Summary: In the quiet aftermath of revelation, Tong Yao begins to unravel—not from weakness, but from the unbearable weight of everything left unsaid. As fears rise and truth cracks open the walls she's spent years building, it isn't legacy that saves her. It's love. Steady. Relentless. And in the arms of the one who sees her fully, she finds not just safety—but clarity. The world may never understand what she's inherited. But he does. And he's not letting her face it alone.
Chapter Fifty-Two
The suite was dim, lit only by the faint golden glow of a lamp left on in the far corner of the bedroom, its light casting soft shadows over the bed where they lay wrapped together beneath warm covers. The city outside was silent now, wrapped in its own lull, but within the walls of their shared space, the stillness was intimate. Sacred.
Sicheng had remained awake for hours, content simply to hold her, to feel the rise and fall of her breath against his chest, to listen to the way her body relaxed in sleep. His hand had never left her waist, fingers gently tracing idle patterns over the cotton of the shirt he'd dressed her in, the fabric rising and falling softly with each movement.
And then—she stirred.
Yao shifted slightly, her leg brushing along his, the movement subtle but unmistakable. A soft sound left her lips, followed by the warm nuzzle of her nose against the curve of his neck as she slowly blinked awake. Her hazel eyes were dazed and drowsy, still caught in the warmth of sleep, lashes fluttering against his skin before she looked up at him with that sweet, sleepy gaze that never failed to unravel him.
"Hey," he whispered, brushing her hair back from her face.
She hummed softly in response, eyes still half-lidded as she pressed closer.
"How do you feel?" he asked, voice low, thick with quiet emotion and something deeper—something beginning to stir just beneath the surface.
Yao's lips curved faintly as she whispered, "Wonderful…" her voice carrying that gentle, sleepy tone that made his heart clench with something both tender and possessive.
He smiled, dark and slow, before bending down and catching her mouth in a kiss—deep, unhurried, and full of a kind of sensual affection that spoke volumes. She didn't hesitate. Not this time. She returned it easily, tilting her chin and parting her lips for him with the kind of soft invitation that made him growl low in his chest, a rumble of heat that vibrated through her. He tugged on her bottom lip gently, then pulled back just enough to meet her eyes again. "Are you up for us exploring a little more tonight?" he asked, his voice rougher now, filled with velvet heat and a promise that carried deeper meaning.
Yao flushed immediately, her cheeks turning a delicate shade of red, but she didn't look away. Her eyes stayed on his, wide and full of trust, and she gave the faintest nod before whispering, "Yes…"
The word trembled with shy need.
Sicheng's gaze darkened instantly. The look he gave her next was pure seduction—quiet, consuming, and threaded with desire so heavy it felt like gravity. His hand slid lower along her waist, pausing at her hip before he leaned in again, brushing his lips over hers in a teasing kiss that left them both gasping. "Good," he murmured against her mouth, his voice now deep and sinful. "Because this time, beautiful, I want to taste you."
Yao's breath hitched sharply, her body going still except for the visible shiver that rolled through her. He shifted carefully, kissing down her neck, slow and reverent, his mouth leaving soft, lingering heat along her collarbone as he began the slow descent—one that would end in worship.
Sicheng moved with a kind of patience that made the air feel too heavy to breathe, his mouth grazing along her throat, slow and deliberate, tasting the soft heat of her skin as her pulse fluttered beneath his lips. Each kiss was a declaration, every brush of his tongue a vow, and the way she tilted her head back without hesitation made something inside him ache with reverence.
Yao's fingers clutched lightly at his shirt, the oversized one he had dressed her in earlier, her breath catching when he dragged the hem upward with careful precision. She lifted her arms, allowing him to remove it, exposing her slowly, piece by piece, never rushed, never hurried. The shirt was gone in the next breath, left folded beside the bed, and his eyes didn't devour, they worshipped. She was bathed in soft light, the contrast of her flushed skin against the cool sheets striking something low and primal in him. But he didn't act on impulse. He gave her time, his hands skimming down the outside of her thighs as he knelt between them, coaxing her legs apart with the same reverence he'd used to massage her body earlier.
Yao trembled slightly, her heart hammering against her ribs as she lay bare before him. But she didn't stop him. She didn't ask questions. She only looked at him, her hazel eyes wide, searching—uncertain but trusting.
And he met that gaze as he bent low, placing a kiss on her hip, then another at the inside of her thigh. "You tell me to stop," he murmured, voice low, husky, vibrating through her skin. "At any point. You just say the word, and I stop. But if you let me," his lips brushed against the tender skin just beside her core "I'll make sure you remember this forever."
Yao made a sound then, something between a whimper and a whispered plea, her fingers curling into the sheets, her body already arching slightly toward his mouth.
That was all the answer he needed.
He lowered his head and finally pressed his mouth to her—gentle, slow, and devastating.
She gasped, her back arching in surprise at the sensation, so new and raw it struck through her like lightning. His tongue was firm and controlled, stroking her with an intimacy so deep it stole her breath. He didn't rush. He didn't tease for long. He gave her everything—focused only on the way she trembled, the way she whimpered his name as he licked and sucked her softly, steadily, until her legs began to tighten around his shoulders and her hands fisted in the sheets.
Sicheng growled softly as she cried out his name again, lost in the sensations he was giving her, in the slow, perfect rhythm of his mouth. His hands held her steady, splayed over her thighs to keep her open for him, to feel every twitch, every quiver, as he brought her closer and closer. "Come for me," he murmured against her, voice rough and commanding as his tongue flicked against her clit just right, his lips wrapping around it in one final pull. "I want to feel it, beautiful. Let go for me."
And she did.
Yao shattered, soft, breathless, her entire body arching with a cry as the orgasm tore through her, sharp and overwhelming, her thighs trembling around his head, her fingers clawing at the sheets as the wave crashed over her again and again.
Sicheng didn't move away. He kissed her through it, slower now, gentler, easing her down until her limbs finally loosened and she slumped back against the mattress, spent and gasping. He rose slowly, his lips still slick with her taste, his eyes burning with something deeper than desire as he looked down at her—flushed, panting, glowing in the low light, and his. He leaned over her, brushing his mouth softly across hers. "You're mine," he whispered, breath hot against her lips. "And I'll make sure you never forget what that means."
Yao lay there, her chest rising and falling in uneven waves, each breath still catching softly at the edges as if her body hadn't quite come back to her yet. Her skin glowed in the low light, a flush of pink across her chest and neck, a deeper red blooming over her cheeks that had nothing to do with heat and everything to do with him.
With what he had just done to her. And the way he was looking at her now, hovering above her, one arm braced beside her head, his breath warm against her lips, his eyes dark with possession and something deeper. His expression hadn't shifted from that wicked satisfaction, but beneath it all, there was reverence too, pride in the way she had given herself so openly to him, in the way she had come apart under his mouth without fear.
She blinked slowly, still dazed, her hazel eyes glassy and wide. And then her lips parted, the words barely more than a whisper. "…What about you?"
Sicheng paused, something flickering through his eyes.
Yao swallowed hard, her cheeks burning even deeper as her gaze dropped shyly to his chest. Her fingers moved, trembling slightly as she reached for the fabric of his shirt, curling into it as her voice came again, softer, barely audible. "You… you made me feel so good… and I just…" She bit her lip, clearly overwhelmed and flushed from head to toe, before she forced herself to look up at him, her eyes full of nervous sincerity. "I want to do something for you too."
Sicheng's breath caught. Not because of what she said. But how she said it. There was no seduction in her tone. No practiced tease. No performance. Just that same breathtaking honesty that always undid him—shy, flustered, and brave all at once. Even when nervous, even when completely new to this, she wanted to give. To learn. To love him back with the same intensity he had poured into her. His hand came up, cupping her cheek gently, his thumb brushing along her flushed skin. "You already have." he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.
"But," she whispered, even more flustered now, "I want to do more…"
Sicheng leaned down and kissed her—slow, deep, and unhurried, letting her feel how hard he still was pressed against her thigh, the tension in his body held back only by sheer force of will. When he pulled back, his lips hovered just over hers. "Only if you want to," he said, voice low, rough with restraint. "And if you're not ready, beautiful, I can take care of it myself later. Tonight was for you."
Yao stared at him, breathless, her fingers tightening in his shirt.
And then—
Still red, still nervous, still flustered to her core—
She nodded.
Slowly.
And whispered, "I want to learn."
Sicheng stilled completely. Heat surged low and fast through his body, and for the briefest moment, he thought he might lose the grip he was so carefully keeping on his control. He exhaled sharply through his nose, dragging his gaze away from the way the shirt clung to her thighs, from the nervous bravery in her eyes, and focused—deeply—on her. He lifted a hand and gently cradled her cheek, brushing his thumb across the warmth there. "We'll start slow," he said, his voice hoarse but gentle. "Just with your hand. This isn't about doing everything at once. It's about you learning, comfortably, one step at a time."
Yao nodded, biting her lip as she met his gaze, that same nervous tremble still in her breath but now held together with something more.
Trust.
He guided her slowly backward, settling into a seated position against the headboard and parting his legs slightly, motioning for her to kneel between them. His hands moved to his waistband, and with a practiced ease, he pushed his lounging pants down just enough to free himself, his arousal thick and heavy against his lower abdomen.
Yao's eyes widened slightly, and her breath caught audibly in her throat, but she didn't move away.
Sicheng reached for her hand, cradling it between both of his palms. "Let me show you." He brought her fingers slowly to rest against his length, wrapping her hand around him gently, guiding her pressure until it was just right—neither too soft nor too firm. "You don't have to grip tight," he murmured, his voice growing deeper as she followed his lead. "You're not trying to squeeze—just… feel."
Her hand trembled slightly as she began to move, tentative and unsure.
"That's good," he breathed, his fingers curling around hers, helping her slide upward and then down, his breath hitching when she found the rhythm with only a little guidance. "Slow. Like that. You don't need to rush… this isn't about speed."
She flushed even deeper, watching him closely as her hand moved in slow, careful strokes under his instruction. His muscles tightened, abdomen flexing as he tipped his head back slightly, eyes fluttering shut as a deep sound rumbled in his throat.
"Use your thumb," he said lowly, guiding her fingers to circle around the head. "Right there. Gentle. That spot's sensitive."
She followed, and the sharp breath he sucked in told her she'd done something very right.
"Just like that," he whispered, voice now rough and laced with something dangerous. "You're doing so good, Yao. Look at me."
She did.
And the look he gave her—half-wild with restraint, eyes burning with desire—made her thighs clench together beneath his shirt. "I'm not going to last long," he murmured, lips parting as she continued. "You're too sweet, too beautiful—you have no idea what you're doing to me."
Yao's lips parted, her breath shallow as her strokes grew more fluid, more confident.
His hips jerked slightly, involuntarily, and his fingers gripped the sheets beside him. "Keep going," he growled, low and ragged. "Just like that… beautiful, you're perfect." And then—with a low, guttural moan—he came, spilling over her hand in thick, heated waves as he clenched his jaw and rode it out, his body trembling beneath her touch. His breathing was rough, uneven, as he reached forward, taking her hand gently and guiding it away, leaning in to press a kiss to her forehead, his voice low and thick with emotion. "You were amazing."
Yao blinked up at him, flustered, wide-eyed, breathless.
He chuckled softly, resting his forehead against hers. "Lesson," he murmured, still catching his breath. "Complete." He was just about to reach for the tissue box beside the bed and move to change his now-ruined lounging pants when he paused mid-motion. His body froze, the breath catching hard in his throat, because—
Yao was staring. Not at him. But at her hand. Her flushed face blinked slowly, curiosity gleaming in her hazel eyes as her gaze shifted from the streaks of white on her fingers to his still heaving chest, and then back again. He hadn't even finished sitting up when, with a shy tilt of her head, still wrapped loosely in his oversized shirt, she lifted her hand slightly—
And brought two fingers to her lips.
He didn't move.
Couldn't.
Not when her tongue brushed across her fingertips, testing the taste with a hesitant lick, her expression confused at first, then intrigued, her nose scrunching ever so faintly as she murmured softly, "...Salty…"
And than, his cock twitched hard in his pants, half-soft a second ago and now rapidly surging back to life with a force that had him sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth. "Tong Yao," he ground out, voice low and strained as every muscle in his body went tight, "...what are you doing?"
She blinked up at him, wide-eyed and innocent. "I wanted to know…" she whispered, flushing brighter but not pulling her hand away just yet. "I've never tasted it before, and you have tasted me... so…"
His mind blanked.
Utterly.
And completely.
His hands fisted into the blanket on either side of her to keep them there, because his self-control was rapidly slipping, fraying at the edges like rope caught in fire. "I'm going to need a minute," he finally said, voice rough as gravel as he forced himself to tear his gaze away, exhaling hard through his nose. "You can't just… do that and look at me like that, not unless you want me to completely forget everything I said about taking it slow."
She blinked again, clearly startled, then flustered, realizing what she'd done, but her lips curved up in a shy smile that trembled with pride, nerves, and affection all at once. "I was just curious…"
He finally moved, reaching for the tissue, gently taking her hand in his as he wiped it clean—every motion reverent, controlled, like touching her again would snap the last thread of discipline holding him back. "You're going to kill me, Xiǎo tùzǐ," he muttered as he stood to change once he was done cleaning off her hand with his back to her now. "Sweet and innocent, my ass…" her quiet giggle, nervous, giddy, unmistakably hers, nearly undid him all over again and he walked toward the bathroom to change…and shower, whispering to himself, "I need cold water. A lot of cold water."
Sicheng hadn't lasted two minutes under the freezing cascade before his hands braced against the marble wall, forehead tipped forward as the cold water did its job, shocking clarity into the fire that still clawed at his skin. His breathing was shallow at first, jaw clenched, eyes squeezed shut as he fought to regain full control. Not because she had done something wrong, far from it. But because her innocent curiosity paired with that sweet, steady trust had shattered every carefully crafted layer of restraint he had mastered over the years. And he would not let himself move too fast with her. Not now. Not ever.
By the time he stepped out of the shower, towel slung low on his hips, steam curling up behind him, he was composed again, barefoot, clean, dressed in a fresh pair of drawstring pants and a fitted dark T-shirt. But his thoughts… those lingered on the girl still curled in his bed, the one who had just tilted his entire world with a single lick of her fingers and the softest voice that could bring a man to his knees. Except, she wasn't in the bed anymore. The bedroom was quiet, empty save for the soft indent of where she had been.
Sicheng frowned slightly, running a hand through his damp hair, and stepped into the hallway just in time to hear the faint clink of dishes coming from the kitchen area tucked near the far end of the suite. He rounded the corner—and paused.
Yao stood at the counter, his shirt still wrapped around her petite frame, the hem now brushing the waistband of the black sleeping pants she'd pulled on. Her hair had been loosely tied back with a clip, and she had added socks and slippers, the quiet shuffle of her movements soft against the tile. The warm overhead light cast a golden glow over her figure as she leaned slightly forward, one hand stirring a pot on the induction stove, the other lifting a small wooden ladle to taste what she was working on.
His mouth opened slightly, the sheer domesticity of the sight hitting him like a fist to the chest. Not because it was ordinary. But because it felt real. Like this, her in his shirt, standing in this kitchen, socks with slippers and quietly making soup in the late hours of the night—wasn't just familiar. It was right. "...You know," he said, voice low, cutting gently through the quiet, "we could've called for room service."
Yao didn't jump. She didn't even flinch. She just stirred the pot once more, the soft scent of seaweed and bonito broth curling through the air, and murmured without looking back at him, "I know."
He stepped closer, barefoot and silent, watching her from the other side of the island. "So why go through the trouble?" he asked.
She reached for a small bowl, ladled a careful portion of miso soup into it—steam rising in faint, curling wisps—and finally glanced over her shoulder at him, her hazel eyes soft but clear. "Because I needed normal," she said simply, gently, as if stating something self-evident. "After everything… the letters, the vault, the massage, the emotions… all of it. I needed something I could control. Something simple. Familiar." She turned back to the pot and ladled another bowl, her voice barely above a whisper now. "Cooking is… calming for me."
He didn't say anything right away. Just watched her. Watched as she set both bowls onto the kitchen island, moving with slow, practiced grace. She reached for the spoons and chopsticks, placing them neatly beside the bowls, her hands steady now, her breathing even. He finally stepped forward, coming up behind her—not touching, not crowding, but close enough that she could feel his warmth. His voice, when it came, was soft. "You're incredible, you know that?"
Yao turned slightly to glance at him, her lips curling into a faint smile, cheeks tinged pink—not from fluster this time, but quiet contentment. "No," she replied, lifting one bowl and offering it to him, "I'm just hungry."
He took it from her, fingers brushing hers deliberately. "You can be both."
She huffed softly under her breath, the tiniest sound of amusement escaping her as she turned back to her own bowl and finally sat down on one of the stools. He joined her, and for a while, they didn't speak. They just ate—slow, warm spoonfuls of comfort in silence. Not heavy. Not distant.
Just quiet.
Normal.
The kind of normal that, after everything, felt like the most powerful gift either of them could give.
They ate in silence, the soft clink of spoons against ceramic the only sound between them, save for the quiet hum of the city far below. The miso soup was simple, warm, grounding. It filled the space between them with something gentle, something that felt more like home than any suite or vault ever could.
But then—
Yao's spoon slowed. Her shoulders shifted forward, a subtle hunch as if she were trying to make herself smaller, her body curling slightly into itself even though no one else was in the room. She didn't lift her eyes from the bowl as she exhaled, the breath long and uneven, and then, quietly, she spoke. "I don't know what to do." she murmured, her voice so soft it was nearly swallowed by the space between them.
Sicheng's hand, halfway to his bowl, froze mid-air.
Yao kept her gaze down, her fingers curling tighter around the bowl as her shoulders sank further. "I mean… I have no clue, Cheng-ge. I'm trying. I really am. But this—" she shook her head slightly, lips pressing together. "If it had just been… the letters, the ledgers, even the private holdings… I think I could've handled that. Maybe not all at once, but with time, I would've found my way." Her voice cracked faintly, vulnerable in a way he rarely got to hear—not because she didn't trust him, but because she so often carried her fears alone. "But Riot Games?" she said quietly. "Tencent? League of Legends?" She finally lifted her eyes to him, and he could see the bare truth there, worry, fear, and the kind of quiet vulnerability that came not from weakness, but from standing at the edge of something massive with no map to guide her. "That's different," she whispered. "That's not something I can just keep in a drawer. It's not something I can sign over or hide under a nameplate. It's the game. Your game. Our game. And I…" her voice trailed off again, and she set her spoon down with care she didn't feel.
"I hate the spotlight," she admitted, and this time it came out as a whisper, as if saying it too loud might somehow summon it. "I've always hated it. I'm okay with being in the background—keeping my head down, ignoring the noise on Weibo, letting people say whatever they want about me being quiet or strange or out of place. I can tune that out." Her shoulders tensed, the lines of her posture closing in around herself like a shell. "But this?" she whispered, glancing down at her bowl again. "If word gets out… if people find out that I own Riot Games, that I have control over League of Legends of all things… and that I'm also ZGDX's part-time data analyst?" She swallowed hard. "What do you think they're going to say, Cheng-ge?"
He didn't interrupt. He didn't try to soothe her with empty platitudes. He just watched her.
"They're going to say I'm manipulating things. That I have influence over tournament structures, patches, rankings… that I'm playing favorites with my team. Your team. And people already think we're something, even though we haven't told anyone officially…" She exhaled again, fingers curling tighter around her knees as her voice grew even quieter, barely audible. "This could hurt you. It could hurt ZGDX. And that scares me more than anything else."
Sicheng remained silent. Not because he didn't have anything to say, but because he knew—felt—that she needed to speak without interruption, without someone rushing to make it better. So he stayed still, one hand loose around his bowl, the other resting quietly on the edge of the counter, his gaze locked solely on her.
Yao stared down at her hands. Her fingers had begun to tremble, just slightly, as she twisted them in her lap beneath the counter. Her lips parted again, but no sound came at first. Just the shallow hitch of a breath that caught in her throat, one she had to swallow hard against before she could continue. "I know people talk," she whispered, her voice starting to fray at the edges, thin and choked. "They always have. About me. About you. About us. They talk because they think they know who we are, what we are. Because they see a few photos or watch a few clips or hear one rumor on Weibo and suddenly they're experts." She blinked hard, her lashes fluttering rapidly as the sting behind her eyes built. "But this isn't just gossip anymore. This isn't just another stupid thread or someone speculating about whether we're dating or whether I sleep in your room or if I'm here because of favoritism. This is…"
She shook her head slowly, her voice breaking around the words as the tremble in her hands spread to her shoulders. "This is power," she whispered. "This is… ownership. Of something massive. Something that means everything to people like us. To you. To Pang. To Yue. To every player out there who ever loaded into a match and dreamed of standing on a stage under lights." Her hands clenched tightly in her lap, knuckles white, breath coming faster now. "And they're going to tear it apart," she whispered, her voice raw now. "They're going to pick it apart and twist it and weaponize it. They'll say I don't deserve it. That I didn't earn it. That I bought my way into ZGDX. That you let me in because I'm some heiress or puppet or—" Her voice cracked completely, and she stopped.
Her shoulders jerked slightly with the breath she forced in. Still, she didn't let the tears fall. But they were there—building, shimmering at the edges of her hazel eyes like something she was barely holding back. Her hands had stilled now, fingers pressed into her thighs, her frame hunched in on itself like she was bracing for something that hadn't even come yet but already felt inevitable. She didn't look at him. She couldn't. Because even now, even here, she was scared of what she might see in his eyes.
Disappointment.
Frustration.
Or worse—confirmation.
So she sat in silence, the tremble in her shoulders growing with each breath she tried to swallow down, the storm rising inside her chest louder than any sound in the room.
She stayed quiet. But the silence wasn't calm anymore. It was suffocating. The kind that pressed in on her ribs, on her spine, on the backs of her eyes where the tears were still clinging but refusing to fall, like even now her body was too disciplined to break unless it had no other choice. Her fingers were curled so tightly into the fabric of her sleeping pants that the knuckles had turned pale, the pressure grounding her, barely. Her shoulders trembled once, a violent little twitch that she tried to smother by curling inward even further, as if folding herself tighter might make the weight stop pressing so hard into her chest. And still—she didn't look at him.
"I didn't ask for any of this," she said at last, barely a whisper now, barely a breath. "I didn't ask to be anyone important. I didn't want legacy or trust funds or ownership over entire worlds people care about more than their own names." She blinked hard, vision blurring again, the tears now clinging thick to her lashes but still refusing to fall. "I just wanted to be good enough," she whispered, voice shaking. "I just wanted to be… enough. Not for the world. Not for the League. Not even for ZGDX. Just…" Her breath hitched—sharp and audible now. "For me."
And that broke something. It wasn't Riot. It wasn't Tencent. It wasn't the money or the power or even the threat of the spotlight that finally unraveled her. It was everything else. Every year spent unseen. Every memory of silence where love should have lived. Every moment she had trained herself to shrink, to stay quiet, to never take up space she didn't feel she'd earned. The people who used her. The family who discarded her. The fear that no matter what she did, it would never be enough, because it had never been enough for them.
Not before.
And now, somehow, it was.
But it felt wrong. It felt cruel. To be given the world now, when the little girl who had needed even a fraction of it had been left with nothing but cold hands and silence and grief too big for her tiny shoulders.
Her lip trembled, and she covered her mouth with one hand, shoulders curling tighter inward. "I don't know how to hold all of this, Cheng-ge," she breathed, the words breaking, splintering. "I don't know how to carry it all—and still be okay."
And then—
The first tear fell.
It slipped silently down her cheek and onto her hand, followed by the next, and the next, and then her body gave a full, helpless shudder, and the breath she tried to pull in collapsed into a quiet, broken sob that she couldn't swallow down fast enough. She wasn't just crying over Riot. She was crying over everything. Everything she had lost. Everything she had endured. Everything she had never said out loud, not even to him.
Until now.
And Sicheng—
Sicheng moved the second he saw her hand come up to cover her mouth, the sound cracking from her chest like something he felt more than heard. He didn't hesitate. He crossed to her with sure, silent steps, and the moment he reached her, he wrapped his arms around her from behind—firm, grounding, steady. Not squeezing. Not caging. Just holding. His arms curled fully around her small frame as she leaned forward, the bowl on the counter forgotten, her body folding into herself even as his presence pulled her back from the brink. "I've got you," he murmured into her hair, his voice low and steady as he pressed his lips to the crown of her head. "I've got you, Yao."
And this time—
She didn't hold back. Her body twisted toward him, her hands clutching his arms as the sobs hit harder, raw and muffled and choked with everything she had kept locked away for far too long. Her face buried itself into the soft fabric of his shirt, and he let her. He held her through it, one hand stroking slow, soothing lines across her back, the other braced at her hip, anchoring her as she came undone. Keeping her together while she fell apart. She was shaking. Not violently. Not dramatically. But in the way only someone who had held everything too tightly for too long could tremble once it finally cracked.
Sicheng didn't move. Not in any way that would rush her. He kept one arm locked firm around her waist, his other hand moving slowly along her back—up and down, the kind of rhythm a man learns only when touch isn't just about comfort, but anchoring. Her face was still buried in his shirt, pressed right above his heart, and every now and then a faint, helpless sob would shake through her—quiet, sharp, soaked in all the grief that had been years in the making.
And he just held her. Because she needed it. Because he needed it. He had seen her brave. Sharp. Furious. Brilliant. Quietly rebellious. Bold in ways that most men would never be able to name but would feel like gravity pulling them down into awe.
But this?
This was her undone. And it shattered him. Not because she was breaking. But because she trusted him enough to do it here. Like this. In his arms. No pretense. No armor. Just raw pain and the knowledge that she didn't have to carry it alone anymore. He bent his head slightly, brushing his lips to the top of her hair again, breathing her in—lavender, clean skin, the faintest scent of miso broth still lingering in the fabric of his shirt. And for the first time in what felt like his entire damn life… He hated that he couldn't make it all better. He was used to fixing things. Reading data, predicting movement, analyzing outcomes, and adjusting accordingly. Everything in his world—games, strategy, the league—was built on the principle that control was possible with the right calculation.
But this?
This wasn't something he could outmaneuver.
This was every scar she had carved into herself in silence just to survive. Every moment of abandonment. Every bruise left behind by people who should have loved her. Every sharp corner of grief that had never dulled, only shifted from one wound to another. And now it had all come loose. Because someone—her mother, of all people—had finally handed Yao a legacy too heavy for the girl who had grown up convincing herself she didn't deserve even the basics.
Sicheng's jaw tightened. His hand stilled for a beat at her back, his thumb brushing the fabric of her shirt. And beneath the steady, even rhythm of his heartbeat, something darker curled low in his chest. Protectiveness, yes. But also fury. At everyone who had ever made this girl feel like she had to earn being loved. At every adult who had looked away. At every mouth that had whispered half-truths online. At every shadow that had claimed her silence as proof of weakness instead of the strength it actually took to stay silent when all you wanted was to scream.
She trembled again, her sobs slowly thinning, turning quieter. More breath than sound now. But still… He didn't let go. His grip didn't loosen, not even once. Because she was safe here. And he would never let her forget it. Not now. Not tomorrow. Not ever. He breathed in slowly, eyes closing as his cheek rested against the top of her head, and whispered so softly it wasn't meant to be heard. "I'm not going anywhere."
She was still shaking—but not the same way. The sobs had dulled, no longer sharp things torn from her chest but quieter now, lower, her breathing no longer breaking but catching softly, the way wind slows after a storm. He felt the change in her body like a tide receding—her muscles uncoiling in slow degrees, her hands no longer fisted so tightly into his shirt, but loose now, resting against his sides, fingers curled lightly in the fabric, holding him not from desperation, but presence.
She hadn't spoken again. She hadn't needed to. Her voice had already broken on the truth, and he had heard it—every word, every ragged breath between the syllables she had tried so hard to speak without cracking. And now, as the weight began to ease just enough for her to exist again without collapsing, he stayed exactly where he was. He didn't shift. He didn't let go. He just stayed.
Because this, too, was love. Not the fire. Not the passion. Not the kind that burned with kisses and hands and breathless laughter. But this. The kind where you hold the person you love together when they are coming apart. The kind that doesn't need words because words are too loud in moments like this. The kind that wraps itself around someone and says—without sound—I'm here. And I'm staying. She exhaled against him, long and shaky.
And he felt it. That fragile, careful exhale that meant she was trying to breathe again. Not perfectly. Not cleanly. But honestly. She was pulling herself back in from the edge—not fast, but fully. He turned his head slightly, lips brushing against her hair as he whispered into her crown, "You're okay." A soft, almost imperceptible nod pressed into his chest. "You're safe."
This time, her hand moved—slow, small—curling against the hem of his shirt where it had begun to loosen from his waist. She clung to that thread of fabric like it was something more than cotton.
And to her, he knew it was.
It was a tether.
To him.
To this.
To the moment.
And slowly… finally…
Her breathing began to match his.
Shallow at first.
Then deeper.
Her body no longer pulled into itself, but resting against him, with him, head tucked beneath his jaw, shoulders not so tense now, her cheek no longer soaked with tears but pressed warm and soft to his chest. And in that moment, with the city beyond the window forgotten and the cooling bowls of soup left untouched behind them.
Sicheng did what only someone who truly knew her could do. He said nothing. He just held on. Because that was all she needed and that was everything he knew how to give.
The silence between them had softened, no longer thick with pain, but threaded now with the sound of breathing—hers, quiet and low, and his, steady and unshaken, anchoring her against the world she wasn't quite ready to face again.
Sicheng shifted slightly—not enough to pull away, never that—but enough to ease his hand from her back to the side of her face, letting his palm cradle her cheek as he gently guided her to tilt up. He waited until her hazel eyes, still glassy and red-rimmed, met his. Then, quietly—low and sure—he spoke, "You're not going to sell it."
She blinked at him, lips parting in a breath she hadn't meant to take, confusion flickering faintly behind the rawness still lingering in her expression. "I wasn't—"
"You were," he interrupted, not cruel, just certain. "You didn't say it. You haven't said it yet. But I know you, Yao. I know exactly where your thoughts went the moment you read that document. The moment you realized what you're holding." He leaned forward slightly, the space between them tight and still, but every word he spoke now laced with that calm, cutting clarity he was known for when the game was on the line. "You're thinking that if it gets out—if it spirals, if speculation starts flying—you'll be the reason ZGDX gets hit with backlash. That I'll get pulled into it. That the team will suffer. That everyone will assume the worst just because you exist in this position."
She swallowed, her throat moving visibly.
"And because of that," he continued, voice softer now, but no less focused, "you'd sign it over. To your father's friend. To someone neutral. Someone you could tell yourself deserves it more or could 'handle it better.' You'd sell it quietly, disappear from it, give it all away just to protect everyone else." His fingers brushed gently under her chin, guiding her to keep looking at him as her eyes began to shimmer again—not from fresh grief this time, but from the quiet devastation of being seen too clearly. "You'd walk away from owning Riot Games," he said, his voice like smooth steel, "just to make sure we're okay."
She didn't deny it.
She couldn't.
And she didn't have to.
Because he had already peeled back every layer and read the decision she hadn't even finished making.
But then—
He moved closer.
His forehead pressed gently to hers, his hand still cradling her cheek, his breath steady, warm, the weight of him solid and real as he murmured the only words that mattered now. "And that's exactly why you shouldn't."
Her breath caught.
"Because people like that? People who think first of what they can lose instead of what they can take—they're the ones who should own things like this. They're the ones who protect it. The ones who won't let it be twisted, corrupted, sold out for clicks and branding." His eyes darkened, voice dropping even lower. "And I won't let you give it away, Yao. I won't let you sacrifice something that was left to you—not to carry, but to own—just because the world might get loud. Just because you're afraid it could hurt us." His thumb brushed her cheek once. "I'd burn the damn League down before I let it hurt you."
Her breath trembled.
"ZGDX will stand because of you, not in spite of you. The team's foundation isn't threatened by what you inherited, it's strengthened by the fact that you care enough to worry about them." He pulled back just slightly, but his hand didn't leave her. "Let them speculate. Let the noise scream itself hoarse. But don't ever sell your legacy to silence it." And then, more gently—like a thread tying it all together, "You've already spent most of your life giving everything away to survive. I won't let you do it again to feel safe."
She stared at him. His words didn't leave space for argument, didn't leave her room to retreat into the instinct to run or to sacrifice or to disappear. He had placed a boundary around her legacy with the same precision he used when protecting the lane during a match—immovable, absolute, with the weight of someone who knew her better than anyone else ever had. And maybe it was that—maybe it was the way he spoke with such certainty, like there was never a version of the world where he'd let her fall—that finally loosened the last thread she was still gripping so tightly inside her chest.
Her lips parted again, her throat worked once, and her voice came out soft, fragile in its quiet, but steady.
"…Are you sure?" she whispered, her brows knitting as her hands trembled faintly where they still gripped the hem of his shirt. "Because if you are… if you're really sure, Cheng-ge…" She paused, and he didn't speak. He didn't need to. He just looked at her. And she knew. So she took a breath, deeper now, still shaken, still a little unsure, but held together by the thread of his belief and whispered, "Then I'm going to need help." Her voice shook faintly. "A lot of it." And then she added, eyes lifting to meet his again, the smallest flicker of that same sharp logic shining through the mist of vulnerability that had just unraveled her. "I want to keep this locked down. Completely. I want eyes on every piece of that estate. The name transfers, the legal signatures, the correspondence. I want the accountant re-vetted. The lawyer traced. The friend of my father's…. Mr. He Qiang said he's still alive. I want to meet him, but only after everything's been verified three times over." Her hands curled tighter into the fabric of his shirt. "And I want silence," she whispered. "No leaks. No whispers. Not until this season is over. Not until you and the others are safe from the fallout. I don't care if we have to seal the documents under another holding company, or hide the shares under shell structures until finals… I just…" She swallowed, hard. "I need time. I need this season to finish clean. For you. For the team." Her voice dropped to something even softer, something that pressed itself into the space between them like a prayer. "For us." And then she leaned forward again, pressing her forehead lightly against his chest, her voice muffled by the fabric as she added, barely audible, "I can't let this ruin what you've and the others have built."
Her forehead stayed pressed to his chest, her words lingering like threads spun from breath and bone—soft but heavy with the kind of truth that only came after a storm. And he could feel it now, the way she was holding herself still, waiting—not for reassurance, but for confirmation. For strategy. For the kind of action that only he could give her when her entire world threatened to tilt.
Sicheng's voice came low and sure, his palm stroking once more at the back of her neck, his other arm anchoring her to him with that quiet strength that always said, I've got you. "You made the right call," he murmured. "We keep it quiet. You finish the season as ZGDX's analyst. That's all anyone sees."
She exhaled slowly, unevenly against his chest.
"I'll talk to my mother first thing in the morning," he continued, the words sharp and measured now, already forming into action. "She's across the hall. You know how she is—by the time you finish brushing your teeth, she'll have three contracts drafted and her legal team ready to break the earth if someone breathes the wrong way."
Yao's fingers tightened around the fabric of his shirt, and still, she didn't lift her head.
"And my father's already on the clock," Sicheng added with a faint, grim edge curling beneath the calm of his tone. "He was already talking to that banker—He Qiang. If there's even a hint of risk around your father's friend, Lan will have it rooted out before the elevator finishes its descent." He didn't say you won't have to worry, because she was too smart for empty assurances. So he said what mattered. "What you will have is coverage. Discretion. Layers between you and the paperwork so thick that no one without security clearance and a death wish could tie it back to you." He leaned back just enough to guide her chin up with a gentle press of his fingers. Her eyes met his, swollen and rimmed with red, but wide open and clear. "And we'll set it all in motion before noon."
She blinked slowly, the flicker of logic returning behind her eyes even as exhaustion pulled at her limbs. She needed the plan as much as the arms around her—maybe more.
"You won't sign anything public," he said. "We'll keep the shares in your name, but shielded by silent structures, possibly funneled through a dormant private trust with only family oversight. Yue will say nothing." His voice dropped into something darker, colder—absolute. "He knows if he does, he's not just facing you. He's facing me."
Yao exhaled again, but it sounded more like release this time. A soft unraveling of tension beneath the weight of certainty.
"I meant what I said," he murmured, his forehead brushing hers, "you're not doing this alone." His hand, still firm at her waist, shifted slightly—pulling her just the tiniest bit closer, as if there were any distance between them left to close. "You're mine, Yao. You always have been. And this thing they left you—this empire of silence and power and name? You don't owe it to anyone to explain or defend."
She stared up at him.
"I won't let you give it away just because the world doesn't know what to do with a woman who's stronger than the game she inherited." And softer now, quieter, more personal, "And I damn sure won't let it take anything from you."