong asked.

Gao Tu broke down in tears.

It took the nurse a few minutes to get him settled. She adjusted the IV, spoke to him in that low, practiced voice, reminded him where he was and that he was safe. Little by little, the fight went out of him. His breaths stopped coming in panicked bursts and eased back into something shallow but steady.

When she was satisfied, she checked the monitor once more. “If he gets agitated again, press the call button,” she told Shen, softer now. “Try to keep him calm. I’ll go get the doctor.” Then she slipped out, pulling the door mostly shut behind her.

The room fell quiet except for the machines. Shen let go of Gao Tu’s wrists slowly, his palms still shaking.

“I’ll call the nanny,” he said softly. “We’ll bring Lele here, all right?”

“No– give me your phone,” Gao Tu rasped, already trying to push himself up again. “I need Lele with me!”

“You don’t have your phone,” Shen said, glancing around the room to be sure. “It didn’t come in with you. Just tell me the number.”

“It’s He Lin,” Gao Tu said, too fast, like he was afraid he’d forget. He rattled off the number. His fingers twitched like he wanted to dial it himself, but they wouldn’t steady.

“You’re shaking,” Shen cut in, gentler this time. “If I call, you’ll talk over me. We’ll text, it’s faster.”

He opened his phone, typed the number in, thumbs moving quick: “This is Shen Wenlang. I’m with Mr. Gao. He was injured and admitted to Heci Hospital. Please bring Lele here as soon as possible.”

For a second nothing happened. Then the bubbles appeared.

“Understood. On the way.”

Shen turned the screen so Gao Tu could see. “Lele’s coming.”

Gao Tu sagged back against the pillow, eyes glassy, somewhere between pain and disbelief.

“He needs protection. Gao Ming can never find him!”

“We’ll figure it out,” Shen said. “You’re not alone in this. I’m right here.”

Gao Tu’s breathing hitched. He turned his face away, toward the sterile white wall. “You don’t understand!”

“Then tell me,” Shen said quietly. “Help me understand.”

Gao Tu shook his head, but the motion was small, like it cost him. His fingers twisted in the blanket. “You’ll hate me if I do.”

“Nothing you could ever say would make me hate you.” Shen’s voice cracked halfway through. “Please. Tell me what happened.”

The silence stretched. Only the hum of the monitors filled it.

Finally, Gao Tu spoke, barely above a whisper. “My father’s a gambler.”

Shen waited.

“He always was. When I was little, he’d lose everything– money, jewelry, even food– and my mother would find some way to pay it back.” He stopped, swallowed, tried again. “When there was nothing left, he made her…. he made her sell herself.”

Shen’s breath caught. “Gao Tu…”

“She told me never to tell anyone I was an Omega,” he continued, words tumbling faster now as if afraid they’d stop coming. “Said if he found out, he’d do the same to me. So I lied. I told everyone the inhaler was for asthma. I used suppressants until I couldn’t smell anything anymore. Until I didn’t know who I was.”

Shen felt the bottom drop out of his chest. “All this time…”

Gao Tu looked at him, eyes wet, unreadable. “You always said you hated Omegas. That they stunk. That’s why I never told you. I thought–” His voice cracked. “I thought you’d look at me the way you looked at them and I’d be out of your life for good.”

Shen blinked hard, the sting sharp behind his eyes. “I didn’t mean–”

“You hated them,” Gao Tu said quietly. “So you would’ve hated me.”

He turned away again, the line of his jaw trembling.

From the doorway came the quiet scrape of a shoe against the tile. Hua Yong had been standing there longer than either of them realized.

He exhaled through his nose, a sound that could have been patience or restraint. “I should go,” he said finally.

Shen turned toward him, still dazed. “Hua Yong…”

“I have something I need to take care of.” His tone stayed polite, almost casual, but there was a weight behind it–  something deliberate, purposeful. He looked once more at Gao Tu, then at Shen. “Wenlang, you and Secretary Gao have a lot to talk about.”

Before Shen could ask, he was already gone– the door easing shut with a quiet click that somehow felt heavier than any slam.

The latch caught softly, but the sound hit harder than it should have.

For a second Shen just stared at the door. Hua Yong’s calm lingered in the air like static, quiet and wrong. Something I need to take care of. The words looped once, twice, before fading beneath the louder hum in his head– monitors, breath, rain against the window.

He sank back into the chair by the bed. His hands wouldn’t stay still; they kept moving– over his knees, to the edge of the blanket, to the rail of the bed like he needed to hold on to something that wasn’t slipping away.

He should have said more. Should have done something. All this time he’d been angry that Gao Tu had lied, and now he knew why–  and the anger was useless, replaced by something heavier. Guilt, yes, but also a kind of grief he didn’t know how to name.

He looked at Gao Tu– his face too pale under the harsh light, eyes half-closed, lips cracked. Even now, bruised and broken, he looked the same as the man who used to lean in a doorway and make Shen forget entire conversations.

He reached out without thinking, fingers brushing a strand of hair off Gao Tu’s forehead. The skin beneath was warm, feverish. He didn’t flinch this time.

“I could have protected you,” Shen whispered.

Gao Tu’s eyes snapped open, sharp even through exhaustion. “Protected me?” His voice broke into a ragged laugh that didn’t sound like him. “You think anyone could have protected me?”

“Gao Tu–”

“There was no protecting me.” He turned his head away, breathing fast again. “My mother tried once. Then she left me with Gao Ming. Took Gao Qing and abandoned me. Said she’d come back when it was safe.” His voice cracked. “She never did.”

Shen froze.

“She died when I was nineteen,” Gao Tu went on, staring at the wall. “And I got custody of Gao Qing– sick kid with no one else. I couldn’t even afford her medicine most of the time. I couldn’t protect her either.” He gave a weak, bitter smile. “You see the pattern?”

The sound that left Shen wasn’t quite a word, just breath. He wanted to say something, anything that didn’t sound hollow, but nothing fit.

Gao Tu closed his eyes again, voice soft but final. “There’s no protecting me, President Shen. There never was.”

For a long time, neither of them spoke. Only the monitors filled the silence– two distinct rhythms weaving through the air, one fast and steady, the other fragile and uneven.

Shen tried not to look at it, but his eyes kept finding the small green numbers flickering at the edge of the display. He could hear it– the faint, separate pulse echoing beneath Gao Tu’s.

He swallowed hard. “Gao Tu…”

The name made him look up, tired and wary. “What.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what? About my dad? Because it didn’t matter–”

“It does matter, but that’s not what I’m talking about. Why didn’t you tell me that you’re pregnant?”

For a second Gao Tu only blinked at him, as if he hadn’t heard right. Then all the color drained from his face. “What did you just say?”

Shen motioned toward the monitor, then back at him. “A second heart rhythm. Hua Yong said that's the fetal heartbeat. It's really fast.”

Gao Tu frowned faintly, turning towards the monitor. The realization didn’t hit all at once; it crept in, slow and cold, spreading through his chest like ice.

He stared at the monitor, then down at himself, confusion twisting into dread. “Pregnant?” he whispered. “No, that’s not possible.”

“That’s not a fetal heartbeat?”

Gao Tu's hand lifted shakily to his stomach, pressing there as if he could prove the lie with touch alone. “No. I took the…”

Shen leaned closer. “Gao Tu?”

Gao Tu blinked hard, trying to focus, but his mind was skipping, flickering through half-memories–  the morning of Shen’s accident, the long hours at the hospital.

“The Yu Ting,” he breathed, voice cracking. “I was supposed to take it, after–” His throat tightened. “After that night.”

“Gao Tu?”

He swallowed, the words breaking apart. “But then… your accident– everything happened so fast– I never…” His hand fell back to the bed. “I didn’t. I never took it.” The sound of his breathing grew uneven again.

“Hey.” Shen leaned in, gripping his shoulders, steady but gentle. “Stop. Look at me.”

Gao Tu’s breathing went ragged again, faster now, tangled with words that barely made sense.

“I can’t–” He shook his head hard, hands twisting in the blanket. “I’ll have to find a new apartment and move Xiao Qing. And find another job, a better one– Lele still needs to be near his school–” His voice cracked. “Two kids? I can’t ask Xiao Qing for help again–”

“You’re not alone,” Shen said quickly, leaning closer. “You hear me? You’re not.”

But Gao Tu wasn’t listening. His mind was already spinning into terror. “What if they–” He swallowed, shaking harder. “What if they drugged me? What if it hurt the baby? What if something’s wrong?” His voice broke into a sob. “What if I ruined everything again?”

“Hey. Stop.” Shen’s tone softened, low but steady. “Breathe.” He slid one hand behind Gao Tu’s neck, the other over his trembling fingers, firm enough to anchor him. “You don’t have to do anything right now. You don’t have to run. You don’t have to fix it.”

Gao Tu’s chest still rose too fast. “You don’t understand–”

“I do,” Shen said quietly. “Because I’m going to be here. For you. For–” He hesitated, breath catching. “For our children.”

The words hit like a pulse through the air. He let his pheromones drift then– barely a whisper of irises, warm and clean, the same calm that used to make Gao Tu’s shoulders drop when they were still pretending not to care about each other.

Gao Tu blinked hard, the panic slowing just enough for breath to catch.

“That’s it,” Shen murmured. “Just breathe. No one’s going to hurt you again. Not him, not anyone.”

The fight went out of him in uneven waves, leaving only tears and exhaustion. The monitor steadied by degrees, two heartbeats syncing into something almost peaceful.

Footsteps in the hall pulled Shen’s head up. The nurse’s voice came first– soft, professional– followed by the shuffle of smaller ones.

“Visitor for Mr. Gao,” she said quietly from the doorway.

Shen stood as the door opened wider.

Lele darted in first, eyes wide and wet. Behind him came the nanny– He Lin, Shen remembered from the message. For some reason, he’d expected a woman. Instead, the figure in the doorway was a tall, composed male– early thirties, maybe– wearing a rain-dark suit jacket and holding a neatly packed overnight bag.

He had the kind of calm that filled a room without effort, the kind Shen instantly mistrusted.

He didn’t know whether to feel threatened or not.

“Mr. Shen?” He Lin asked politely. “I’m He Lin. Lele’s caretaker.”

Shen managed a nod, but his stomach turned in a way that had nothing to do with hunger.

Lele, already halfway to the bed, froze when he saw Gao Tu.

“Papa?” he whispered.

Gao Tu tried to smile, but it crumbled halfway. “Hey, Lele.” His voice was soft and hoarse, almost gone. “Come here.”

For a moment, Lele didn’t move– just stared at his father, at the gauze and bruises and IV lines he didn’t understand.

“Papa, what's wrong?” he whispered.

“Nothing at all,” Gao Tu said, forcing a smile through the strain in his face. “Come here, baby.”

Lele climbed carefully onto the edge of the bed, shoes squeaking against the floor. Gao Tu opened his arms, wincing a little as the IV tugged. The moment Lele leaned in, everything else– pain, fear, exhaustion– seemed to dissolve.

“I missed you,” Lele said into his father’s shoulder.

“I missed you too,” Gao Tu murmured, pressing a kiss into his hair. “So much.” His hand rested against the back of Lele’s head, trembling just slightly.

Shen stepped back a little to give them space, though every part of him wanted to stay close. The sight of them– the curve of Gao Tu’s hand against their son’s small back, the way Lele burrowed in like he’d finally found safety– ached somewhere deep in his chest.

He Lin lingered near the door, setting the bag down quietly. “I’ll take my leave,” he said, bowing his head. “I'll be available if you need me.”

Gao Tu nodded, too focused on Lele to answer properly. He Lin gave Shen a polite nod before slipping out, leaving the three of them in the quiet hum of machines and rain.

Shen watched the two of them, the steady rhythm of Lele’s breathing against Gao Tu’s shoulder. He wanted to say something– anything– but the words caught somewhere between his throat and his heart.

He thought of the second heartbeat still flickering on the monitor.

He wanted to be part of that world– not just the man standing in the corner, watching. He wanted to be there when their new child opened its eyes for the first time, wanted to hold Lele without hesitation, to see Gao Tu smile without pain. But for now, he could only stand in the glow of that small, fragile peace.

Lele stayed pressed against him for a long time, until his breathing steadied and his fingers loosened around the plush. Gao Tu brushed his hair back gently. “Hey,” he murmured, “did you eat?”

Lele shook his head without looking up. “Not yet. I was waiting for Papa. We’re going to eat fanqie chao dan.”

The words cracked something in Gao Tu’s chest. “You shouldn’t have waited for me.”

“I'm sorry, Papa,” Lele said softly.

Shen stepped closer, careful not to interrupt. “I can run downstairs and get him something from the cafe.”

Gao Tu hesitated, his voice already tired. “Thank you. And, ” His hand rested on Lele’s back, “we need to get him a bed for tonight. I don’t think both of us could sleep on this bed together. It’s too small.”

“There’s no need,” Shen said quietly. “I’ll take him home.”

Gao Tu looked up sharply, the instinctive panic flickering in his eyes. “No… I need him here with me. If they can’t make the bed work, I’ll just sleep on the floor.”

“You can’t sleep on these hard floors,” Shen interrupted gently. “You need to recover. Lele will be safe with me.”

Gao Tu’s expression softened, torn between trust and fear. His fingers lingered on Lele’s shoulder for a long time before he finally nodded. “Just for tonight,” he said quietly. “You’ll bring him back in the morning?”

“I will,” Shen promised.

Gao Tu exhaled, a small, shaky sound. He leaned forward and kissed Lele’s forehead, whispering something only his son could hear. Lele nodded solemnly and squeezed him tight one last time.

When Shen lifted Lele’s small overnight bag, he caught Gao Tu’s eyes again– dark, glassy, full of exhaustion and something unspoken.

“Get some sleep,” Shen said softly.

Gao Tu didn’t answer, but his hand reached out, just for a second, and brushed Shen’s sleeve– the smallest gesture of trust he’d offered in a very long time.

By the time they got back to Shen’s apartment, the rain had thinned to mist. Lele had eaten nearly all of the fanqie chao dan by himself– the rest gone cold in its container on the counter– and his hair was still damp from the bath Shen gave him, smelling faintly of the hotel soap he kept in the guest bathroom.

Now they sat on the couch, the TV casting a soft blue light across the room. Some late-night cartoon murmured in the background. Lele was curled up beside him, knees tucked under a blanket, eyes fluttering between open and closed.

After the cartoon had drifted into its ending theme, soft music filling the space where Lele’s chatter used to be. Shen barely noticed when the boy’s head began to tip against his arm– a small, heavy weight settling just below his shoulder.

“Hey,” Shen murmured, glancing down. “You awake?”

Lele made a sound that was mostly a sigh. His lashes fluttered once, then stilled.

The kid was out cold.

Shen froze for a second, afraid to move. Lele’s breathing was slow and even, his cheek pressed against Shen’s shirt, warm through the fabric. One of his small hands had found its way around Shen’s wrist, holding tight even in sleep.

For a man who could silence a boardroom with a look, Shen Wenlang had never felt so fragile.

He shifted just enough to pull the blanket higher over both of them. The city outside the windows was quiet– rain easing off into mist–  and for the first time in what felt like years, the world didn’t demand anything of him.

Lele stirred, mumbling something that sounded like “Papa,” before nuzzling closer. Shen’s chest tightened.

“Not yet, little one,” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair off Lele’s forehead. “Papa will see you in the morning.”

Lele sighed again, the sound small and trusting, and went still.

Shen leaned back into the couch, one arm still around him, staring at the faint reflection of the TV light in the window. He thought of Gao Tu– the tremor in his voice, the way he’d reached for him even through the fear. The way he’d said I didn’t take it like it was a confession instead of an accident.

Shen pressed his lips together and looked down at Lele again– at the peaceful rise and fall of his chest, at the wolf plush crushed against his ribs.

He didn’t know how he’d fix any of this. He only knew he wanted to.

When Shen opened his eyes, the blinds were pale with early light. His neck ached, the blanket had slipped half-off, and the faint smell of fried rice still lingered in the air.

Lele was awake. He sat cross-legged on the couch, wolf plush in his lap, hair sticking out like a crown of static.

“You didn’t sleep in your bed,” Lele said sleepily.

Shen rubbed his eyes, smiling faintly. “Guess not.”

Lele looked down at the plush, fingers worrying one of its ears. “Papa doesn’t always sleep in his bed either,” he said after a beat. “Sometimes he sleeps on the floor. When he’s really tired or when it’s cold, I give him my blanket.”

The words landed like a punch. Especially since Gao Tu’s bed was actually the living room couch.

Shen stared at him, throat tight, the ache in his chest expanding until he couldn’t breathe around it. He thought of Gao Tu– the exhaustion in his eyes, the bruises, the way he’d said there’s no protecting me.

For a long second, Shen didn’t move. Then he stood, quietly, and climbed onto the couch beside the boy.

Lele looked up, surprised, as Shen eased an arm around him. “Come here,” Shen murmured.

Lele didn’t hesitate. He leaned into him, small and warm, the wolf plush squished between them. Shen rested his chin lightly against the top of his head.

“Does Papa sleep better when you’re next to him?” Shen asked quietly.

Lele nodded against his chest. “Uh-huh. But my bed is too small. He doesn’t fit in it.”

“So he sleeps on the floor of your bedroom?”

Lele nodded again. “He brings his blanket and a couch pillow.”

Shen’s hand brushed through his hair once, slow and careful.  “Are you hungry?”

Lele nodded.

“What does your Papa usually make you for breakfast?”

“Congee,” he said softly. “Just rice congee. Sometimes, if it’s the weekend, I get half an egg too.”

Shen stopped halfway to the counter. “Half an egg?”

Lele nodded. “We share. Papa says eggs are expensive, so he cuts one up. I get the yellow part, Papa gets some white and Aunt Qing gets the other white part.” He smiled like it was something to be proud of.

Something twisted in Shen’s chest– quiet, sharp, almost physical. He looked at the boy– the open face, the trust– and tried to swallow the ache building in his throat.

“If you could have anything for breakfast,” Shen asked softly, “anything at all, what would you pick?”

Lele didn’t even have to think. “Fried dumplings,” he said immediately, eyes brightening. “The kind from the little shop near our house. They smell like garlic.”

Shen let out a slow breath that turned into a smile. “Fried dumplings it is.”

Lele blinked, surprised. “Really?”

“Really. Go get dressed,” Shen said, ruffling his hair. “We’re going out for breakfast.”

Lele slid off the chair, already grinning. Then he paused halfway to the hallway. “What about Papa?”

Shen hesitated– just for a moment– then smiled again, softer this time. “We’ll bring him breakfast too. Do you know how to put your clothes on by yourself?”

He nodded solemnly, hugging the wolf plush tight before running off to change.

Shen stayed where he was, staring at nothing in particular. A third of an egg. A third of an egg and a bowl of congee. He exhaled slowly, pressing a hand to his chest as if to hold something there before it cracked completely.

Shen had rushed them back to the hospital as soon as they were done eating. He carried the takeout bag in one hand, Lele in the other, the boy’s legs looped around his waist as they made their way down the corridor.

Lele’s wolf plush dangled from one hand, ears brushing against Shen’s coat.

“So,” Shen said, keeping his voice light, “what do you like to play with most? Robots? Cars?”

“Cars,” Lele said immediately, sitting up a little taller. “The red kind that goes fast. Papa bought me one from the street market– it used to make noise, but the batteries died.”

Shen smiled. “Do you race it?”

“Sometimes. But Papa says no racing in the house.” Lele grinned, sheepish. “So I make roads on the floor with my crayons. My cars can drive everywhere. Even to space!”

“Space, huh?” Shen asked, amused. “That’s pretty far.”

Lele nodded solemnly. “That’s why I need more cars. Papa says maybe I can get another car for my birthday.”

“Well, I guess we’ll find out soon, won’t we?”

Lele giggled, hiding his face in Shen’s shoulder, the wolf plush squished between them. It dawned on Shen at that moment that he didn’t even know his son’s birthday. And he just assumed he’d be four on that day, but second guessed that as well.

When they reached the door, Shen adjusted the takeout bag. “Think your papa’s awake yet?”

Lele nodded with certainty. “He always wakes up early. He says the morning doesn’t wait for anyone.”

Shen smiled. “Then let’s not make him wait, either.”

He pushed the door open gently.

The light inside was brighter now, sharp against the white sheets. Gao Tu was sitting up in bed, pale but awake. Two uniformed police officers stood near the window, their presence too heavy for the small room. One held a notepad.

Shen froze, instinctively tightening his hold on Lele. “What’s going on?”

Both officers turned toward him. “Mr. Shen Wenlang?” one asked.

Shen nodded, heart thudding. “Did you– did you catch the man who did this?”

No one spoke.

Gao Tu looked up. His voice was quiet, flat– the kind of steady that comes after you’ve run out of ways to feel.

“President Shen,” Gao Tu whispered.

“Gao Tu… what is it?” Shen asked, getting nervous. “Tell me.”

Gao Tu took a long breath. “My dad’s dead.”

Chapter Text

For a second, Shen didn’t understand the words. Dead was too heavy, too final. The room seemed to shrink around it, the sound of the monitors thinning to a hum.

“What?” His own voice sounded wrong– smaller than he meant it to be.

Gao Tu didn’t repeat himself. He just sat there, eyes fixed completely on Lele.

The older officer cleared his throat. “Mr. Gao’s father was found early this morning outside the stairwell at X Hotel,” he said. “Storm damage last night was severe. He appears to have collapsed while leaving the building.”

X Hotel. Shen felt the name like a pinprick under the skin but didn’t move.

“It appears he’d been drinking,” the older officer said. “The storm likely contributed– visibility was poor, pavement slick. He may have collapsed outside the stairwell while leaving the building.”

X Hotel. Shen felt the name like a pinprick under the skin but didn’t move.

“You don’t think he fell down the stairwell?” Shen asked quietly.

“No,” the older officer said. “The building’s cameras were down during the storm, but there were no signs of head trauma or foul play. It appears to be cardiac arrest due to alcohol poisoning, most likely. There were no scents of any of his pheromones, most likely due to the storm, though the coroner will confirm if there are any traces of them in his body.”

Gao Tu’s fingers tightened slightly on the blanket. “You’ll need to do an autopsy?”

“It’s standard procedure in unexpected deaths,” the officer said gently. “You can refuse, but if you do, you’ll never know what happened to your father.”

Gao Tu nodded after a long pause. “You can do it,” he said quietly.

Shen could hear the crack in his voice that didn’t make it to his face.

The younger officer handed over a card. “We’re sorry for your loss, Mr. Gao.”

They left soon after. The door shut softly behind them, and the silence that followed was too wide, too hollow.

Lele twisted in Shen’s arms, sleepy but alert. “Papa?”

Gao Tu looked up, his expression softening instantly. Shen stepped forward and lowered the boy into his arms. Lele climbed up against his chest, wrapping around him without hesitation.

“It’s ok,” Gao Tu murmured, voice shaking. “Everything is ok.”

Shen stood beside the bed, unsure whether to touch him or not. “You’re sure you want them to do that?”

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” Gao Tu said. “It’s what a son does.” He pressed his cheek to Lele’s hair, eyes closing. “It’s what’s expected.”

Shen didn’t argue. There wasn’t anything to say that wouldn’t sound selfish.

The door opened again. A doctor stepped in, clipboard in hand, his tone professional but kind. “Mr. Gao? I wanted to go over your results.”

Gao Tu’s eyes flicked to him, wary.

“Your toxicology screen is negative,” the doctor continued. “No sedatives, no drugs, nothing in your system that shouldn’t be there. You lost consciousness due to physical trauma and emotional exhaustion.”

Gao Tu hesitated, then asked quietly, “Am I really pregnant?”

The doctor’s expression shifted– surprise first, then concern. “You didn’t know?”

He shook his head. “No.”

The doctor hesitated, glancing briefly at Shen before refocusing on his patient. “Do you want to go over your options?”

Shen’s stomach knotted before he could stop it. Gao Tu’s silence stretched too long.

Then he said, softly but clearly, “No. I don’t need them. Can you just help me get started taking care of the baby?”

The doctor’s shoulders eased. “Of course,” he said. “We’ll have the nurse bring prenatal vitamins and schedule a follow-up.”

“Thank you,” Gao Tu murmured.

The doctor gave him a gentle nod and left, the sound of the door closing too loud in the quiet room.

Shen watched the line of Gao Tu’s shoulders, the way he curled protectively around Lele even in exhaustion.

“Thank you,” Shen said finally, without knowing why.

Gao Tu looked up, eyes tired but clear. “For what?”

Shen exhaled, his throat tightening. “I don’t know.”

Shen stood there, unaware of what to do next. The air felt wrong– too still, too clean. All he could think .of to do was to place the takeout on the table beside Gao Tu, then Gao Tu finally looked up at him

“You didn’t…” Gao Tu’s voice broke, barely more than a whisper. He glanced toward Lele, then back at Shen. “You didn’t have anything to do with this?”

Shen’s breath caught. “No.” He hesitated, the truth heavy in his throat. “But if I’d known what he was doing to you, I might have.”

Something flickered across Gao Tu’s face– shock first, then something softer, unreadable. He looked down at Lele again, smoothing a hand over the child’s hair. “I didn’t want this,” he said quietly. “I just wanted him gone.”

Lele mumbled something against his chest, half-asleep again, and Gao Tu’s hand lingered protectively over the small curve of his back. Shen couldn’t look away; it was the gentlest thing he’d ever seen.

The apartment was quiet when Sheng unlocked the door. Luggage was stacked at the door, just some suitcases and overnight bags that the driver had brought up for them, and Peanut, still half-asleep against his shoulder, blinked into the quiet.

“Hua Yong?” Sheng called.

No answer.

Peanut wriggled down and padded down the hall in his socks. “Hua Yong!” he shouted, bright and unbothered, voice bouncing off the walls.

Sheng followed the sound until he reached the bedroom– and froze.

Hua Yong lay across the bed still in yesterday’s clothes, jacket half-zipped, the pillowcase rumpled beneath him. The air was heavy with his pheromones, thick and metallic, pressing against Sheng’s senses until the world tilted.

“Hua Yong,” Sheng tried, hand over his mouth. The smell hit harder, electric and suffocating. His stomach lurched. He turned and bolted for the bathroom.

The retching sound was what woke Hua Yong. He sat up sharply, blinking through the haze, and was on his feet a second later. “Mr. Sheng?”

He stumbled toward the noise, instinct taking over, and found Sheng kneeling by the toilet, trembling, one hand gripping the edge of the sink. The scent followed him in, making Sheng gag again.

“Don’t– ” Sheng gasped, waving him back. “Too strong.”

Hua Yong stopped mid-step, realization dawning as he caught his own reflection in the mirror– rumpled, bruised, and drenched in the pheromone haze that clung to his clothes.

“Mr. Sheng,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I am so sorry.”

Sheng coughed once, wiped his mouth, and nodded weakly. The smell of pheromones still clung to the back of his throat, sharp as iron.

He turned on the shower immediately, the hiss of water filling the silence. “I’ll wash it off. Just– stay there, all right?”

Sheng coughed once, wiped his mouth, and nodded weakly. “Why the hell did you release oppression pheromones? It’s all over our bedroom now.”

Hua Yong paused with one hand on the sink. For a second, something hard flickered in his eyes. Then it was gone. “Someone tried to take something last night,” he said finally, voice low and deliberate. “Something that wasn’t his to touch.”

“Wait, what do you mean?” Sheng stared at him. “You were mugged? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Hua Yong said, picking up the thread without correcting him. “He wanted something I wouldn’t give him, and he got angry, so I handled it.”

“You used your pheromones on a mugger?” Sheng’s brow furrowed.

“He put his hands on me,” Hua Yong said, slipping his jacket off with deliberate calm. “My body reacted. I didn’t even realize how much until I got home.”

“He hurt you?,” Sheng said. “But you look fine.”

“I heal fast,” Hua Yong answered, turning toward the running water. His voice had gone low again. “You know that.”

“Hua Yong– ”

He peeled off his shirt, tossed it aside, and stepped under the spray. “Give me ten minutes,” he said over the water. “Then I’ll make breakfast.”

Sheng didn’t answer, still kneeling on the cool tile, heartbeat slow to settle. The sound of water hitting porcelain filled the room– steady, unbroken. Sheng sat there until the scent finally began to fade, but even then, something in it still felt wrong.

The water kept running. Sheng stayed on the bathroom floor a minute longer, breathing slowly until the world stopped tilting. When the smell finally thinned to something almost neutral, he pushed himself up and rinsed his mouth.

Outside, Peanut was humming to himself somewhere down the hall. Sheng followed the sound and found him in the kitchen, crouched on the counter, poking curiously at the control panel of the rice cooker.

“Hua Sheng– off.”

Peanut frowned and hopped down. “Daddy, I want to eat.”

“I know. Let me get the bags out of the hallway first, all right?”

The hallway was still cluttered with luggage. Sheng dragged the heavier suitcases inside, lined them up against the wall, then knelt to unzip one for Peanut’s toys. It felt almost absurd– after everything that had happened– to be unpacking socks and toothbrushes while the sound of the shower hummed through the apartment.

A few minutes later, the water stopped. Steam drifted from the bathroom doorway, followed by Hua Yong. His hair was wet, darkened to near-black, and the clean scent of soap replaced the metallic sharpness that had filled the air before.

Sheng straightened automatically.

Before he could say anything, Hua Yong crossed the room in three long strides, reached for him, and kissed him. It wasn’t rough, just urgent– like a man who’d spent the night outside of time and was afraid this moment might vanish, too.

Sheng stiffened in surprise, then let him hold on.

The kiss didn’t last long– just a few breaths, just enough to make Sheng realize how cold Hua Yong’s hands were. Then Hua Yong pulled back and rested his forehead against Sheng’s shoulder, holding him there for another quiet heartbeat before letting go.

He turned toward Peanut, who had migrated to the couch and was stacking toy cars in precarious towers. Hua Yong scooped him up easily.

“Hey, Little Peanut.”

Peanut squirmed immediately. “Hua Yong, leave me alone.”

Hua Yong’s mouth twitched into a faint smile. “Is that how you speak to your Father?”

Peanut wriggled harder. “I said leave me alone!”

Sheng couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped him.

With an exaggerated sigh, Hua Yong set him back on the floor. “Fine. You get your way.”

Peanut ignored him completely, already rummaging through the toy bag.

Hua Yong brushed a hand through his wet hair and looked back at Sheng. “You should rest. You still look pale.”

“I’m fine.”

“That’s not what your stomach said a few minutes ago.” His tone softened. “Sit down. I’ll make us something to eat.”

Sheng hesitated, then sank into the couch. Peanut was already spreading toys across the carpet in an expanding radius of chaos.

For a moment, everything was normal again– the muted clatter of toys, the soft hum of the refrigerator, the sound of Hua Yong moving around in the kitchen. It almost felt like coming home, except for the faint metallic scent that still lingered in the air.

The room had gone still again after the doctor left. Lele was half-asleep on Gao Tu’s chest, tiny fingers tangled in the hospital blanket. For a long time, neither man spoke.

“How are you feeling?” Shen asked finally.

“I’m fine,” Gao Tu said automatically. His voice sounded steady, but the color in his face betrayed him– too pale, lips still drawn tight with pain.

“You’re not fine,” Shen said quietly. “You haven’t been since I walked in here.”

Gao Tu gave a small, tired smile. “There’s not much they can give me for it. I don’t want to risk hurting the baby.”

“There are things that are safe,” Shen said. “They’d never prescribe anything that–”

“It’s fine,” Gao Tu interrupted, holding Lele a little closer. “It’s easier when my son is here.”

Shen didn’t argue. He just sat there, watching the rise and fall of Gao Tu’s chest, the way his hand absently rubbed slow circles over Lele’s back.

After a few quiet minutes, Shen stood. The chart was clipped to the foot of the bed, and before he could stop himself, Shen reached for the chart clipped to the foot of the bed, eyes scanning the lines automatically.

Diagnoses: Mild Pheromone Disorder / Closed Head Injury / Pregnancy / Post–Assault Recovery, ongoing.

His hand tightened on the metal railing, the paper blurring for a second before the words settled into meaning. The words hit him in pieces– too sharp, too clinical for what they meant. He exhaled slowly through his nose, tracing down the rest of the page until one absence caught him.

“Your asthma isn’t listed on here,” Shen said, frowning slightly.

Gao Tu’s head lifted. “What?”

“Your asthma. It’s not here. What if you have an attack?”

A flicker of something passed through Gao Tu’s eyes– too quick to name. “President Shen–” he said finally, the same too-even tone he used when he was cornered.

But Gao Tu was cut off when the door slammed open.

“Brother?”

Gao Qing stood in the doorway, still in her uniform jacket, hair pulled back but damp from rain. Her gaze fell instantly on Gao Tu’s bruised face, and all the air left her lungs.

“What happened?” She rushed forward, voice pitching high with panic. “Who did this to you?”

“I’m fine,” Gao Tu said quickly. “It looks worse than it is.”

“You’re not fine! Look at you!” She turned toward Shen, eyes sharp. “What happened to him?”

“I was attacked,” Gao Tu cut in before Shen could answer. His tone was calm, deliberate. “But it’s over now.”

“Does it hurt?” she asked, turning back to him.

“A little,” he said quietly, “but I can handle it.”

Her voice broke. “Who did this?”

Gao Tu hesitated, then exhaled. “You already know.”

For a moment she just stared, not understanding—then it hit her. Her hand flew to her mouth. “How many did he send?”

The question hung in the air, sharp enough to cut.

Gao Tu’s eyes didn’t lift from the blanket. “I didn’t count,” he said softly.

Shen froze. The meaning hit him like a punch to the chest—what she was really asking, what that answer meant. His stomach turned cold.

“He did the same thing to Mom,” Gao Tu went on, voice low, detached. “When he couldn’t pay his debts, he’d sell what he had left.”

Gao Qing’s breath shook. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What would you have done?” Gao Tu asked, almost gently. “You couldn’t have stopped him.”

Her hands were trembling. “You should’ve let me try.”

“You couldn’t have stopped them and you know it.”

Gao Qing sighed. “Didn’t they give you any pain medicine?”

“I can’t,” Gao Tu said quietly. “I’m pregnant.”

For a second, Gao Qing just blinked at him. Then her expression twisted—shock first, then horror. “Brother… no…” Her voice cracked. “Did they– did they hurt you before?”

Gao Tu’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“The ones who attacked you,” she said, voice shaking. “Is that why you’re pregnant? They’ve been doing this to you since you got here, haven’t they?”

“No,” Gao Tu said at once, eyes flashing. “It’s not like that.”

“But—”

“This was the first time anything’s happened in three years,” he said sharply. The words came out too fast, too raw, and the moment they left his mouth, the room fell silent.

Shen froze. Three years?

Gao Qing’s breath hitched. “Three years… brother, what are you saying?”

“I’m saying it’s over,” Gao Tu interrupted, quieter now. “And I’m not talking about it again.”

Her fury flashed through the tears. “Then who? Don’t tell me…” She trailed off, turning to Shen.

The air went still.

Gao Qing stared at him, stunned, then at Shen as though the room itself had gone wrong. “You– he– how could you?” Her voice broke into disbelief. “He was already hurt, and you still–”

“Enough,” Gao Tu said sharply. “It’s not what you think. Shen Wenlang didn’t hurt me.”

Gao Tu’s breathing had grown uneven, and Shen stepped forward automatically, but stopped when Gao Tu shook his head.

“Then what do you call this?” she continued, pointing toward his stomach. “What kind of Alpha traps someone like you with a baby–”

“Stop,” Gao Tu cut in, his voice rising for the first time. “He didn’t trap me. I knew what I was doing. I chose. He didn’t do anything wrong.”

The silence that followed was brittle.

Gao Qing’s lip trembled. “Brother, what have they done to you here? The second you’re released, we’re going home.”

Shen’s throat tightened. Part of him expected Gao Tu to agree– to nod, to follow her lead and disappear back into the world that didn’t include him.

But then a nurse appeared at the door. “Mr. Gao? We need to take you for some additional tests.”

“I’ll go with him,” Gao Qing said quickly, still glaring at Shen.

“That’s all right,” Gao Tu said. “They’ll bring me back soon. Can you stay here and watch Lele for me?”

“I can watch him,” Shen said quickly.

Gao Qing looked at Shen and blinked. “Brother, didn’t you get a nanny for him? We could call him.”

Gao Tu suddenly surprised both of them by saying, “Shen Wenlang is Lele’s Alpha father,” he said softly. “There’s no reason he can’t take him.”

Gao Qing’s mouth fell open, but Shen didn’t give her time to argue. He stepped forward, slid Lele gently from Gao Tu’s arms, and held him close. The words caught Shen off guard– soft, trusting, heavier than Gao Tu probably meant them.

“I’ll bring him back in a few hours,” he said.

Gao Tu nodded, eyes soft. “Thank you.”

Shen hesitated for just a moment longer– long enough to catch the faint smile that touched Gao Tu’s lips when Lele stirred in his arms– before turning for the door.

The smell of breakfast filled the apartment– porridge simmering low on the stove, noodles steaming, fresh buns crisping in the wok. The scent was warm and familiar, the kind of smell that usually settled Sheng down whether he wanted it to or not.

“I made porridge,” Hua Yong called over his shoulder. “It’ll help your digestion.”

“You know I hate porridge,” Sheng said, half-muffled by his sleeve.

That earned a faint smile. “That’s exactly why you need it,” Hua Yong replied without missing a beat. “You only eat things that upset your stomach. Someone has to balance you out.”

He stirred the pot again, slow and even. The scent of ginger rose with the steam– Sheng always grimaced at it. But that was the point. The things Sheng hated were always the things he needed most.

Sheng dragged himself upright, still bleary. “You sound like my doctor.”

“I should,” Hua Yong said easily. “He doesn’t carry our child, does he?”

Sheng’s mouth opened, closed again. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s true,” Hua Yong said, tone light but eyes sharp when he turned. “You skip breakfast, you overwork, and then you wonder why you end up sick. Eat. Just a few bites- for the baby.”

Sheng sighed but reached for the spoon anyway, muttering, “You’re impossible.”

“I’m consistent,” Hua Yong said, smiling faintly. “That’s better than impossible.”

Peanut climbed up onto the stool beside Sheng, already eyeing the buns. “I want that one.”

“Then eat that one,” Hua Yong said, still smiling. “But your daddy’s finishing his porridge first.”

“I am not,” Sheng muttered, but his voice had softened. He lifted the spoon anyway.

“Good,” Hua Yong said quietly. “Noodles for strength, buns for energy. Porridge for calm. You’ll thank me later.”

The phone buzzed on the counter. Hua Yong reached for it, glancing at the screen.

A message from Shen Wenlang.

“Can we talk? I’ve got Lele with me.”

He read it twice. The words blurred briefly, and for an instant, the memory of rain and a gasping voice flickered in the back of his head. He exhaled once, slowly, and turned back to Sheng.

“You should rest,” he said softly. “You’re running on fumes.”

“I can’t,” Sheng murmured. “There’s unpacking to do. Peanut’s things-”

“I’ll handle Peanut,” Hua Yong said immediately.

Sheng blinked. “You’ll what?”

“I’ll take him out to the park for a bit. You nap, then we can unpack when I bring him back.”

Sheng frowned. “You hate the park.”

“I don’t hate them,” Hua Yong said, smiling faintly. “I hate noise. Peanut’s the exception.”

At the mention of his name, Peanut perked up. “Park?”

“See?” Hua Yong said. “Even he agrees with me.”

Sheng hesitated, eyes narrowing. “You’ve been unpredictable lately. I’d rather not-”

“Not what?” Hua Yong’s tone softened, careful. “You think I’d do something to our child?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.” Hua Yong leaned forward slightly, elbows on the counter, voice lowering. “You’ve always had trust issues when it comes to him, haven’t you?”

The words landed like a weight. Sheng’s hand tightened around the spoon. “Maybe. But you’re right.” His voice gentled. “You’d never hurt him.”

Something eased in Hua Yong’s chest– relief, or maybe something closer to vindication. “Then it’s settled.”

He typed quickly.

“Got Peanut with me. We’ll take the kids to the park. Meet you in an hour?”

The reply came almost instantly.

“Sounds good. There’s one near the new bakery on Haijing Road.”

He pocketed the phone, ruffling Peanut’s hair. “Little Peanut, finish your bun– we’ve got plans.”

Peanut cheered, cheeks full. Sheng sighed, rubbing his temple.

“Try to relax,” Hua Yong said, brushing a hand along Sheng’s shoulder as he passed. “By the time we’re back, you’ll feel human again.”

He meant it. In a way.

Still, when the door shut behind them and the sound of their footsteps faded down the hall, he didn’t think about rest. He thought about Shen Wenlang waiting, and about how easily peace could vanish if someone didn’t control it.

The park was quiet that morning, the kind of quiet that lived between birdsong and wind. Shen stood behind the swing set, one hand on the chain, pushing gently. Lele’s laughter rang high and bright as the swing arced forward, shoes kicking at the sunlight.

“That’s a big building over there!” Lele shouted, pointing with both hands toward the skyline.

Shen followed the direction of his finger– glass towers catching the light, a whole row of apartments climbing toward the clouds.

“Those are apartment buildings,” he said.

Lele frowned. “No, they’re not. Apartments are small. Ours is really small.”

Shen almost laughed, but the sound never reached his throat. “These are bigger ones,” he said. “Some people live way up near the top.”

Lele’s eyes went round. “That’s scary.”

“It could be,” Shen murmured, but his mind had already drifted back– back to Gao Tu’s bruises, to the sterile smell of the hospital room, to the way his sister’s voice had cut through it all like a blade. 

You’re not fine. Look at you.

The rhythm of the swing steadied under his hands. He thought about the diagnosis sheet he’d seen, the quiet resignation in Gao Tu’s face. About the child he hadn’t even dared to imagine yet. And beneath all that, the ache of certainty: Gao Tu wouldn’t let him stay. Not forever. Not once the shock faded and reason took over.

Lele’s voice snapped him back. “Can we go higher?”

“Higher, huh?” Shen smiled faintly. “All right. Hold tight.”

He gave another push. The small hands gripped the chains, laughter bursting through the still air. Shen tried to hold onto the sound, to let it settle somewhere steady inside him.

he swing slowed and Lele let himself lean back, panting a little, hair sweaty at the temples. “Mr. Shen,” he said very seriously, pointing again, “if we had a big place like that one… then you, me, and Papa could all live together. Even Gugu.”

Shen froze.

“Even Gugu, huh?” he managed.

“Yeah!” Lele nodded hard. “She can have a room for her things. I’ll share mine if I have to.”

A smile tugged at Shen’s mouth despite the knot in his chest. “You’d really do that for Gugu?”

Lele nodded again, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Shen let his gaze drift toward the skyline again. A bigger place. Maybe that was it. Something with light, space, a place for them all to start over. 

If I find one, maybe it’ll help him stay.

Then, as quickly as the thought came, he realized the flaw. If he picked it, it would never feel like home to Gao Tu. He’d just be choosing another cage.

He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. “Maybe there’s another way,” he murmured to himself, and in the back of his mind, a small, quiet idea began to take shape.

“Daddy Wenlang!”

He turned. Peanut and Hua Yong were crossing the park, the boy dragging his feet, hand limp in Hua Yong’s. Even from here, Shen could tell Peanut wasn’t happy.

“Don’t want to,” Peanut muttered.

Hua Yong’s voice was steady, patient in that practiced way. “We’re already here.”

But the moment Lele waved from the swing and shouted, “Peanut! Come play!” the sulk vanished. Peanut wriggled free and ran toward him, shoes kicking up the dirt. The two boys collided at the base of the slide and began climbing with quick, clumsy energy.

Hua Yong stopped beside Shen, his expression unreadable. “You always get here early.”

“Habit,” Shen said, watching the boys climb. “Helps me think.”

“Dangerous hobby,” Hua Yong said quietly.

There was a brief, brittle silence. Shen could smell faint traces of Hua Yong’s soap and the faint metallic undertone that never quite washed away.

“How’s Gao Tu?” Hua Yong asked finally.

“Recovering,” Shen said after a pause. “He’s… stable.”

Hua Yong nodded once. “Good. He’s stronger than he looks.”

Shen hesitated. The words sat in his throat for several seconds before he let them out. “Why did you kill Gao Tu’s father?”

Hua Yong stilled.

The sound of children’s laughter filled the air again, distant and strange. For a moment, Shen thought he hadn’t heard him. Then Hua Yong turned, his face calm. Too calm.

“No one told me Gao Ming was dead.”

Shen stared at him. “You expect me to believe that? You don’t even sound surprised enough for me to believe that this is the first you’ve heard about it.” His jaw tightened. “The police think he died of a heart attack brought on by alcohol poisoning.”

For the first time, something sharp flickered in Hua Yong’s expression– half disbelief, half scorn. “Are you telling me I forced him to drink too much? I stuck a bottle down his throat?”

Shen exhaled slowly. “I’m saying that you might’ve found a way to make it look like an accident. Washed away the oppression pheromones–”

Hua Yong’s mouth curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “That’s creative. You think I control the weather now? That I conjured a storm to hide it, washed away his disgusting pheromone scent for convenience?”

“You knew it was pouring rain out–”

“Was it timed that well?”

Shen didn’t answer. The silence that followed was heavy enough to bend around them. Then he said quietly, “He sold his son. He deserved punishment, not–”

“Punishment?” Hua Yong’s tone stayed even, but his eyes had gone sharp. “You think men like that learn from punishment? Isn’t it better that he was just gone?”

Shen stepped closer. “You don’t get to decide who lives or dies. Didn’t you learn anything from Jiang Liya?”

“Wenlang.” Hua Yong’s voice cracked like a whip. “Do you think Gao Tu will ever be your wife if Gao Ming isn’t banished from his life?”

“That’s why you killed him? So Gao Tu would become my wife?”

“I never said I killed him–”

The sound cut off in an instant– a crash, a sharp cry.

Both turned. Peanut lay at the bottom of the slide, wailing, one shoe flung across the mulch.

Peanut was on the ground beside the slide, Lele crouched next to him, wide-eyed.

Hua Yong dropped to his knees instantly. “Peanut, hey, look at me.” His hands trembled as he checked the boy’s arms, his knees, his head. “He hit the ground hard,” he muttered. “I should’ve–”

Shen knelt beside him, touching his shoulder. “He’s fine. A small cut and some scrapes. He’ll be all right.”

For a moment, Hua Yong didn’t seem to hear. Then he blinked, seemed to remember something, and reached for the small satchel at his side. From it, he pulled a first-aid kit, flipping it open with steady hands.

“Let me see, Little Peanut,” he said softly.

Peanut sniffled but stayed still while Hua Yong dabbed ointment on the scrape, covering it with a bandage patterned in cartoon bears. “There,” he murmured. “Good as new.”

Peanut stared at the bandage, then at him. His bottom lip wobbled once more– and suddenly he was climbing into Hua Yong’s lap, pressing his face against his chest. “Father,” he whispered, small and sure.

Hua Yong froze. His breath caught, shoulders trembling as though the word itself had struck him. Slowly, he wrapped his arms around the boy, holding him close.

Shen watched them quietly. “You didn’t know he loved you that much, did you?”

Hua Yong blinked hard, a tear slipping free. “I… didn’t think he did,” he admitted hoarsely.

Shen shifted Lele in his arms. “Are you happy that you’re getting another one?” he asked softly.

Hua Yong’s gaze lifted. For a moment, it was unreadable– then something eased in his eyes, a weight loosening. “When something rotten dies,” he said quietly, “you plant something better where it fell. That’s how the world cleans itself.” He looked down at Peanut again, tracing a thumb absently across the boy’s hair. “But I’m scared,” he said after a moment, voice lower now. “What if this baby kills him? What if Mr. Sheng is too weak?”

Shen’s answer came without hesitation. “It won’t be a murderer like its father.”

That made Hua Yong look up– really look. The faintest shadow crossed his face, something close to recognition or forgiveness or both.

The breeze carried the scent of wet grass and dust, cool against the back of Shen’s neck. Hua Yong adjusted Peanut higher in his arms, brushing a hand over the boy’s back. “This time,” he murmured, almost to himself, “we start fresh.”

By Monday, the storm had passed, but Sheng still felt like he was breathing through debris. Since Hua Yong and Peanut had come home from the park, the apartment had been quieter– lighter, even. Peanut had started calling Hua Yong “Father” again, like nothing had ever broken between them. Hua Yong smiled more, laughed more; he seemed… freer, somehow. It should have been a relief.

But Sheng couldn’t stop waiting for the catch.

Inside the office, the air-conditioning hummed too loud. His back ached in the old familiar way– a deep pull at the base of his spine, worse when he sat too long. He’d spent the morning half-listening to updates, pretending not to notice the way his fingers kept drifting toward the pain.

He needed five minutes alone. Just to breathe.

He pushed up from his chair, ignoring his assistant’s question, and crossed the hall toward the executive lounge.

The room was locked.

He frowned. The pheromone-blocked suite was his– private, coded, soundproofed. Only a handful of staff had access. He tried the handle again. Still locked.

No one was supposed to be in there.

He swiped his card through the override.

The door clicked.

And the moment it opened, the scent hit him– soft and sharp at once, green apple blossom, that light-sweet ache of Jiang Liya’s illegal pheromones. The kind that usually steadied him, that dulled the pain in his spine and eased the tightness in his chest.

Now it only made his stomach turn.

The room was dim except for the light spilling from the monitor. Chen lay on the bed, shoes off, jacket unbuttoned but still on, the fabric drawn close around him as if for warmth. Jiang Liya sat behind him, arms wrapped around his shoulders, murmuring something low and soothing. Their heads were close enough that her hair brushed his collar.

For one stunned heartbeat, Sheng just stood there, the scent washing over him. His muscles loosened despite himself, his body responding to the pheromones even as his mind screamed no.

Then he snapped back.

“What the hell is this?”

Both of them jerked upright. Jiang’s face drained of color. Chen’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused, disoriented, and then closed again. The scent thickened as his control faltered– apple blossom and antiseptic and faint warmth curling through the air like a taunt.

“President Sheng– sir– it’s not–”

“Not what?” Sheng’s voice came out raw. “Not what it looks like?”

“Please,” Jiang rasped, struggling to sit up. “It’s nothing–”

“You call this nothing?” Sheng’s hand cut through the air. “In my private room? With the door locked?”

Jiang stammered, “You don’t understand, I was helping–”

“Helping?” Sheng barked. “You think this is how you help your superior? On the bed? With pheromones filling the damn room?”

Jiang tried again. “Sir, I–”

“Don’t.” Sheng’s voice cracked on the word. “Just don’t.”

He took a step back, chest tight, the apple-blossom scent still working against him–  calming his body while his mind burned. The contradiction made him dizzy.

“Do you have any idea what this looks like?” he said, quieter now, the fury thinning to something brittle. “Is this why you fought for her to stay? Because the two of you are sneaking around in my building?” His eyes flicked between them, cold. “No wonder Jiang Liya’s husband left her.”

Neither answered. Jiang’s eyes were wet; Chen’s head had dropped, silent, the jacket clutched closed around him.

Sheng’s hand closed around the key card, shaking. “You’re finished. Both of you. Pack your things and get out.”

“President Sheng–” Jiang started, but the door slammed before she could finish.

The echo rang down the hall, leaving the scent of apple blossoms spilling softly from the open doorway– sweet, familiar, and unbearable.

Chapter Text

Sheng didn’t stop walking until he was back in his office. His hand still shook around the key card; he threw it onto the desk and it skidded against the glass, leaving a faint smear of sweat and dust.

The scent followed him in– green apple blossoms, faint but persistent, clinging to his clothes like guilt. He could still see them in his mind: Jiang’s expression too calm, Chen frozen like a child caught in something unspeakable.

He shut the door and braced his hands on the desk. The hum of the building filled the silence. He tried to steady his breathing, but anger had nowhere to go except inward.

What the hell was that?

He’d trusted Chen. Quiet, reliable, steady Chen. And Jiang– he’d been trying to give her a chance, even though he knew Hua Yong wouldn’t approve of her being around. 

Now this. A locked lounge, the scent of suppressants thick enough to choke on, and both of them acting like nothing was wrong.

The knock came before he could even get his thoughts together. One sharp rap, followed by the door opening before he could answer.

“President Sheng–”

“Did I say come in?”

Jiang froze halfway across the threshold, one hand gripping Chen’s arm to keep him upright. Chen looked paler than he had downstairs, lips bloodless, one shoulder pressed against the doorframe like he was struggling to stay vertical.

Sheng’s pulse spiked all over again. “I told you to get out.”

“Please, sir,” Jiang said quickly. “Just hear us out.”

Sheng sighed, then got a good look at Chen. “Sit down,” he snapped.

Jiang didn’t argue; she half-guided, half-dragged Chen forward by the wrist, steering him toward the chairs in front of the desk. Chen stumbled once, catching himself on the armrest. The faint scent of green apple clung to him– muted now, spoiled by fear.

Sheng rounded the desk and leaned both hands on its surface, breath sharp. “Out there, you can lie to the walls all you want,” he said. “In here, you tell me what the hell I just walked into.”

Jiang straightened, calm like a soldier before judgment. “President Sheng–”

“Don’t.” His tone cut her short. “Not until I hear from him.”

“President Sheng,” Jiang began, tone smooth enough to pass for reason, “Secretary Chen hasn’t been well. He’s been hiding it because he didn’t want to draw attention. I made him sit down in that room. That’s all.”

Sheng’s eyes snapped to Chen. “Not well how? You’ve been off all week, and now I walk in to find you locked in a room with the secretary you begged to keep here.”

Chen’s mouth worked once before words arrived. “It’s my back, sir,” he said finally. His voice was tight, but believable. “It’s been getting worse.” He glanced at Jiang.

Jiang nodded quickly, catching the thread as Chen continued.

“I was supposed to have surgery months ago, but I delayed it. I’ll finally have the surgery in six weeks.”

“Surgery?” Sheng repeated, the syllables edged with disbelief. “That’s what your leave was for and you didn’t think to tell me?”

“I didn’t want it to interfere with work,” Chen said, fingers twisting the tablet pen until it clicked. “It’s just pain.”

“Pain doesn’t explain what I saw,” Sheng said. “You were releasing soothing pheromones in my lounge.”

Jiang’s answer came before Chen could panic. “It’s my fault. I thought soothing might help his muscles relax. He was in too much pain to sit upright. I acted without clearance.”

“Without clearance,” Sheng echoed, turning the words over. “You’re an S-class Alpha, aren’t you?”

“Yes, President Sheng,” she said evenly.

“Secretary Chen is a Beta. What, exactly, were you planning to accomplish with your pheromones? He isn't affected by them.”

“It’s true, Secretary Chen is a Beta,” she said. “But he’s been on Shengfeng’s sensitivity medication for a few weeks now. It amplifies receptor response so soothing therapies work better. You’ve seen the file– Batch 4-G?”

That caught him. He had signed that approval. “The side effects are brutal,” he said. “Back pain, dizziness, fluid retention, nausea… even scent distortion after long exposure. It wrecks your balance if you’re not monitored properly.”

“He’s under a doctor's care,” Jiang said quickly. She looked at Chen. “You have documentation, don’t you?”

Sheng turned his gaze on Chen again, softer now, half-tired instead of angry. “I don’t need documentation,” Sheng said. “You could’ve said something. I would’ve adjusted your workload and helped you.”

“I know,” Chen murmured. “I'm sorry.”

Sheng exhaled through his teeth, the tension leaking out like air from a valve. “So what I walked in on was medical assistance. Not you two having an affair on the job.”

“No affair, President Sheng,” Jiang said quietly.

He studied them both– Jiang upright and unreadable, Chen pale and trembling in his seat. What he saw didn’t make sense, but the lie was tidy enough to live on paper.

Finally Sheng said, “You’re both lucky I don’t have time for paperwork today.” He stepped past them, flicked the privacy sign to Available. “Effective immediately, you’re on probation. Any more secrets, you’re done.”

“Yes, President Sheng,” they said together.

“And if this happens again,” he added, quieter now, “you call me. Not each other. If you need soothing, Secretary Chen, you two can use the lounge– under my supervision. No more locking of my own door without my knowledge. You know my husband will walk in here at any minute and that lounge is pheromone soaked.”

Chen’s nod was quick, grateful, terrified. Jiang inclined her head like she’d just accepted a sentence.

“Now get back to work,” Sheng said. “We have a meeting with X Holdings in twenty minutes.”

They went– Jiang first, Chen limping behind, the faint scent of apple dissipating in their wake.

Sheng stayed where he was, staring at the couch like it might tell him what he’d really walked into.

All of that– for back surgery? The story was too odd… why would Chen hide it? The drug, the soothing, the way Chen’s pulse had jumped when their eyes met– none of it matched.

He could tell they were lying. He just didn’t know what they were lying about.

The silence that followed wasn’t peace. It was suspension– one breath away from something worse.

The conference room smelled like glass and ozone and something faintly sweet that shouldn’t have been there.

Hua Yong caught it the moment he sat down– an echo of green apple, soft and false, barely traceable beneath the coffee steam and printer ink.

He didn’t look up right away. He didn’t need to. He already knew who was responsible.

Sheng sat at the head of the table, sleeves rolled, pen aligned precisely with his notebook.

That precision meant nerves. Hua Yong had watched him run companies, governments, wars of silence– he never lined things up unless he was afraid of what might spill.

His husband looked flawless. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

Across the table, Jiang Liya sat perfectly composed, hands folded over her tablet. Not a flicker of guilt, not a hint of shame. The woman glowed with professionalism.

If Hua Yong hadn’t seen the look on Sheng’s face two nights ago, he might’ve believed nothing had happened.

Now he only wondered if she was bold or stupid.

She was an S-Class Alpha. Probably a little bit of both.

Chen sat beside her, quiet, sweating through his collar, pen trembling each time he wrote.

Everyone here was an actor.

Chen began speaking– numbers, projections, tone crisp and detached.

Sheng nodded occasionally, but the movement was mechanical, eyes unfocused for half a heartbeat too long every time Chen’s voice filled the air.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t frown. He just looked like a man counting seconds.

You shouldn’t still be here, Hua Yong thought, staring at Jiang’s reflection in the glass wall. You should’ve resigned the minute that door closed behind him. But you’re fine. You’re all fine, aren’t you?

The sweetness of the scent turned his stomach. He could taste memory in it– hospital antiseptic and blood and Sheng’s fading heat.

Don’t think about it. He pressed his fingertips together until they hurt. Don’t think about the sound of the machines. Don’t think about how much blood there was.

When Sheng cleared his throat, the room fell silent a beat too fast.

“Good work,” Sheng said finally, closing his folder. “We’ll reconvene next quarter. Keep the reports in review for revisions.”

His voice was steady, but his hand– resting on the table– betrayed him.

A faint tremor, the kind that no one else would see.

Hua Yong saw.

Chairs scraped. Papers shuffled. Jiang smiled as she passed Sheng, bowing her head, polite as ever.

Chen lingered behind her, a small hesitation before leaving.

Hua Yong didn’t move until the room nearly emptied.

Only Sheng stayed seated, staring at some invisible point on the wall.

For a moment Hua Yong imagined reaching across the table, laying a hand over his, saying something soft, anything– but the words wouldn’t come.

The scent was still there, clinging to the air vents and Sheng’s cuffs.

You don’t even smell like yourself anymore, he thought. You smell like danger. Like a heartbeat about to stop.

He remembered the last time– the panic in the delivery ward, the way the nurses whispered that they were losing him, that the bleeding wouldn’t stop.

He’d promised himself he would never see that again.

He’d promised to end it, if that’s what it took. He’d meant it when he said he’d sterilize himself just to keep this from happening.

And now here they were, pretending everything was fine.

Sheng hadn’t moved. They were supposed to be professionals now– husbands at home, executives in daylight. But he didn’t move either. He wanted to see what Sheng would do when the room stopped pretending to breathe.

After a long moment, Sheng spoke, voice roughened at the edges. “I know you have questions,” he said. “And I’ll answer anything–”

Hua Yong didn’t let him finish. He crossed the space between them in two strides and pulled him close, one hand at the back of his neck. Sheng’s body went rigid for half a second, then softened against him, a shudder running through both of them.

“I love you, Mr. Sheng,” Hua Yong whispered into his collar. The words came out raw, nothing like the practiced speeches they used to trade. “I don’t have any questions.”

Sheng drew back just enough to see his face. For once, there was no audience, no facade– only the exhaustion and the want that had been waiting for weeks. He cupped Hua Yong’s jaw, thumb brushing along his cheek.

“I love you, too.”

The kiss was slow, deliberate, the kind that tried to memorize rather than claim. Hua Yong kissed him back like it was the last time he’d be allowed to.

When they parted, the tremor in Sheng’s hand was gone, but Hua Yong’s hadn’t stopped.

He didn’t want that to be the very last kiss.

Sunlight spilled through the hospital windows, soft and unhurried. The world outside was already moving– cars passing, nurses trading morning gossip in the hallway– but inside the room, everything felt suspended.

Shen had already gotten Lele to school that morning, so the morning was more calm than he had expected. He had also thought that Gao Tu would have insisted that Lele stay home from school that day, but to his surprise, he hadn’t. 

Gao Tu sat at the edge of the bed, lacing his shoes with careful, deliberate movements. His discharge papers lay folded on the tray beside him, already signed.

Shen leaned against the wall, watching him with that half-smile that meant he was trying not to hover. “You’d think you were preparing for an expedition.”

“I just want to walk out of here without anyone offering me a wheelchair,” Gao Tu said, tugging the laces tight.

“Fair. But you should let someone carry your bag.”

He looked up. “You volunteering?”

“Obviously.” Shen crossed the room and picked up the small duffle from the chair. “The driver’s waiting.” He hesitated, gaze flicking toward the window. “I’m still surprised Xiao Qing actually went home.”

“She needed to,” Gao Tu replied. “School doesn’t stop just because I fell apart. For Xiao Qing or Lele.” His tone softened. “She wanted to stay until I was discharged, but I told her she’d regret missing another exam. I’ll call her from the hotel later– let her know I’m officially out of the hospital.”

Shen nodded. “You’ll need a new phone. I can buy one for you.”

“No need,” Gao Tu said. “I had insurance on the old one. I’ll file the claim once my replacement bank card and ID gets here.”

“Speaking of,” Shen said, reaching for the papers on the nightstand, “your temporary bank card came through this morning. And the credit accounts are already frozen. No one had time to use them.”

“Of course you checked.” Gao Tu’s smile was small but real. “Thank you. For everything.”

Shen smiled and nodded.

The quiet lingered for a beat– comfortable, familiar.

When the sound faded, Shen set the bag down and said, “If you’re up for it, I have a surprise for you.”

“A surprise?” Gao Tu’s eyebrows lifted, equal parts suspicious and intrigued.

“Nothing dramatic,” Shen said. “Just… something I think you’ll like.”

Gao Tu tilted his head. “Should I be worried?”

“Maybe.” Shen’s mouth curved. “You’ll see soon enough.”

The nurse appeared at the door, announcing the all-clear for discharge. Gao Tu stood, a little unsteady but determined, and Shen offered his arm without comment. He took it anyway.

As they walked down the corridor together, Shen glanced sideways and added softly, “And before you ask– no, it’s not another doctor’s appointment.”

“Then I’ll risk it,” Gao Tu said.

The elevator chimed open, sunlight slanting through the lobby glass. The air changed the moment they crossed the threshold: bright but cool, carrying the faint scent of asphalt, coffee, and new leaves. Shen guided Gao Tu through the automatic doors, one hand hovering near his elbow but not touching unless needed.

Outside, the driver was already waiting beside the sleek black sedan, opening the rear door with a respectful nod.

“Careful,” Shen said, steadying him as he eased in.

Gao Tu sank into the seat with a sigh. “I’m fine.”

“You’re pregnant.”

“Barely. I haven’t even had any symptoms yet. I can get in and out of a car.”

“I’m sorry.” Shen shut the door and circled to the other side. When he slid in beside him, he handed over a slim folder.

“What’s this?”

“Your surprise.”

Gao Tu frowned and opened it. Inside were several printed pages– apartment listings, each neatly highlighted and annotated in Shen’s handwriting. Photos of wide windows, small balconies, and one place with a children’s playground visible in the background.

“You’ve been apartment hunting?”

“For you,” Shen said simply. “You shouldn’t have to go back to the hotel.”

Gao Tu’s brows drew together. “There’s no reason for me to stay here. You’re due back at work next week. I won’t have any work to do.”

“There are three reasons I want you to stay,” Shen said quietly. “And you’re carrying one of them.”

The words landed like a heartbeat between them. Gao Tu looked away, fingers tightening on the folder. “I can’t stay forever. I have a job to go back to.”

“There’s no reason for that either,” Shen said.

Gao Tu turned, incredulous. “No reason for me to work? I have children. A sister to provide for.”

Shen’s tone softened, almost indulgent. “When you become my spouse, you won’t have to work.”

Gao Tu blinked. “I never agreed to become your spouse.”

“When you do,” Shen continued, unbothered, “your shares in HS Group will go from fifteen percent to fifty percent of mine. You won’t have to worry about working or money again.”

Gao Tu stared at him. “President Shen… Is this a marriage proposal or a merger?”

“Marriage is a partnership,” Shen said, lips curving faintly.

Shen waited for Gao Tu to respond, but he never did.

The hum of the air conditioning filled the office– steady, even, like nothing in the world could go wrong here. Sheng sat behind his desk, scanning the morning reports while sunlight crawled slowly across the polished floor.

Across from him, Chen Pinming was sorting files, the soft shuffle of paper the only sound between them. He wasn’t pale or trembling or anything that might suggest sickness– but Sheng still found himself watching.

“You’re quiet today,” Sheng said finally, without looking up.

Chen startled faintly. “Just trying to keep up, sir. The quarterly reports were heavier than I expected.”

“You’re not on probation for falling behind,” Sheng said. “You’re on probation for poor judgment. There’s a difference.”

That earned the faintest twitch of a smile. “I’m aware.”

“Good. Then act like it.” Sheng turned a page, the motion too sharp. “Sit down before you make me nervous.”

Chen hesitated, then did as he was told, lowering himself into the chair. He looked fine– calm, collected, every button of his shirt still perfectly in place– but Sheng’s pulse refused to slow.

“Have you eaten today?” Sheng asked.

Chen blinked, surprised. “I wasn’t hungry for breakfast. I had tea.”

“Tea isn’t food.”

“It’s caffeine.”

“The air conditioner’s on full,” Sheng said. “You’re probably dehydrated.”

Chen gave a small laugh. “I’m fine, sir. Really. You’re starting to sound like my mother.”

Sheng set his pen down. “If it’s the pain again…” He paused, hating the way the words tasted. “The lounge is open. You can ask Secretary Jiang to help stabilize your pheromones if you need to.”

Chen went still. Then, carefully: “That won’t be necessary.”

“It’s the entire reason she’s still employed,” Sheng said, sharper than intended. “It wouldn’t be an inconvenience.”

Chen’s gaze flicked toward the window. “Even so. I’ll manage.”

Sheng sighed and rose, crossing to the sideboard. He poured a glass of water and set it in front of Chen. “Then at least drink this.”

“Sir, I can–”

“Drink.”

Chen obeyed, still smiling faintly. “You worry too much.”

“You give me reasons to,” Sheng said.

“I think you just like to overreact.”

“Possibly.” Sheng leaned back, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Take a short break at least. Ten minutes. Get some air.”

“I will,” Chen said. “After I finish the project summary.”

Sheng shook his head, lips twitching. “Stubborn.”

“Efficient,” Chen corrected.

“Both.”

Sheng turned back toward his reports, pretending to read while he listened to the sound of papers shifting behind him. A few minutes later, Chen moved to the window desk, once used by Jiang, booting up his terminal and typing quietly. The rhythm of his work filled the space, soft and steady. Normal. Almost peaceful.

The longer Sheng listened, the more he tried to convince himself it was fine– that the faint, irregular hum in his chest was nothing, that the ache behind his eyes was only a lack of sleep.

When he looked up, Chen was bent slightly over his keyboard, one hand pressed to his lower back as he typed with the other. A casual stretch, nothing alarming. Sheng still noticed.

“You should get a better chair,” he said.

Chen looked up, startled. “You’re worrying again.”

“You’re slouching.”

“I’m working.”

“Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“I’ll call Medical if you start looking pale,” he said finally.

Chen tilted his head. “Then I’ll make sure not to look pale.”

He went back to typing. Sheng watched the slow rise and fall of his shoulders, the steady rhythm of breathing, the faint reflection of movement on the polished floor. Everything was normal.

It was easy to believe everything was fine.

That was the problem.

The sun was starting to dip, throwing long streaks of gold across the dashboard. Lele sat in the backseat between them, humming to himself, swinging his feet and clutching a half-finished juice box.

They’d been at it since noon– five apartments, six coffees, and three rejections later, Shen was beginning to think Gao Tu might never find one that didn’t make him frown.

“This one’s next,” Shen said, glancing at the listing on his tablet. “Third floor. Four bedrooms.”

“Third?” Gao Tu perked up immediately. “Finally. The last two were so high I thought Lele might need an oxygen mask.”

Lele gasped. “Do people really need masks in tall buildings?”

“Only if they climb the railing,” Gao Tu said.

“I won’t,” Lele piped up instantly. “I’ll just look.”

“Looking leads to falling,” Gao Tu warned.

“Only if I’m not careful.”

Shen hid his smile behind his hand. “We’ll take the elevator this time, then. No railings required.”

Lele grinned. “Can I press the buttons?”

“If you promise not to press all of them,” Shen said.

The boy’s face fell into mock seriousness. “I promise.”

Gao Tu shook his head, amused despite himself. The humor in the car had been tentative all day– too many listings, too many polite disappointments– but now the tension cracked just a little.

“Third floor sounds good,” he said quietly as they stepped out into the sun. “Feels more… real.”

Shen glanced sideways at him. “Real?”

Gao Tu shrugged. “Closer to the ground. Easier to breathe.”

The building wasn’t new, but it had been well kept. The real estate agent, all smiles and professional cheer, met them in the lobby and led the way up.

“This one’s just come on the market,” she said. “South-facing windows, natural light in every room, excellent school district.”

Lele perked up. “Is my school close?”

“Very close,” Gao Tu said, scanning the brochure. His expression softened as he looked around. “It’s actually perfect.”

They stepped inside, and Shen had to admit– it was better than he expected. The light hit the walls in warm sheets, the kind that made the air itself look soft. From the living room, they could see the small park below; a swing set, a sandbox, a handful of children chasing each other in circles.

Lele pressed his face to the window. “I can see the playground!” he said, bouncing.

Shen looked down at him, then at Gao Tu– who was smiling. Really smiling.

“It feels…” Gao Tu paused, running a hand along the windowsill. “It feels like I could live here.”

Shen walked through to the next room. The bedrooms were small, barely enough space for a bed and a desk. The closets were narrow, the walls close. It wasn’t what he would’ve chosen– he was used to open layouts and glass and silence.

But as he watched Gao Tu’s reflection in the window, smiling in the light, it struck him that maybe this was exactly what home looked like for him. Compact. Practical. Alive.

Then Gao Tu saw the price tag.

His expression shifted instantly. “No. Absolutely not.”

Shen blinked. “What?”

“It’s too much,” Gao Tu said, shaking his head. “Even with a mortgage, it’s ridiculous. We’ll find something smaller.”

“Smaller?” Shen gestured around them. “If we go smaller, you’ll be living in a broom closet. I can buy this outright.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?”

“I don’t need you to buy me a place,” Gao Tu snapped, crossing his arms. “President Shen… You’ve done enough already.”

“I haven’t done anything,” Shen said evenly. “You’ve been in a hospital bed for over a week. You think I’m letting you drag Lele back to a hotel?”

“Even if you bought this, I can’t sleep here tonight.”

“You and Lele will sleep at my house until we get this place set up for you.”

“I can’t impose–”

“But I want you there.”

The real estate agent, caught between them, gave a nervous little laugh. “It really is a great deal for the area–”

“Not now,” Gao Tu and Shen said in unison.

Lele blinked between them. “Are you fighting?”

“No,” Shen said tightly. “We’re debating.”

Gao Tu opened his mouth to argue again– but stopped. His hand flew to his chest, eyes widening.

“Gao Tu?” Shen asked, startled.

Gao Tu didn’t answer. He turned, stumbled into the kitchen, and promptly threw up in the sink.

The real estate agent gasped, fumbling in her purse. “Oh my– should I call–”

“No,” Shen said sharply. “Do you have any cleaning supplies?”

She vanished down the hall.

Shen exhaled, grimaced, and stepped into the kitchen. Gao Tu leaned on the counter, pale and sweating, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Sorry,” he said hoarsely. “It just hit me out of nowhere.”

“You’re fine.” Shen turned on the faucet, rinsed the mess away with more composure than he felt. The smell wasn’t helping. “God, that’s awful.”

“You don’t have to–”

“Too late,” Shen muttered, fetching a cloth from the counter and scrubbing the sink like the act alone might save face. “Now we have to buy it.”

Gao Tu blinked. “What?”

“You threw up in the sink,” Shen said, matter-of-fact. “That’s ownership by contamination. I’m not letting someone else move in after that. So we’re buying it.”

“It’s too expensive,” Gao Tu started, the reflex automatic.

Shen tipped his head toward the window, where Lele was already pressing his nose to the glass to look at the playground. “Tell our son that.”

Gao Tu followed his gaze. Lele’s whole face was lit up.

He exhaled, defeated. “...Fine. We’re buying it.”

“Good,” Shen said, turning back to the sink. “Then I didn’t scrub this for nothing.”

It had taken longer for Shen to fill out the paperwork than he thought it would take, so long that Lele had started to wear down.

Lele yawned halfway through the elevator ride down, his head bumping against Gao Tu’s arm.

“We should get him home. He needs to eat dinner,” Gao Tu said, brushing Lele’s hair back.

Shen smiled faintly. “You mean the hotel.”

“Right now, that is home.”

Outside, the driver opened the car door. By the time they pulled away from the curb, Lele was already asleep against the seatbelt, mouth slack, soft snores filling the quiet.

The car slowed at a familiar intersection. Gao Tu looked up, confused. The hotel’s blue sign flickered ahead.

He turned to Shen, startled. “How did you know where we were staying?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Shen said, already reaching for the door handle. “I’ll help you get everything together. At the very least, stay at my place until you’re one hundred percent better.”

“That’s not necessary. Lele and I will be fine.”

“You just got out of the hospital,” Shen cut in. “You shouldn’t be alone tonight.”

“I’m not alone. I have Lele.”

“Lele is not old enough to take care of you if you have a setback.”

Gao Tu hesitated, glancing at the sleeping child. His protest wilted before it reached his mouth.

“You can stay until you’re better,” Shen said, quieter now. “That’s all I’m asking.”

Silence filled the car. Outside, the hotel lights flickered again, pale against the evening sky.

Finally Gao Tu sighed. “Fine. We’ll check out. But just until the end of the week. Then we’ll be going back home and I’ll be going back to work.”

“I’ll take what I can get.”

Shen stepped out first. Gao Tu lingered a moment longer, looking at Lele’s sleeping face before unbuckling him gently.

As they walked toward the hotel doors, Shen glanced back. “You’ll feel better once you’re settled.”

His smile was quick, almost hidden.

Progress.

It was late enough that the city lights had started to bleed through the glass. The skyline shimmered faintly against the dark, and Sheng was still at his desk, reviewing the last stack of signatures before closing the day.

A knock sounded at the door.

“Come in,” he said without looking up.

The door opened quietly. Chen Pinming stepped inside, a folder tucked under his arm. He was sweaty, his skin red, but he still had his jacket on. He looked tired, but fine.

“I finished the procurement summary,” Chen said, placing the file on the desk. “The revisions for R&D are inside.”

Sheng glanced up. “You’re still here.”

“You said to have it done today,” Chen replied, faintly amused.

“I didn’t mean tonight.” Sheng leaned back in his chair, stretching his neck. “It’s getting late.”

Chen smiled. “Then I made the deadline.”

Sheng flipped open the file, scanning the first few pages. “You always do.”

He looked up again to hand the file back– and froze.

Chen’s smile had faltered. His hand was gripping the edge of the desk, knuckles white, eyes wide with sudden, animal confusion.

“Are you ok?” Sheng said.

No answer.

Chen’s breath hitched, body folding inward. A low, strangled sound came from his throat, more like a cry torn halfway out than a word. The folder slipped from his hand and hit the floor, papers scattering like startled birds.

“Pinming!” Sheng shoved his chair back, crossing the space in two strides just as Chen’s knees gave out. He caught him under the arms, dragging him close.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Sheng demanded. “Talk to me!”

Chen couldn’t. He couldn’t even breathe properly. The sound that escaped him was raw, broken, a choked gasp that made Sheng’s stomach drop.

Then Sheng felt it– warm, slick, running across his palm where he was holding Chen upright.

He looked down.

Blood.

Dark streaks started spreading fast across the marble, tracing the seams between tiles like ink through paper.

For a moment, everything stopped. The hum of the air, the weight of the city outside– it all vanished. Then Sheng’s body moved before his mind did.

He lowered Chen to the ground, supporting his head with one shaking hand, the other already reaching for his phone.

“This is President Sheng,” he snapped into the receiver. “Emergency medical response to my office– now! And get Secretary Jiang in here immediately.”

He dropped the phone and pressed both hands against Chen’s side, as if pressure alone could stop it.

“Stay with me,” Sheng said, voice hoarse. “You hear me? You’re all right. You’re fine.”

Chen’s eyes fluttered, unfocused. His mouth opened– no sound, just another gasp, sharp and wet. Then nothing. His hand slipped from Sheng’s sleeve and fell limp against the floor.

“Hold on,” Sheng said, pressing his palm flat to Chen’s sternum, willing it to move. “You’re not dying in my office.”

The door burst open. Jiang’s heels clicked hard against the floor, her face pale as she took in the scene– the blood, the body, the man on his knees.

She didn’t ask permission. She went straight to the floor beside them, taking Chen from Sheng’s arms with a gentleness that made the transfer feel like theft.

“Move,” she ordered, voice low and steady.

Sheng did.

The medics arrived seconds later, white coats and gloves flashing in the light.

“What happened?” one asked.

Sheng couldn’t answer. His throat had locked.

The medics dropped to their knees, gloves snapping, voices sharp and professional. One pressed a hand to Chen’s abdomen; another checked his pulse.

“Massive internal bleeding,” one said. “Get that jacket off of him. We need vitals– get the line started–”

Then came the words that cracked the air in two:

“How far along is he?”

Sheng blinked, dazed. “What?”

The medic’s tone sharpened. “There’s placental bleeding. I need to know how far along he is.”

Jiang froze beside him, eyes wide.

“Jiang Liya!” Sheng cried out. “Do you know something?!”

She took a deep breath. “Thirty-three weeks,” she whispered. "He sees Dr. Li at Seventh Municipal Hospital."

Sheng stared at her, the words meaning nothing at first. Thirty-three weeks. Pregnant. The phrases circled each other in his head like static.

Then the medics were moving again– lifting, strapping, calling codes– and the blood on the floor spread to where Sheng’s shoes stood.

Chen’s hand slipped from his arm, leaving a red smear on his cuff as they carried him out.

The sound of their footsteps faded down the hall, swallowed by the hum of the air vents. For a moment, Sheng couldn’t move. His whole body was locked, breath coming too fast, the smell of blood turning the back of his throat metallic.

He looked down.

It was everywhere– across his hands, his clothes, the floor. His reflection in the glass wall looked like a stranger wearing someone else’s ruin.

It was worse on Jiang Liya’s clothes, but he didn’t care about her at that moment.

“Jiang Liya, how long have you known?” Sheng’s voice came out low, but the tremor underneath it made it dangerous.

Jiang blinked, startled. “Sir–”

He turned on her, voice rising. “How long have you known he was pregnant?”

Jiang didn’t respond.

“Answer me!” He slammed his hand down on the desk, the sound like a gunshot in the quiet. Blood streaked across the glass top.

“About three weeks,” she finally said.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn't he tell me?!”

Jiang flinched. “He asked me not to tell you,” she said in a rush. “He said it wasn’t anyone's concern–”

“Not my concern?” Sheng’s laugh broke halfway through, thin and jagged. “He was bleeding to death in my office, Jiang! On my goddamn floor!”

He stopped. His breath hitched hard.

The sound of his own words hung in the air, sharp and ugly. He looked down at his hands–  blood drying on his cuffs, tacky on his skin. The anger didn’t help. It never did. He pressed his hand to his face and felt it–  wet, sticky, red. The smell hit him again. He dropped his hand fast, like it burned.

“I didn’t know,” he said, quieter now. “God, I didn’t know.”

Jiang wiped her eyes. “Sir–”

“Get out,” Sheng whispered.

She hesitated. “President Sheng–”

“Get out of my office!”

Jiang fled, the door slamming behind her.

Sheng sank into his chair. The blood on his clothes had dried to a dark brown. Across the room, the streaks on the floor were still wet, pooling in the seams of the marble.

He couldn’t look away from them.

The room felt too bright, too loud, the hum of the air vents like a scream he couldn’t shut off.

He pressed both hands to his face, shaking. “Please,” he whispered to no one. “Please don’t die.”