The golden boy crossed the courtyard like a prince walking through a kingdom he no longer believed in.
His hands were tucked neatly into the pockets of his beige-yellow suit, the fabric gleaming under the sunlight like sand kissed by dawn. Ivory silk lined the vest beneath, pristine and untouched, as though even dust wouldn't dare settle on him. Each step he took was slow, measured—not with elegance, but with disinterest. His posture was relaxed, almost lazily so, the kind of bored defiance only someone raised on diamonds could wear with conviction.
He wasn't thrilled to be here.
But he was summoned—and in this world, summons were commands.
His ocean-blue eyes scanned the courtyard with a flicker of disdain, as if everything—the cables, the lights, the poised assistants—were child's play. A rehearsal for something far beneath him. Yet he walked forward still, dragged by name, by bloodline, by obligation too old to argue with.
And there she was.
mother.
Waiting.
Her eyes lit up again—not with the same soft warmth she gave her younger son, but with glee, with mischief, with something gleaming sharp beneath her lashes. She stepped forward before anyone else could.
"Lean down, big one," she said, lips curved into a grin only mothers can wear.
He blinked once, expression unchanging, but lowered his frame obediently.
With practiced ease—she pinched his cheek.
"Ah, finally," she breathed, stepping back to look at him in full. "My golden boy return. It's been years."
Still, the boy said nothing at first. Then his voice came, low and precise, tinged with velvet boredom.
"How have you been, mother?"
Her smile deepened. "Your mother is always good. Because your mother is Asian."
He nodded slowly, lips twitching ever so slightly in recognition of her flair.
And then—
Their eyes met.
The golden boy turned to his brother.
Bai Qi.
A brief silence.
A beat.
Then came the voice, slick and languid:
"And how about you, little head? Are you still keeping this empire from falling apart?"
Bai Qi's eyes widened at first—genuinely surprised. Then his face softened, a rare warmth folding around his grin.
"You know, brother—" he stepped forward, one hand reaching out to casually smack the boy's shoulder, "I missed you a lot."
A pause.
"But not too much."
The golden boy's expression flickered—something wearied in his eyes, like the joke tapped a nerve he no longer guarded. His gaze dimmed just a little.
"I'm kidding, bro," Bai Qi added quickly, his voice lighter now. "You look good. Like a bastard prince, but still good."
A single corner of the older brother's mouth curved. Not a smile. But something close.
Their father stood off to the side, a silent monument in navy and gold.
The golden boy turned to him.
"Father."
Niklas von Rothenberg didn't move.
Didn't smile.
Didn't even step forward.
He simply nodded once.
And that was all.
The golden boy bowed his head in acknowledgment—ceremonial, brief, not reverent. Just... required.
And then came George.
Graceful, polished, the eternal observer turned participant. He approached with a faint smile, placing a firm hand on the boy's shoulder.
"How are you, nephew?"
The golden boy turned to him, eyes unreadable. His voice, when it came, was devoid of color. Not cold. Just blank.
"I'm good."
No warmth.
No affection.
No annoyance either.
Just a line delivered from the pages of a script he never asked to audition for.
He had greeted them all— his mother with cheek-pinching patience, his brother with half-a-smile, his father with lowered eyes, and his uncle with silence stitched into civility.
And all the while—
His eyes never once glanced toward the boy in brown.
Shu Yao.
Still adjusting cables at the far end of the courtyard.
Still unseen.
Still invisible.
And the golden boy didn't even know he'd already left his mark.
Not with words.
But with a shoulder.
Qing Yue appeared like the closing line of a poem—soft, breathtaking, perfectly timed.
Her dress moved like liquid opal, clinging and flowing at once, and the morning sun caught on the shimmer of her earrings, her lashes, her smile. With a practiced flick, she tucked a strand of brown hair behind her ear and let her eyes scan the courtyard—until they landed on Bai Qi.
He was surrounded by family.
His mother laughing with him, his father standing in composed silence, his uncle adding faint nods and comments like quiet punctuation marks. And just beside them—him. The stranger.
Qing Yue's gaze sharpened, curious.
Without hesitation, she approached.
"Bai Qi," she murmured, fingers slipping around his wrist with playful insistence.
He turned at once, catching her smile before it even reached her lips. "What is it?"
"Lower down," she said, lifting one brow. "You're still taller than my secrets."
He chuckled softly and bent closer, leaning in like a boy indulging his favorite co-conspirator.
She whispered into his ear, barely moving her lips.
"Who is that stranger?"
Her manicured finger pointed discreetly toward the golden boy.
The sunlight hit her hand just right, making the engagement ring on her finger gleam like a captured star. Across from her, Bai Qi's own ring caught the light as well—two halves of a promise, sealed and polished for all the world to see.
Bai Qi followed her finger, then blinked once.
"Didn't I tell you?" he said softly. "That's my older brother."
Qing Yue's lips parted slightly. "Hmm. He's... very different from you."
Bai Qi straightened, exhaling a breath that sounded half-laugh, half-resignation.
"Yes," he replied. "He's always been like this. Since we were kids. He was... born distant."
As if summoned by conversation, the golden boy turned from George at that exact moment, and his eyes—sharp, bored, blue as sea-ice—met Qing Yue's.
She bowed her head politely. "Nice to meet you."
His answer was an apathetic drawl: "Yes. Nice to meet."
No warmth. No tension either. Just detachment, carved into bone.
But then his gaze drifted to Bai Qi.
A flicker of question passed between them—silent but understood.
Who is this girl?
Bai Qi gave a half-smirk and didn't speak. He simply lifted his left hand—where the ring wrapped around his finger like a sealed confession.
The golden boy's eyes narrowed slightly.
Then he exhaled. Nodded once.
And said nothing else.
Not a blessing.
Not a comment.
Not even a smile.
At the other edge of the courtyard, where the cables snaked like vines and the shadows offered brief shelter from all that glitter—
Shu Yao sat on the polished floor.
A water bottle hung loosely in his hand, condensation dripping onto his trousers. He was quiet, watching from behind the maze of tripods and reflectors and clipped instructions.
He saw them.
Qing Yue, radiant beside Bai Qi, her laughter soft like perfume in the breeze. Bai Qi's shoulders relaxed, his smile easy. The golden brother standing just a step away, looking as though the entire world existed to interrupt his boredom.
And Shu Yao—
He turned his gaze away.
A dull throb bloomed behind his eyes. His neck still ached from earlier, like the pain had rooted into his spine. The world felt too bright. Too loud.
Even from here, the memory of that golden boy's shoulder still lingered in his ribs—sharp, precise, intentional. A collision made to be remembered, not apologized for.
His breath grew shallow.
He looked at his palms.
Dry.
Exhausted.
Invisible.
A gust of wind danced through the courtyard, sending a sheet of paper fluttering off one of the tables. Shu Yao caught it absently before it could escape. He handed it back to a staff member with a faint nod, no words exchanged.
He sat again, legs folded, the water bottle forgotten beside him.
A moment passed.
Then another.
And finally, with a weary glance toward the sun-soaked courtyard, Shu Yao whispered to no one in particular—
"I need coffee."
He pushed himself up slowly.
And walked away from the light.
Not for long.
But just enough to breathe.
The coffee machine gave a tired hum, spitting steam like it resented the very idea of morning.
Shu Yao stood beside it, worn thin. One hand cradled the warm paper cup he'd just claimed, the other pressed against the back of his neck, where a low, persistent ache had taken up residence. His head throbbed—dully and rhythmically—like a clock ticking too loud behind the walls of his skull.
And this moment, by the machine, was supposed to be his.
Quiet. Undisturbed. Miserable.
Then he heard it.
A second presence.
Steps. Slower than they should be. Hesitant. Not the sound of someone grabbing a quick espresso and leaving.
This wasn't coincidence.
Shu Yao didn't turn around.
Not yet.
He was already tired of the day, of the way everyone's hands seemed too eager—grabbing, pulling, shoving. Of the way their eyes roamed as if he were something up for auction.
And especially—
Of him.
The boy from earlier.
Not the golden heir with the cold shoulder and immaculate bloodline.
The other one.
The worker. With tousled chestnut hair and those piercing, artificial-blue eyes like polished glass and frozen arrogance.
He had been a walking offense earlier—swaggering, smirking, brushing past Shu Yao with all the gentleness of a storm door slamming shut. There was no charm in him then. Just cold stares, rude mutterings, and an ego that strutted even when his feet tripped over their own shadows.
So when Shu Yao blinked and turned, it was without surprise—just quiet defense rising in his posture.
But what he saw made him hesitate.
The boy stood there awkwardly, as if borrowed from another day, another personality entirely. No glint of mischief now. No smirk. Just a faint flush rising in his cheeks, visible even beneath the low hallway lights. He looked unsure. Like someone dragging themselves toward an apology they didn't know how to make.
And behind his back—
He was hiding something.
Shu Yao said nothing.
But his gaze cooled a few degrees.
His fingers tightened slightly around his coffee cup, preparing himself for another casual insult wrapped in a smile.
Instead, the boy stepped forward, like a schoolchild summoned to confess before the altar.
And from behind his back—
He brought out a rose.
Not one dressed in cellophane or sugar ribbons.
Just a rose.
Crimson. Real. Fresh.
Thorns clipped.
The stem trembled between his fingers, almost as if he were the one holding something dangerous.
His voice followed, rough and awkward, barely lifting above a whisper:
"I… I'm sorry."
Shu Yao's brow twitched—too subtle to be called a reaction, but it was there.
The boy licked his lips, eyes flicking downward, shame settling across his shoulders like a jacket too big for him.
"I shouldn't have acted the way I did earlier," he mumbled. "I was rude. I—I thought I was being funny, but… it wasn't. I wasn't thinking. I didn't mean to scare you. Or… disrespect you. I get like that sometimes when I feel…"
He trailed off.
Foolish? Insecure? Caught?
He didn't say. Maybe he didn't even know.
"I just…" he tried again, "I wanted to apologize. Properly."
The rose shook in his hand, the velvet petals catching the light like spilled wine.
It wasn't romantic.
It wasn't practiced.
It was clumsy.
Sincere.
The kind of apology that tastes bitter coming out because pride is still clinging to it like old perfume.
Shu Yao looked at the flower.
Then at the boy.
Who had looked at him too long, too cruelly, then walked off immediately when George was here to rescue him.
And now… here he was. Ashamed.
Ashamed, and trembling.
Shu Yao's gaze lowered once more to the rose.
The thorns had been cut.
He could take it without bleeding.
But should he?
Shu Yao said nothing.
His eyes drifted from the boy's trembling hand to the rose—its petals full, its thorns carefully trimmed. A peace offering, absurdly beautiful. Absurdly late.
The silence stretched.
He didn't reach for it. Didn't flinch either. Just stared at the flower like it had spoken first.
The boy's breath hitched, lips parting to say something—anything—but Shu Yao finally looked up.
Not at the rose.
At him.
Brown eyes, unreadable. Cold. Maybe curious.
Then Shu Yao shifted.
A single step forward.
And the boy—suddenly—forgot how to breathe.
Because Shu Yao lifted his hand—