The festive lights of the Rothenberg estate glittered like cold diamonds against the midnight sky, but for Shu Yao, the brilliance was blinding. He stood at the edge of the sprawling garden, his frame swallowed by the oversized brown coat. He felt like an intruder in a world of giants.
George had been his shadow since they arrived, a silent sentinel who sensed the boy's fragility. "Stay here," George murmured, his voice low and grounding. "I'll have a waiter bring you something to eat. Don't move from this spot until I return."
Shu Yao nodded robotically. He watched George disappear into the shifting sea of silk gowns and tailored wool. Left alone, the air felt thinner. Every laugh from the elite crowd sounded like a serrated blade against his nerves.
From the elevated terrace, Bai Qi stood with a crystal glass in hand, his eyes scanning the crowd with predatory efficiency. He was supposed to be the host, the Monarch in waiting, but his mind was a fractured mess.
Then, he saw him.
A flash of soft brown amid the obsidian suits. Shu Yao looked smaller than he remembered—hollowed out, a ghost haunting a celebration. Bai Qi's heart performed a violent, irregular thrum against his ribs. Surprise, followed immediately by a surging, defensive anger, flooded his system.
"You," Bai Qi hissed, signaling a nearby waiter. The man bowed instantly, sensing the sudden drop in the temperature around the young master.
"Go to that boy in the brown coat," Bai Qi commanded, his voice a lethal whisper. "Tell him someone is waiting for him inside the villa. Do not—under any circumstances—mention my name."
The waiter bowed again and vanished into the throng. Bai Qi watched from above, his jaw set so tight it ached. He needed to settle this. He needed to hand over the invitation and end this suffocating silence.
Shu Yao was staring at the ripples in the pool when the waiter approached. "Mister? Someone is requesting your presence inside the villa. They said it was urgent."
Shu Yao flinched at the address, his eyes wide and bloodshot. He assumed it was George. Perhaps George had found a quiet place for him to rest, away from the suffocating perfume and judgmental glares.
"Thank you," Shu Yao whispered, his voice barely audible over the string quartet.
He followed the waiter through the grand French doors. The transition was jarring. Outside was a cacophony of celebration; inside was a mausoleum of marble and silence. The servants were busy in the kitchens, and the guests were lured by the garden's opulence. The hallways were long, shadowed, and smelled of expensive floor wax.
The waiter stopped at the entrance to the secondary gallery and bowed, gesturing for Shu Yao to continue alone.
Shu Yao stepped into the dim hallway, his footsteps echoing like heartbeats. He turned a corner, looking for George, but the space was empty.
Suddenly, a hand clamped onto his bicep with the force of an iron vice.
Shu Yao gasped, a sharp, choked sound of terror. Before he could scream, he was dragged backward into the deeper shadows of a service corridor. His back hit the cold, flocked wallpaper with a soft thud.
He looked up, his breath hitching in a jagged rhythm. It wasn't George.
Bai Qi stood over him, his silhouette framed by the distant glow of a chandelier. The cream-and-black suit made him look like a beautiful, terrifying deity of vengeance.
Shu Yao's reaction was instinctive. He didn't fight; he buckled. His eyes went wide, reflecting a primal, visceral trauma that made Bai Qi's own breath catch. Shu Yao's hands came up between them, palms out, as he tried to twist his wrists free from the crushing grip.
In his mind, a single thought screamed: I shouldn't have come inside.
"What are you doing here, Shu Yao?" Bai Qi demanded. The question was nonsensical—he had summoned the boy—but his rage was the only shield he had against the guilt devouring him.
Shu Yao remained silent, his lips trembling so violently he couldn't form words.
"I asked you a question!" Bai Qi's voice rose, echoing off the marble walls. "Why weren't you at work for three days? Do you think you can simply vanish when I haven't dismissed you?"
He tightened his grip on Shu Yao's wrists, his fingers digging into the tender skin. Shu Yao's eyes snapped open, and for a second, the light in them went out. It was the look of a soul that had accepted its own destruction.
"Please," Shu Yao finally managed, a wet, broken sound. "Please let me go."
"Why?" Bai Qi barked, leaning closer until their foreheads almost touched. "So you can run back to someone else side? So you can hide from me?"
Bai Qi reached into the interior pocket of his suit jacket.
The movement was sudden. To Shu Yao, it looked like the start of a blow. He didn't just flinch; he collapsed into himself. He squeezed his eyes shut, his shoulders hunching up to protect his neck, his entire body shivering in anticipation of a strike.
Bai Qi froze.
The sight of Shu Yao cowering—expecting physical violence from a man he once looked at with adoration—hit Bai Qi harder than any physical strike could. A flicker of something raw and agonizing passed through his obsidian eyes, but he buried it instantly. He couldn't afford to be soft. Not when the world was watching outside.
"Open your eyes, you fool," Bai Qi growled, though the edge had been blunted by a sudden, unwanted bile in his throat.
Shu Yao didn't move. He remained curled against the wall, his breathing coming in shallow, frantic gasps.
"I don't have time for your childish acts," Bai Qi snapped. He pulled the thick, gold-embossed card from his pocket and threw it.
The Christmas invitation hit Shu Yao's chest and fluttered to the floor.
Bai Qi released Shu Yao's wrists abruptly. The sudden loss of contact made Shu Yao sway, his back sliding further down the wall.
Bai Qi turned his back, his posture rigid. He wanted to leave. He wanted to run back to the garden and drown himself in champagne. But at the threshold of the hallway, he stopped. He turned his head just enough to catch a glimpse of the boy on the floor.
He wanted to say he was sorry he had become the monster.
But the Rothenberg silence was a heavy crown. He said nothing. He simply stepped out of the shadows and back into the light of the villa, leaving the broken "shu Yao" behind.
Shu Yao remained on the floor for a long time. He placed a trembling hand over his heart, trying to soothe the frantic, painful thudding against his ribs. He felt a profound sense of shame—shame for his silence, shame for his fear, and a crushing, misplaced sorrow for the man who had just left.
He looked down at the card lying on the cold marble.
With fingers that still felt like ice, he reached out and lifted it. The gold lettering caught the dim light: The Rothenberg Family Requests the Presence of Shu Yao.
"Why?" he whispered into the empty hallway.
Why give him a seat at the table after grinding him into the dirt? Why pretend he was part of the family after treating him like property?
He clutched the card to his chest, the sharp edges digging into his palms. He didn't see an invitation. He saw a sentence. He was being called back into the fire, and he knew—deep in his shattered soul—that he would go. He would go to protect the man who had just thrown a card at him like trash, because the "assistant" didn't know how to do anything else.
From the heights of the grand staircase, Armin Rothenberg descended. His silhouette was sharp against the glow of the crystal chandeliers. Unlike the volatile fire of Bai Qi or the serpentine cold of Shen, Armin moved with a weary, clinical detachment. He paused on the bottom step, his eyes hardening as they landed on the trembling boy in the hallway.
Armin took a deep, steadying breath. He saw the wreckage in Shu Yao's posture—the way the boy seemed to occupy as little space as possible, like a ghost afraid of being seen.
"Merry Christmas, Sir," Shu Yao whispered, the greeting a jagged reflex of a well-trained servant. He didn't look up; he couldn't.
Armin exhaled a long, heavy sigh. "Merry Christmas to you too, Shu Yao." He stepped closer, the soft click of his dress shoes echoing like a countdown. "Make yourself at home. There is no need to panic at Christmas tonight."
Shu Yao nodded frantically, his gaze remaining glued to the floor. "Thank you, sir."
Armin lingered for a heartbeat, a flicker of something resembling pity—or perhaps a dark premonition—crossing his features. He turned to leave, his coat billowing behind him. I wish Bai qi didn't regret as much as I am already regretting mine, Armin thought as he vanished into the depths of the villa.
Outside, the air was a biting frost that turned breath into ghosts. Bai Qi stood near the grand entrance, a statue of cream and obsidian, while Ming Su clung to his arm. She was a vision of calculated holiday cheer, draped in a light crimson dress that looked like a bloodstain against the snow.
A fluffy white coat and a matching hat framed her face, making her look soft, fragile, and utterly innocent.
"It's so dreadfully cold, Ah Qi," she murmured, her voice a saccharine purr. "I feel like the winter is trying to steal the warmth right out of my bones."
Bai Qi didn't hear her. His eyes were fixed on the heavy oak doors of the villa. Shu Yao was still inside. He hadn't come back out. The silence from the hallway was a deafening roar in his ears.
Ming Su noticed his distraction, and her grip on his arm tightened ever so slightly. She leaned in, her smile radiant for the benefit of the passing photographers, though her eyes remained as cold as the ice in the fountain.
"Can I use the bathroom for a minute,
Ah qi?" she asked, tilting her head. "I feel like my lips are begging for more gloss. I wouldn't want to look anything less than perfect."
Bai Qi gave a curt, distracted nod. "Sure why not."
Ming Su turned, her smile widening into a smirk as soon as her back was to him. The bathroom was a lie. She wasn't seeking a mirror; she was seeking the end of the Rothenberg legacy.
Inside, Ming Su's graceful stride changed. The moment she was out of Bai Qi's sight, her expression curdled into one of profound loathing. She walked through the grand parlor, where a massive Christmas tree towered over a mountain of gold-wrapped presents. A group of children, the offspring of various business titans, were playing nearby.
In his excitement, a young boy—no more than six—came sprinting around the corner. He collided with Ming Su's leg, stumbling back and landing hard on the polished floor.
Ming Su didn't offer a hand. She didn't offer a smile. She loomed over the child like a dark omen, her voice dropping into a vicious bark. "What the hell have you done, you little brat? Do you have any idea how much this dress costs?"
The boy's face crumpled. His eyes went wide with terror as he looked up at the "pretty lady" who had suddenly turned into a monster. He began to sob, a high-pitched, frantic sound that made the other children freeze in place.
Ming Su didn't care. She pivoted on her heel, her anger simmering, and strode away before a parent could witness the crack in her facade.
Shu Yao was walking toward the garden exit when he saw her. He pressed himself against the wall as Ming Su passed, his heart hammering against his ribs. She look—too focused, too hurried. She vanished through the service doors leading toward the kitchens.