She stopped.
For a moment, the air between them felt suspended.
Slowly, she turned her head—not fully facing him, but enough to acknowledge the sound.
She did not see the proud businessman.
She saw a tired, regretful man who had finally begun to understand what his inaction had cost.
In his mind, he had always believed he was not a bad father. Strict, perhaps. Distant. But not cruel. He had convinced himself that turning a blind eye was the same as maintaining peace. That avoiding confrontation was wisdom.
Now, regrets flooded him.
Every ignored bruise.
Every quiet plea.
Every moment he chose reputation over truth.
For Ling Mu's death—though he had not wielded the weapon—his pursuit, his weakness, his silence had paved the road.
"I'm sorry," he repeated faintly.
Hua Jing did not walk back to him.
She did not embrace him.
She did not cry.
After a long pause, she spoke softly.
"Take care of yourself."
It was neither forgiveness nor rejection.
Just a closing.
