Summary: In the stillness that follows revelation, truths are read in silence, and legacies long hidden rise to the surface, carried not with noise, but with reverence. As one name reshapes everything, the weight of it nearly breaks her. But love, spoken through touch instead of words, holds her steady. And in the quiet, where no one demands anything of her, she finally begins to rest.
Chapter Fifty-One
The room was silent again, still thick with the emotions left behind by four letters that had each, in their own way, peeled open something deep, something old and buried.
Yao had not spoken since reading her mother's words. Her fingers had trembled once, and Sicheng had tightened his grip over her hand, anchoring her, grounding her. Lan stood quietly to the side, unreadable, but her eyes never left Yao. Sheng had pulled Yue into a rare moment of stillness, his hand resting lightly on his younger son's shoulder.
But now, there was one box left.
The fifth.
It sat quietly at the end of the table, as if it had waited patiently for the others to be opened first, knowing that whatever it held would come last because it would change everything.
Yao reached for it slowly. Her fingers curled around the latch. And the moment it clicked open, she could tell—this wasn't sentimental, or softly wrapped in emotion.
This was business.
Power.
Inside were ledgers. Dozens of them.
Tightly bound, meticulously kept. The paper was newer than what she'd found in the fourth box, but the handwriting on the notes tucked between entries— still her mother's. Dates ran up to the very year her mother had died, and even after, other handwriting picked up the mantle, still following her mother's instructions, still adding pages.
Yao flipped slowly through them. At first, it was typical—market holdings, property portfolios, real estate ventures. More corporate assets. Then international names started appearing. Brands she recognized. A few her mother had mentioned once, vaguely. Some she had never heard of. But then—halfway through a leather-bound ledger sealed with red ribbon—she stopped breathing.
There it was.
Riot Games.
League of Legends.
Her eyes widened, scanning the ledger again.
It wasn't just a small investment. It wasn't a few thousand shares tucked into a corner account.
It was majority holding.
Acquired quietly over years, positioned under a corporate veil that masked it beneath a layered structure of companies—all legal, all clean. All pointing back to her mother's estate.
She turned the page.
And there—another name hit her like ice poured through her veins.
Tencent.
The parent company.
She flipped again, and saw more—more evidence, more notarized pages detailing that this wasn't just an accidental inheritance. This had been intentional.
Riot was under Tencent, yes.
But Tencent… belonged to the estate.
Belonged to her.
And below that, a sealed folder with her name handwritten on the front.
She opened it.
Inside was a single sheet.
A notarized document—signed by a name she didn't recognize at first, until she saw the note beneath in her mother's handwriting: "Your father's closest friend. I trusted him then. I trust him still."
The instructions were clear:
Upon presentation of identity and estate confirmation, full controlling interest of holdings—domestic and international—are to be transferred to Miss Tong Yao, legal heir of Xu Roulan and Tong Liyan.
The final line made her vision blur: "When she is ready, it is hers."
Her hand shook. The folder trembled in her grip. She stared at the page, but the words wouldn't settle.
Sicheng, sensing the change in her posture, stepped closer. "Yao—"
She said nothing. Just held up the paper with numb fingers and whispered, "I own Riot Games." The silence that followed was thick. No one moved. "I own Riot," she repeated, breathless. "It's under Tencent. It's all… mine. All of it."
Lan's eyes sharpened like glass.
"Wait—what?" Sheng blinked, stunned for the first time in hours.
"I just have to bring proof to my father's friend," Yao said, the words catching in her throat. "And it's mine. All of it."
Yue's jaw dropped. "You mean to tell me my sister-in-law—"
"Owns the game you idiots play for a living?" Lan finished for him, her tone a mix of awe and something bordering on smug approval.
Sicheng, still beside her, stared down at the page. His expression didn't move—but his eyes said it all.
Shock.
Understanding.
And pride that burned like fire.
For a moment, the room was frozen—suspended in stunned silence as the weight of what Yao had just discovered settled over everyone like a thunderclap.
Tong Yao, soft-spoken, Shy introverted, logic-driven, reserved to a fault, who had once rationed instant noodles while balancing research hours and game reviews—was now, without question, the silent, unseen majority owner of Riot Games and, through that, the umbrella of Tencent.
It didn't just change her life.
It changed everything.
And then—
Yue, bless his soul, blinked twice and broke the silence with a wide-eyed grin. "Oh my God, the guys are going to lose their shit. Can you imagine Pang's face when—"
"Don't you dare!"
Yao's voice cut through the air like a crack of lightning—sharp, loud, and laced with something none of them had ever heard from her before: pure, unfiltered command.
They all jumped.
Even Lan blinked.
Even Sicheng raised an eyebrow.
Yao had whirled around, eyes wide, expression flaring with disbelief and panic as she pointed directly at Yue, her finger trembling slightly—not from fear, but from sheer adrenaline. "Not. A. Word." she snapped, the words hitting like thrown daggers.
Yue opened his mouth, but she stepped forward, stabbing her finger through the air again, cheeks flushed and voice rising with every syllable.
"I mean it! No jokes. No teasing. No offhand comments. No dramatic reveals during scrims or while you're beating someone on stream! I don't care how funny it sounds! You say nothing, do you hear me?"
Yue, stunned, nodded slowly, both hands up in surrender. "Okay, okay—no need to go full Dragon Queen on me."
Yao narrowed her eyes. "I own the company that runs everything. Do you know what kind of madness that could start?! The leaks? The media? The fan theories? The legal chaos?!"
"I said okay!" Yue yelped, looking to Sicheng for backup. "She's scarier than you."
"She's always been scarier than me," Sicheng said without missing a beat, arms folded, expression mostly calm—except for the corner of his mouth, which was twitching as he fought back a smirk.
Yao just stared at the fifth box like it had betrayed her on a molecular level.
And Sheng, breaking into a slow grin, leaned back in his chair. "Roulan really left a dragon in rabbit's clothing," he murmured.
Yao stood there with her hand still half-raised from pointing at Yue, her chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, her thoughts spinning far too fast for her to catch. The folder she'd been holding now rested on the table, forgotten, and the last box—the one that had just upended every reality she thought she knew—sat gaping open beside it, its quiet contents carrying the weight of an empire. She stared at it for another long second, then muttered under her breath, voice sharp and breathless with disbelief. "I don't even drink," she said, almost accusingly to no one in particular. "I don't like alcohol… but right now? I want a drink."
Yue, still perched half-on the edge of a nearby seat, lifted his hands like he was trying to hold back laughter, then looked at her with wide-eyed wonder. "I mean… you sure you want to keep it secret?"
That did it.
Yao slowly turned her head toward him with the weight and deliberation of a predator zeroing in on prey. Her expression said everything before she even opened her mouth—a sharp, withering look that communicated judgment, disappointment, and a very clear warning that he was already on thin ice.
Sicheng didn't say anything. He didn't have to. He just crossed his arms over his chest and turned his gaze onto his younger brother—a slow, dark, unimpressed stare that would have frozen most living things in place.
Yue shrank back an inch. "I was just asking—"
Yao closed her eyes for a long moment, exhaled through her nose, and when she opened them again, the fight had drained from her voice. What was left was something raw. Quiet. Honest. "I hate the spotlight," she said softly. "I hate being watched. I hate when people try to spin me into something I'm not. I've worked hard just to be seen as me—not anyone's symbol, not anyone's project." Her eyes lifted to Yue's, steady now, though her tone remained low and pained. "If you open your mouth," she said clearly, "because you want bragging rights that your brother's Intended owns Riot Games… I won't just be upset." She paused, her voice slipping to something sharper. "I will never speak to you again."
Yue's mouth opened slightly.
Yao lifted her hand and pointed again—this time directly at Sicheng. "And I'll leave your fate to him."
Yue's eyes darted to his brother, whose look had only darkened further.
Sicheng arched a brow slowly, his voice cold and flat. "Do you really want to test how creative I can be when I'm disappointed in someone?"
Yue let out a strained laugh. "Nope. Got it. Secret. Not saying a word. Mum's the word. I didn't even read the box. I don't even know how to spell Riot anymore."
Sheng gave a faint, low whistle. "I've never seen him retreat this fast."
Lan sipped her tea, serene as ever. "Good. Then perhaps he's finally learning self-preservation."
Yao didn't speak again. She just turned slowly back toward the table, looked down at the documents—and muttered under her breath again. "I really, really want a drink."
Lan didn't need to be asked. The moment she saw the pale cast to Yao's face and the way her fingers hovered just slightly above the edge of the fifth box, trembling from the weight of it all—power, legacy, expectation—she rose to her feet with the cool precision of a woman who had already anticipated the next ten steps before anyone else had taken the first. She turned to Sheng, not even speaking aloud at first, just meeting his eyes with a silent command.
Sheng, for once, didn't crack a joke. He gave a small nod, rose, and together the two of them slipped from the viewing room in a quiet, fluid movement—already moving to secure someone within the bank who could provide a proper travel safe. Something with reinforced casing. Protected. Sealed. Something worthy of carrying the pieces of a legacy Xu Roulan had built stone by stone and hidden until the right hands could carry it.
Meanwhile, inside the room, Yao stood in front of the open fifth box, her arms folded in front of her like a fragile shield, her breathing shallow. The cool air of the private vault room did nothing to calm the flush that had crept up the back of her neck or the knot that had settled hard in her chest. She hadn't touched the papers again. Hadn't moved. Not since the letter to her mother's unknown heir—her future—had led to the unraveling of an entire empire now sitting under her fingertips.
Sicheng stood silently beside her, not crowding, not hovering—but present, his attention fixed solely on her. He could see it—the too-quiet fall of her shoulders, the subtle way she was drawing inward. She was processing. She wasn't backing down, not breaking—but the sheer volume of everything left her at the edge of collapse. And so he spoke, quiet and certain. "My spare office safe is empty."
Yao blinked slowly, eyes lifting toward him.
"It's fireproof, digital lock, no access but me. It'll hold everything—documents, keys, that jewelry if you want it kept away for now. Until we figure out how you want it all stored properly." He paused, then added, "It's already yours if you need it."
The muscles in her jaw shifted slightly, her head bowing again—not in submission, but in sheer emotional fatigue. She stared at the table for another long moment, then finally spoke, her voice quiet and stretched thin. "Can we go back?"
Sicheng's brow furrowed slightly.
Her fingers curled against her arm, eyes cast down again. "To the suite," she whispered. "Please."
Sicheng didn't respond with words yet. He stepped closer, gently reached out, and placed his hand at the small of her back—not guiding, just there, warm and grounding. "Yeah," he murmured. "Let's go."
And just like that, she moved. Not with strength. But with trust. Because in that moment, going back didn't mean running. It meant she had someone to walk with her into the quiet—so she could breathe again.
The moment they stepped back into the quiet of the Palace Suite, the weight Yao had been carrying visibly settled onto her shoulders in full. She didn't need to say a word—her silence was louder than any breakdown, her exhaustion pressed into every small movement as she slipped off her boots and stepped out of her jacket with methodical slowness.
Sicheng didn't hover. He took the reinforced travel safe that had been delivered, quietly loaded it with her documents, the velvet cases, and the sealed letters she hadn't yet been able to bring herself to read again. Once everything was tucked away, he moved to the far wall of the suite where the built-in security safe was hidden discreetly behind a panel. It was top-grade, biometric-locked and double-encrypted, and he didn't hesitate to input the code and press his fingerprint to the scanner before placing the travel safe inside.
Once secured, he turned back to find Yao standing there, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve, eyes distant. He walked over, lifted his hand, and gently brushed his knuckles down her arm. "Bath. Now," he said softly, but firmly. "I already asked the staff to set it up—oils, salts, the whole thing. Go let the heat do its job. I'll be right back."
Yao blinked, eyes lifting to meet his, and she gave a small, weary nod before turning toward the bathroom. The soft sound of water running followed a few moments later.
As soon as he heard the door close, Sicheng crossed the suite and stepped into the hallway. The door across from theirs—the one to the Peninsula Suite—opened the second he knocked.
Yue peeked out first, eyes already wary. "She okay?"
Sicheng didn't answer immediately. He walked in and closed the door behind him.
Lan looked up from the armchair where she was reviewing something on her tablet. Sheng had just started pouring himself a glass of wine. Both paused, sensing the shift in the room.
But Sicheng didn't look at either of them. He looked directly at his younger brother.
Yue, still halfway through an open can of soda, immediately went still. "…What did I do?"
The stare that met him was hard. Cold. Controlled.
"You," Sicheng said, his voice low and razor-sharp, "have a habit of speaking before thinking. Most of the time, it's just embarrassing. Sometimes, it's mildly dangerous."
Yue blinked. "I haven't said anything—"
"I know," Sicheng cut in. "And you're going to keep it that way. Because what Yao learned today? What she has to carry now? Is hers. Not yours. Not mine. Hers."
Yue's brows drew together, some of the defensive edge fading from his posture.
"If you ever reveal anything from today without her permission," Sicheng continued, tone cooling further, "you won't just be dealing with her disappointment. Or mine." He stepped forward once, eyes narrowing, voice dipping into something far more dangerous. "I will call our uncle."
Yue's mouth opened.
"And I will have you reassigned to a disciplinary post in the military until you learn what the word filter means."
Lan didn't flinch.
Sheng winced faintly and sipped his wine.
Yue, eyes wide, actually gulped. "You wouldn't," he muttered weakly.
"I would," Sicheng said flatly. "And Uncle wouldn't even ask why. He'd just say, 'It's about time.' "
Yue blinked. "You're serious."
"Deadly."
"...You do realize I like my civilian privileges, right?"
"Then keep your mouth shut," Sicheng said. "This isn't about pride or bragging rights. This is her. Her safety. Her sanity. Her choice. And if you take that from her, even by accident?" His voice dropped to a near whisper. "Not even Mother will save you."
Lan, without looking up from her tablet, calmly sipped her tea. "He's right."
Yue sank slowly into the armrest. "Okay, okay. Not a word. Not even a hint. I won't even say the letter R."
Sicheng turned on his heel, satisfied. And walked back across the hall, to the woman who trusted him enough to fall asleep with her heart in his hands.
As the door clicked softly shut behind Lu Sicheng, the silence in the suite lingered for a beat too long, heavy with the echo of his words and the sharpness of the authority he'd just wielded.
Yue remained slouched on the armrest, his expression stunned, his soda can held loosely between two fingers as if he had completely forgotten it existed.
Lu Sheng, still holding his wine glass, tilted it slightly and gave a quiet, approving whistle under his breath. "Well. That was... thorough."
But it was Lan who finally broke the silence with a single murmur, quiet but rich with something weightier than surprise. "I've never been more proud."
Both men turned to look at her.
She didn't lift her eyes from her tablet, nor did her posture shift, legs crossed, expression serene, one hand lightly turning a page on the screen. But the small, subtle smile that touched the edge of her lips betrayed the truth of her words. Pride. Real pride. Not the kind born of power or strategy or even performance—but of growth. Of witnessing the full measure of a son she had once worried had too much cold steel and not enough warmth to balance it. "I knew he'd protect her." she murmured, her voice softer now, more thoughtful. "But I didn't expect him to love her like this."
Sheng raised his glass in silent agreement. "He's not just in love, Lan. He's chosen her. That was the voice of a man who'd go to war for her without blinking."
Lan gave a small nod. "Then she's finally safe."
Yue, slowly recovering, muttered under his breath, "I don't know whether to be relieved or terrified."
Lan glanced over her tablet with a single arched brow. "Both are appropriate responses."
An hour passed in silence, the soft rush of water from the bath having long faded into the background as the suite settled into a kind of muted calm. The heavy press of everything they had uncovered—the letters, the legacy, the power she'd never asked for—still lingered in the air like storm clouds refusing to drift away. The door to the bathroom eased open with a faint creak, and Yao shuffled out slowly, each step quiet, unhurried. Steam still clung faintly to her skin, strands of platinum hair falling damp around her shoulders, the rest twisted loosely into a towel's edge. She wore nothing else—just the white towel wrapped around her chest, tucked securely, hanging just to mid-thigh.
Normally, she would have been flustered by that. She would've flushed. Would've darted for her dresser or muttered an apology under her breath, cheeks pink and gaze averted. But tonight? She just didn't have it in her. Not the energy to care. Not the strength to shrink. She walked quietly to the bed and lowered herself onto its edge, her posture slumped forward, shoulders loose, eyes unfocused as she stared down at her knees. Her fingers played absently with the hem of the towel, but it was mechanical, like her body was still in motion while her mind sat somewhere else entirely.
A minute passed.
Then two.
And then the soft sound of footsteps drew her gaze up.
Sicheng walked in from the other side of the suite, dressed in dark lounging pants and a simple black shirt, his hair still damp from his own shower. The shirt clung lightly to his frame, casual but clean, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His steps paused just inside the doorway to their room when he saw her sitting there. He didn't say anything at first. Just stood there, watching her quietly.
Yao didn't lift her head. Her voice came out soft, almost hoarse. "I don't think I've ever been this tired before." It wasn't about her body. It was everything else. The kind of exhaustion that came from discovery, from truth, from holding the weight of people's intentions—even the good ones—for far too long.
Sicheng stepped forward slowly, not rushing, not crowding. He crouched in front of her, settling onto his heels so he could meet her at eye level, his hands resting on her knees, warm and grounding. "You don't have to do anything else tonight," he murmured. "You've done enough."
Her eyes blinked once, unfocused, before locking onto his. "I didn't think it would feel like this."
"I know."
"I thought it would be freeing."
"It will be."
"But right now?"
"It feels heavy," he finished for her, his thumb brushing gently over the edge of her towel where it met her knee. "Because it is."
She didn't respond right away. Then, slowly, she shifted forward—just enough to rest her forehead against his shoulder and for once, she didn't say anything at all. Because she didn't have to.
Sicheng remained still for a moment, crouched in front of her with her forehead resting against his shoulder, the warmth of her breath brushing through the fabric of his shirt. One of his hands gently slid up from her knee to rest at her hip, fingers pressing softly through the towel as if he could absorb her exhaustion, take just a little of it for himself. She didn't pull away, didn't flinch, just leaned into him—quiet, trusting. He closed his eyes for a moment, then pulled back slightly, just enough to tilt his head and catch her gaze.
"Yao-er."
She blinked slowly, lifting her head, eyes bleary with fatigue but still steady as they met his.
His voice remained low, smooth, but there was something quieter beneath it—something careful. "Do you trust me?"
The question caught her off guard—not because of the words, but the intensity behind them. Her brows furrowed just a little, but her answer was immediate, instinctive. "Always."
That one word, soft as it was, settled into the space between them like a vow.
Sicheng gave the faintest nod, brushing a stray piece of damp hair away from her cheek as he spoke again, slow and deliberate this time. "Then lie down for me," he murmured. "Face down. I want to give you a massage."
She stared at him, confusion flickering across her features. "A massage…?"
His hand slid along her waist again, grounding her with gentle pressure. "You've been holding everything too tight," he said quietly. "Your shoulders haven't dropped since the bank. I can feel it. You're trembling and you don't even realize it."
She opened her mouth, then closed it.
"I want you to lay down," he said again, a little softer this time. "Front to the mattress. Let your towel stay around your hips. I'm not going to push further than what you're comfortable with, but you need to breathe, Xiǎo tùzǐ. You need to let go of some of this weight."
Yao stared at him. Then slowly, cautiously, she nodded. She stood from the bed without a word, and he watched her as she moved—graceful even in her exhaustion. She crossed to her side of the bed, pulled back the comforter, and climbed in. The mattress dipped beneath her small frame as she shifted, arranging herself just as he asked. Her towel remained securely knotted at her hips, covering her from the waist down, but her back—bare, delicate, and damp from the bath—was now fully exposed. She lay still, head turned to the side, hair pulled away from her neck with one hand as she waited.
Vulnerable.
Trusting.
And entirely his.
Sicheng didn't move right away. He stayed there for a breath longer, watching her settle into the mattress—her shoulders rising and falling with each quiet breath, the soft white towel hugging her hips and nothing more. Her skin was still slightly damp from the bath, flushed faintly from heat, and her platinum hair lay swept to one side, baring the elegant line of her neck, her shoulders, her spine.
She was beautiful.
But right now, she was also tired.
And trusting.
He moved silently, quietly rising to his feet and crossing the suite, retrieving the small glass bottle of massage oil that had been delivered earlier by the front desk. He had asked for it before they even returned from the bank—just in case. Because he knew her. Knew how she internalized. Knew the kind of exhaustion she never spoke about, never allowed to show until it broke through the surface. As he moved, he pulled the blinds shut, the daylight beyond casting soft golden streaks across the edges of the room before slipping away behind thick blackout fabric. The sounds of the city disappeared with it, replaced by the muted hush of the dimmed space.
He turned next to the lights—reaching for the dimmer on the wall and lowering them until only a soft, amber glow filled the room. It wrapped around the space gently, casting delicate shadows along her bare skin, the curves of her shoulders, the slope of her back.
Everything became still. Soft. Safe.
Bottle in hand, he walked back to the bed with measured steps, each one intentional, his presence neither looming nor hesitant. Just there. When he reached her side, he opened the bottle and warmed a small pool of oil in his palms, rubbing them together slowly until the scent—light, calming, something like sandalwood and lavender—rose between them in subtle waves.
She didn't move. Didn't flinch. Her trust in him was total. And when he finally reached down and placed his hands gently on her back—thumbs pressing just beside her spine, his palms sliding up across her shoulder blades with expert, fluid pressure—she exhaled a breath she didn't even realize she'd been holding.
"Just relax," he murmured, his voice a low, grounding hum. "I've got you." His hands moved slowly, deliberately, the warmed oil gliding across her skin as his fingers began their careful work—starting at her shoulders, easing the tension buried deep beneath the surface. The moment his thumbs pressed in, firm but unhurried, a quiet, fragile sound slipped from her throat—half sigh, half whimper—not of pain, but of release.
Sicheng felt the way her muscles resisted at first, taut and straining from how long she'd been holding everything in. But he was patient. His hands swept over her again, coaxing each knot loose with precise pressure, gliding down the curve of her back and returning in slow, circling strokes that lingered at the base of her neck, just beneath the damp strands of her hair.
Her skin, still flushed from the bath, warmed beneath his palms. Her breathing grew slower, deeper, the shallow tension beginning to melt as she sank further into the mattress with every pass of his hands.
"You carry everything here," he murmured, his voice soft as his thumbs moved in slow, practiced circles over the edges of her shoulder blades. "Like you're responsible for keeping the world steady."
She didn't answer. But her hands curled slightly into the blanket, and he felt her body relax a fraction more.
He slid his palms down again, this time pressing along the line of her spine, following the natural dips and curves until he reached the small of her back. There, he paused, let his thumbs gently dig into either side of the muscle, slowly kneading until her hips gave a faint, involuntary twitch.
She whimpered again—barely audible. Not in discomfort. But from the sheer unfamiliarity of being taken care of like this.
Sicheng shifted slightly, adjusting his weight to one knee as he leaned closer, his hands never leaving her body, gliding back up again, spreading warmth along her ribs, her sides, then returning to the center. Every motion was intentional. Controlled. Reverent. "I told you I'd take care of you," he whispered, fingers dancing just along the edge of the towel where it curled around her hips. "And I meant it."
Still, she didn't speak. But her body told the truth. The way she arched slightly into his touch, the way her breath hitched when he found the tightest spots and loosened them with slow, steady pressure. She was letting go, little by little, and that was all he wanted tonight. Not control. Not desire. Just her. Unwinding. Unburdened.
His hands moved again, this time up her arms, fingertips trailing softly from her elbows to her wrists and back, before pressing into her shoulders once more with long, dragging strokes that coaxed her further toward peace. By the time he leaned in and whispered against the back of her neck, his breath a feather-light tease of heat, "You're allowed to rest, Yao…"
She had already melted beneath him, the tension gone from her limbs, her body warm and pliant beneath his touch as if her soul had finally, finally given her permission to stop.
Sicheng's hands never left her, and neither did his focus. As her body softened beneath his touch, as the guarded steel in her muscles gave way to something that felt dangerously close to surrender, he adjusted—kneeling beside her now, one knee pressed into the mattress, his weight anchored low and solid to keep the rhythm of his movements fluid. The oil glistened faintly in the dim amber light as his palms slid once more over her back, from her shoulders to the small of her spine, following the lines of her body like he was memorizing them with every stroke.
She didn't speak. Not once. But he felt her responses like a language—silent, wordless, more honest than anything either of them could've said aloud. When his thumbs dipped along the sides of her spine again, slower now, more coaxing than pressing, Yao let out the faintest breath of a moan. It wasn't one of heat—it wasn't the sound of desire. It was vulnerability. The kind that only happened when a body finally realized it was allowed to feel.
"You're doing perfect," he murmured, voice close to her ear now as he leaned in, his breath brushing against the damp strands at her temple. "Just stay with me."
His hands glided lower once more, working into the muscles around her waist, the points of tension he could feel had been ignored for far too long—where stress had buried itself so deeply she probably hadn't even realized it hurt until now.
Every time she twitched, every little hitch of breath, every unconscious arch or stretch—he adjusted. He followed. Responded without hesitation. She shivered slightly as his hands moved further down, resting at the edge of the towel that hugged her hips. His fingers didn't stray. They didn't rush. He remained right there, palms pressing gently along the outer curve of her waist, thumbs kneading into the muscles of her lower back where her tension pooled most stubbornly.
"I'm right here," he said again, lower this time, his voice slipping over her skin like silk. "I've got you, Xiǎo tùzǐ."
Her fingers, curled loosely near her head, twitched once more—grasping at nothing, like she was trying to tether herself to the moment, unsure if she was still floating or falling.
He leaned closer, just enough for his lips to ghost the shell of her ear. "You don't have to think," he whispered. "Not tonight. Not now. Just feel. Let it go." His hands moved with infinite care, slow and certain, tracing every line of her back and hips, pressing his thumbs up into the tight spaces where the towel folded at her sides. Each stroke dragged tension from her body like waves pulling sand from the shore—gently, rhythmically, until her body was so soft beneath him she felt weightless. He could tell she was close to sleep—drifting, teetering between wakefulness and something quieter, safer. Her breathing was deeper now. Slower. Her skin warm and flushed, dewy beneath the soft layer of oil. And still, he kept going. Because she hadn't asked him to stop and he wasn't going to stop until she didn't need to carry anything—not even herself.
Sicheng's hands moved with a slow, reverent precision, his thumbs pressing in deep, drawing one last whisper of tension from the curve where her spine met the soft swell of her hips. His touch remained steady, never faltering, never rushing. Not once did he cross the line of what she hadn't offered—because this wasn't about taking, it was about giving.
Giving her space.
Giving her peace.
Giving her what no one else ever had—room to fall apart without being asked to explain why. Her breathing had shifted now. Slower. Heavier. That trembling edge had smoothed out, her muscles no longer resisting his touch but molding into it. Beneath the soft weight of his hands, she had unraveled, every motion peeling away the tension she always wore like armor.
He swept his palms up again, back to her shoulders, curling his fingers beneath the delicate curve of her neck. He dragged his thumbs outward, under her collarbones, and then back down in long, even strokes, each one softer than the last, like he was smoothing her down into the mattress.
Yao made a soft sound, a slow, helpless exhale—barely a breath, but raw. It reached inside of him and twisted something low and deep in his chest. His lips brushed the back of her shoulder, featherlight.
"I'm here," he murmured again.
Not a promise.
A fact.
She shifted only slightly, a twitch of her fingers, a roll of her shoulders as if to press back into him. But her body remained loose, pliant, caught in that tender stillness that came not from surrender but from being held. Not physically—though she was—but emotionally. Entirely. Without pressure.
Sicheng set the oil down on the bedside table, his movements quiet, fluid. Then he moved again, slow as ever, brushing a fresh towel over her back to gently blot away the excess oil, every pass of the cloth more like a caress than a task. She didn't stir. Not even when he leaned closer and pressed his lips to the crown of her head, breathing her in, letting her scent curl into his lungs like something sacred. He whispered against her hair. "Sleep, Yao. I've got you."
She didn't answer. She didn't have to. Her body already had—when it stopped bracing. When it finally let go. And as she lay there, wrapped in the soft safety of their shared silence, Sicheng stayed right beside her—eyes on her, hand resting at her hip, anchored and still. Because she was resting now. And he would keep her safe until the moment she woke.
Sicheng watched her for a long moment, her breathing soft and even, lips parted slightly as she lay on her stomach in the golden hush of the room. She hadn't moved since the massage ended, too deep in sleep to even stir as the weight of exhaustion pulled her down into something finally resembling peace. He moved only when he was sure she was completely gone—no flinching, no tension, no reaction to his shift on the mattress. With a slow exhale, he reached for one of his shirts from the dresser nearby—a simple, oversized black cotton one she'd borrowed before, the fabric soft from wear. Returning to the bed, he knelt beside her carefully, mindful of every movement, of the trust she'd placed in him, even unconscious.
He didn't rush. Didn't look anywhere he wasn't meant to. When he slipped his fingers beneath the knot of the towel and gently unwrapped it from her hips, he did so with the same reverence he used to smooth her tension away. He set the towel aside, draped the soft cotton shirt over her back, then carefully lifted her just enough to ease her arms through the sleeves one by one. Not once did his gaze stray. Not once did his touch wander.
He was quiet. Focused.
Present.
The shirt slipped down her body with ease, the hem settling just past her thighs, the collar loose around her collarbone. He folded the towel, stood, and moved across the room to toss it into the suite's hamper before returning to her. He didn't pull away from her. Instead, he moved slowly beneath the covers, careful not to shift the mattress too much as he slid in behind her. One arm wrapped around her waist as he pulled the blankets up and over them both, tucking her gently against his chest.
Her body responded instinctively, sighing as she curled back into him, legs tangling just slightly, her head nestling beneath his chin like it belonged there. He watched her for another moment—just breathing her in, steady, grounding himself in the warmth of her trust—before reaching for his phone from the nightstand with his free hand.
Opening a message window, he typed one line to his mother.
To: #OneHarpy
From: Your Favorite Son
Yao and I are staying in for the rest of the day and night. Don't send anyone up.
He stared at the screen for a moment before adding:
She's safe. She's resting. I'll make sure it stays that way.
Then he set the phone back down, locked the screen, and wrapped his arm more securely around her. Outside, the city moved on. But inside this quiet corner of the world, he held her close and didn't let go.