The silence of the house was absolute, a heavy, airless vacuum that offered no comfort to the boy who had just been unmade. Shu Yao climbed the stairs with a gait that was entirely robotic, his joints stiff and his body moving as if by a directive from a mind that had already checked out of reality.
He was grateful for the stillness. His mother was out, and the absence of her questioning eyes was the only mercy he had received all day. He reached his bedroom, the door clicking shut behind him with the finality of a prison cell.
He didn't turn on the light. He didn't need it. The gray dusk filtering through the window was enough to illuminate the ruin he had become. He sank onto the edge of his bed, the soft light-brown shirt—the one George had bought to hide the shame—feeling like a heavy, abrasive shroud.
His eyes were raw, the skin around them tender and inflamed from the hours of salt-laden weeping. He rubbed them with the back of his hand, a dull, stinging pain radiating through his skull, but his soul was too far gone to register the discomfort.
His phone vibrated. The sound was a sharp, discordant intrusion in the quiet of his room.
Shu Yao moved with a chilling lack of emotion. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the device, the blue light of the screen washing over his pale, tear-stained face. He saw a series of messages from an unknown number. He clicked on them, and the world—already a wreckage—began to burn.
Unknown: "Hello, Shu Yao. Merry Christmas in advance."
The breath hitched in Shu Yao's throat. A cold, visceral dread coiled in his stomach. He knew that tone. He knew the elegant, serrated edge of that greeting. It was Shen Haoxuan.
Unknown: "I've prepared your biggest present—one you've never had in your life before. I hope you enjoyed the little 'reunion' in the office this morning."
Shu Yao's hands began to shake so violently that the phone nearly slipped from his grasp. The morning. The office. The mahogany floorboards. It hadn't been an accident. It hadn't just been Bai Qi's rage. It was a play—a meticulously orchestrated script written by the Shen, he had known exactly what that shirt would do. He had known how the Monarch would react.
Fresh tears welled up, spilling over his raw lids. He was a pawn. He was a piece of meat thrown between two predators to see who would bite harder.
He scrolled down, his eyes widening as he read the messages Shen had sent with a chilling, arrogant confidence.
Shen: "By the day of Christmas, I will remind Niklas Rothenberg of what it feels like to be truly alone. I will take what he loves most. I will take his legacy. I will take his son."
Shen: "My dear half-brother, Bai Qi."
Shu Yao stopped breathing. The words blurred on the screen. Half-brother. The secret was out. The rot in the Rothenberg bloodline was deeper than he could have ever imagined.
The rivalry between the two men wasn't just corporate; it was a fratricidal war. Shen didn't just want the company; he wanted to destroy the person who stood in the light while he was cast into the shadows.
"Bai Qi... his brother," Shu Yao whispered, the sound a ragged ghost of a voice.
He gripped the phone tighter. Shen wasn't finished. He was planning something for the Christmas party—something that would leave Bai Qi destroyed, just as Shu Yao had been destroyed today. The boldness of the threat was terrifying. Shen wasn't hiding anymore; he was declaring his intent to execute the Monarch in front of his own kingdom.
"How... how am I supposed to save him?"
Shu Yao let out a jagged, broken sob. He looked at his hands—hands that had been pinned down, hands that had scraped the rug in a futile attempt to escape his own lover. He couldn't even look Bai Qi in the eye. The thought of standing in the same room as the man who had crushed him was enough to make his lungs seize.
"I should tell Mr. George," he murmured, his mind racing through the options.
But he stopped. George's face from the hallway flashed in his mind—the murderous rage, the way he had called Bai Qi a "bastard." If he told George that Shen was targeting Bai Qi, would George even want to help? George was a protector, but today, George had finally seen the monster beneath the Monarch's skin.
Shu Yao understood then: if he told Mr. George, he would never be sent back. Mr. George would protect him—and abandon Bai Qi.
In this fractured, traumatized state, Shu Yao's mind performed a terrifying feat of mental gymnastics. He didn't think of his own safety.
He didn't think of the bruises on his hips or the way his dignity had been shredded like the silk of his shirt. He only thought of the man in the mahogany office.
"I can't let him touch the one I love most," Shu Yao said, his voice gaining a hollow, eerie steadiness.
He began to wipe his tears, his movements becoming more deliberate. A distorted sense of devotion was rising through the cracks of his broken spirit.
"Everything Bai Qi did to me... it was my fault. I kept the secrets. I let Shen in. I made him angry.
It was the logic of the victim, a desperate attempt to find meaning in the violence. He needed to believe that Bai Qi's cruelty was a reaction to his own failings, because the alternative—that Bai Qi was simply a monster—was a truth he couldn't survive.
"He thinks I won't be there," Shu Yao whispered, staring at the phone at the messages Shen's send. "He thinks because I'm broken, I'll stay in the dark. But I won't let him touch Bai Qi. I won't let him.
"He is Bai Qi," Shu Yao said, as if the name itself were a prayer that could heal his wounds. "No matter what he did to me... he is mine to protect. He will forgive me. Once I save him from shen, he'll see. He'll realize I never betrayed him."
Three days had crawled by since the massacre of dignity in the mahogany office. Three days of an agonizing, airless silence.
The Rothenberg estate loomed against the winter twilight like an ivory fortress crowned in cerulean. The villa, a sprawling masterpiece of neo-classical architecture, stood as a silent testament to a century of undisputed power.
Its cream-colored walls glowed under the strategically placed amber floodlights, and its signature deep-blue roof tiles shimmered like the scales of a sleeping dragon.
In a small, dim house far from the ivory towers, Shu Yao stood before a mirror. He had not stepped foot in the Rothenberg building since that day. He had ignored every notification, every phantom vibration of a phone he was now terrified to touch. His movements were leaden, governed by a hollow necessity.
Inside the villa, the air was thick with the scent of aged paper and expensive tobacco. Niklas Rothenberg sat in his study, a chamber of dark wood and hushed secrets.
The blue light of his laptop screen reflected in his eyes—eyes that had seen empires rise and competitors fall. He was a man of cold logic, a titan who preferred the binary certainty of data over the messy variables of a party.
The door opened with a soft, melodic creak.
Niklas stopped typing. He didn't need to look up to know who had entered; the very atmosphere of the room shifted from sterile to effervescent. He closed his laptop, the metal click sounding like a period at the end of a sentence.
"Darling," Bai Mingzhu breathed, her voice a silk ribbon in the stillness.
Niklas stood. He looked at his wife and for the first time in hours, the lines of tension on his face softened. She was a vision in a gown that captured the essence of moonlight. To Niklas, she was the same charming beauty who had captured his heart decades ago—a woman who remained his only true weakness.
"Yes, dear," he replied, his voice a low, polished baritone.
Mingzhu crossed the room, her eyes dancing with a playful reproach. "It is Christmas, Niklas. The world is at our doorstep, and you are sitting here negotiating with work."
Niklas did not argue. He knew that with Mingzhu, silence and a graceful surrender were the most efficient paths to her happiness. He moved toward her, his stature commanding and stoic.
He took her gloved hand in his, bowing his head with the courtly grace of an old-world aristocrat. He pressed a kiss—light as a feather, yet heavy with devotion—to the back of her hand.
"The party will start shortly," she smiled, her eyes searching his. "Can we go now?"
Niklas offered his elbow, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "As you wish, my Queen."
In a separate wing of the villa, Bai Qi stood before a floor-to-ceiling mirror. He was a man drowning in silk and obsidian.
He wore a bespoke suit that was damningly hot—a daring mix of cream and black. The cream jacket was structured with razor-sharp precision, cinched over black trousers that fit like a second skin. His sleek shoes, the pinnacle of the Rothenberg brand, caught the light of the chandelier.
He ran a hand through his obsidian hair, ensuring every strand was in its rightful place. To any onlooker, he was the Monarch—a god of industry, a man of lethal charisma. But inside the suit, he felt like a hollow shell.
He checked his phone. No messages from Shu Yao. The silence was a physical weight, a debt he didn't know how to pay. He straightened his cuffs, his jaw set in a hard, uncompromising line. He had an invitation to deliver, and a play to finish.
Outside, the Rothenberg estate had been transformed into a winter wonderland of terrifying opulence.
The party was held in the vast, manicured gardens that stretched out toward the pool. Guests—the elite, the powerful, and the dangerously wealthy—mingled on the cobblestone paths. The central marble fountain pulse with illuminated water, casting a rhythmic spray into the cool air.
Waiters in crisp white uniforms glided through the crowd like ghosts, carrying trays of vintage champagne and crystal flutes. The blue-and-cream villa provided a backdrop of absolute beauty, far more prestigious than any five-star establishment in the city.
The air was filled with the low hum of business deals and polite laughter, but beneath the surface, the tension was palpable. Everyone was waiting for the family to emerge.
A black car pulled up to the grand gates. George stepped out, his expression an iron mask. He opened the rear door, and a figure emerged.
Shu Yao stepped onto the gravel. He was dressed in a soft brown coat, his head bowed, his eyes hidden behind long lashes. He looked at the villa—the blue roof, the cream walls.
There inside the shutter-click of the cameras sounded like a firing squad in the crisp winter air. Bai Qi stood against a backdrop of frosted topiary and the glowing blue-and-cream facade of the villa, his posture monolithic, his expression a masterpiece of cold, aristocratic indifference.
To the photographers and the socialites watching from the periphery, he was the untouchable heir—the Monarch of Rothenberg Industries. Every flash of the lens captured the razor-edge of his jaw and the obsidian depth of his eyes.
He performed with mechanical precision, a man born to be watched but never truly seen.
When the lead photographer finally lowered his camera and signaled the end of the session, Bai Qi didn't smile. He didn't thank them. He simply turned, the tail of his cream-and-black coat snapping in the wind, and walked toward the relative shadow of a stone colonnade.
He was finally free—or as free as a man could be while chained to his own shadow.
He reached into the interior pocket of his jacket, his fingers brushing against the stiff, embossed edge of the Christmas invitation. It felt like a shard of glass against his skin.
His phone buzzed—a sharp, impatient vibration.
Ming Su: "Ah Qi, I've just entered the estate gates. I can see the lights from here. I can't wait to see you."