Snow fell gently beyond the wide bay windows of the Wang estate, blanketing the world in shimmering white. The air inside was thick with tension, fear, and the fragile beauty of new beginnings.
Xu Ling's body trembled with exhaustion as the pain returned in waves — sharp, relentless, unstoppable. Her cries echoed through the quiet night, muffled by the soft rustle of linen and the hurried voices of the household staff.
"Hold on, Miss Xu," said Aunt Mei, her hands trembling as she dabbed sweat from Xu Ling's brow. "The doctor's almost here. You're strong — just a little longer."
Xu Ling's fingers gripped the blanket, knuckles white. Her breath came shallow, her heart pounding with both terror and determination. For so long she had run — from cruelty, from guilt, from the ghosts of the past. But now, there was nowhere left to run.
Two small lives were depending on her.
---
Outside the door, Wang Zheng paced like a restless storm. His usually calm face was tight with worry, his shirt undone, his eyes red from sleepless nights.
"Has the doctor arrived yet?" he demanded.
"He's inside now, sir," replied Old Chen, the aging gardener who had rushed from the greenhouse the moment he heard the news. "The whole house is praying for her."
Wang Zheng said nothing, only turned toward the door again — waiting, listening, silently pleading with fate to be kind.
He didn't know how this woman, fragile yet unbreakable, had managed to carve her way into his life. She was a mystery wrapped in pain — a soul that had nearly drowned, yet still smiled at the morning sun.
---
Hours passed before the silence was broken.
Then — the first cry.
High, piercing, and beautiful.
Followed by another — softer, gentler, yet equally alive.
The doctor emerged, sweat beading his forehead but smiling nonetheless. "Congratulations, Mr. Wang," he said. "Two healthy twin boys."
For a second, Wang Zheng could only stare. Then relief washed over him like a tide.
He entered the room slowly, as if stepping into a sacred space. Xu Ling lay there, pale but glowing with quiet strength. In her arms, two tiny bundles squirmed and whimpered softly.
Her eyes met his, shimmering with tears. "They're… so small," she whispered, her voice breaking with awe.
He sat beside her, careful not to disturb the newborns. "You did it," he said softly. "You brought them safely into this world."
Her lips trembled, and tears finally spilled down her cheeks. "I didn't think… I'd live to see this moment."
"You deserve peace," Wang Zheng said gently. "You and them both."
---
Later that night, as the snow turned to mist, the Wang household was alive with quiet joy.
Madam Wang, regal and sharp-tongued as ever, wiped at her eyes and ordered the servants to prepare longevity noodles.
Old General Wang stood proudly in the corner, pretending not to smile.
"These children," he murmured, "will bring luck to this house."
Downstairs, Chef Tao stayed up baking sweet buns, muttering happily that every birth was a blessing. The younger servants — Mei Lan, Bo, and Xiao Rui — giggled as they decorated the living room with red ribbons.
For the first time in years, the Wang estate felt alive.
---
Xu Ling, however, couldn't sleep.
She sat by the window, the two babies swaddled beside her. The moonlight spilled across their tiny faces, identical yet distinct. She reached out and brushed her fingers over one's cheek — warm, soft, innocent.
Her lips parted in a trembling whisper.
"I don't know what your names should be yet… but you'll never have to bear mine with shame."
She smiled faintly, though tears slipped down her cheeks. "You'll grow up free — without the chains I carried."
Behind her, Wang Zheng lingered silently in the doorway. He didn't speak, didn't intrude. He simply watched her — a woman reborn through pain and love she didn't yet understand.
---
Across the sea, Li Wei stood in his high-rise office, unable to rest. The city's skyline glittered beneath him — beautiful, empty, cold.
For months he had searched for her — through forests, rivers, hospitals, orphanages. But every trail had ended the same way: silence.
He pressed his fingers against the glass, his jaw tightening.
"Xu Ling…"
Her name still tasted like regret.
That night, as her newborn sons slept thousands of miles away, he felt something — a flicker of warmth deep in his chest, followed by an ache he couldn't explain.
The world shifted quietly. Fate had just drawn its next thread.