The corridors of Rothenberg Industry's were hushed, their marble floors polished to an almost blinding sheen, reflecting the hollow light of late evening. Men and women moved with clipped steps, documents pressed to their chests, whispering as though afraid to disturb the weight of decisions being forged behind closed doors.
Charles walked among them, but unlike the others, his hands were not burdened with files—only a single rose once was, crimson, delicate, trembling in his grip like a confession he had no courage to voice. But the fragile bloom now lay discarded in a dustbin at the corner of the lobby, the stem bent, the petals bruised. He hated waste more than anything, yet what he loathed more was weakness—and the rose in his hand had felt like weakness, especially after Qing Yue's sudden interruption that afternoon. The flower was meant for Shu Yao, meant as a plea that might soften the boy's autumn-bright eyes. Instead, the sight of Qing Yue had shattered his nerve. His hand, trembling in shame and frustration, had crushed the stem and tossed it away.
Still, desire gnawed at him. Desperation cloaked itself in dignity as Charles adjusted the line of his black suit, tablet pressed under his arm, and strode toward Niklas Rothenberg's office. He would do anything—anything—to claim that apology from Shu Yao, even if it meant unraveling himself piece by piece.
When he reached the heavy oak door, he paused. The weight of power could be felt even before entry. Charles lifted his hand and knocked, soft yet precise.
"Come," Niklas's deep voice resonated, heavy with command.
Charles stepped inside, and the grandeur of the office swallowed him whole. The floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the sleeping city, the skyscrapers rising like jagged blades, their lights burning against the indigo night. Behind the desk of carved walnut, Niklas sat like a monarch surveying his empire. His broad frame leaned slightly back in his leather chair, every movement betraying ease yet also menace.
"How is it going on?" Niklas asked, his gaze sharp, impatient.
Charles bowed slightly, suppressing the rush of nerves that came whenever he stood before this man. He stepped closer, swiping his tablet awake. Numbers, graphs, and images flooded the screen in crisp detail.
"Sir," Charles began, voice measured, "in just the last few hours, the new campaign has crossed millions of impressions internationally. The attention from foreign markets is overwhelming—Japan, France, even New York investors are inquiring about expansion. The strategy… it worked flawlessly."
For a moment, silence stretched, broken only by the faint hum of the city below. Then Niklas leaned forward, steepling his hands, his expression unreadable. Slowly, a smirk curved his lips—cold, razor-sharp, the kind of smile that tore down walls and men alike.
"How about this now, Shen Baoliang?" he murmured, almost to himself, but loud enough for Charles to catch.
Charles froze. He knew that name—everyone in their world did. Shen Baoliang, the rival magnate, a man as ruthless as Niklas, as cunning in commerce as he was in destroying reputations. Their war was not confined to trade balances and contracts—it bled into every corner of life, even the terrain of love.
Niklas's smirk deepened as he leaned back, the leather chair sighing beneath him. His eyes glittered with the quiet hunger of a predator watching his prey stumble closer. He had not only won in markets tonight—he had scored a point in the greater war, the war where every transaction was a duel, every success a sword drawn against Shen Baoliang.
Charles swallowed hard, his own thoughts spinning. The rose in the trash burned in his memory, a symbol of his own failure. But Niklas… Niklas never failed. He was always two steps ahead, in trade and in love.
The silence in the room was thick, charged with unspoken truths. Charles shifted the tablet back against his chest and finally dared to ask, "Sir, should I prepare the documents for the next phase?"
Niklas's gaze slid toward him, sharp as a blade's edge. "Do it. Let Shen Baoliang watch as we rise higher, faster, without faltering." His tone was final, the tone of a man who carved victories out of stone.
Charles bowed his head in acknowledgment, but his mind was elsewhere—back to Shu Yao, to the fragility of that boy's smile, to the rose he had cast aside. Trade wars, corporate rivalries, battles of power—they consumed him daily, yet nothing consumed him so completely as the memory of Shu Yao's delicate silence.
He turned to leave, but Niklas's voice halted him at the door.
"Charles."
He stopped, spine stiffening.
"Remember this," Niklas said, his smirk fading into something more lethal. "A man who hesitates is already dead. In business. In war. And in love."
The words hung in the air, heavy, final. Charles lowered his head, understanding the warning all too well. Hesitation had already cost him once today. He swore, silently, it would not happen again.
As the door closed behind him, Charles walked the corridor with his jaw clenched, footsteps echoing like drumbeats of war. He would win Shu Yao's forgiveness. He would claim what was his. And if roses were too fragile for the battlefield of love, then he would bring steel instead.
Meanwhile outside of rothenberg industry's
The night pressed against the glass of the Rothenberg towers, black as ink, fractured only by the sweep of headlights and the faint gleam of passing streetlamps. In the courtyard below, the family's polished sedan waited with its engine idling, its breath curling like smoke into the chill evening air.
Bai Qi was the first to reach it, his black tailored suit cutting a confident silhouette as he pulled open the passenger door. He sank into the seat with that same restless ease, the kind of man who seemed never to sit still even when perfectly composed. His phone was already in his hand, screen glowing across his sharp features. He scrolled and tapped with boyish eagerness, his grin widening every time a message from his fiancée flashed across the glass.
Armin followed slowly, every step weighted by thoughts he refused to voice. His tall frame folded into the seat beside his brother, though his posture was rigid, the set of his jaw iron-tight. His mind swirled like a storm refusing to quiet, thoughts of Shu Yao's fragile figure haunting him with every turn. No matter how fiercely he commanded himself to discard them, the boy's exhausted eyes, that delicate posture, kept tearing through his defenses. Fury welled in him—not fury at Shu Yao, but at himself, for being so helpless against the ache that had rooted itself in his chest.
Beside him, Bai Qi chuckled under his breath, entirely unaware of his brother's torment. The glow of the phone screen reflected his grin like a mirror of youth—until, without warning, the grin faltered.
It was not silence on the other end of the chat that unsettled him. His fiancée's reply had struck deeper.
gege, looked so tired today… but that's not all. I think he's hiding something from us. He couldn't say it out loud, but I felt it, Something's wrong.
The words unsettled Bai Qi in a way he hadn't anticipated. His thumb hovered over the glass, his brows knitting together. He typed quickly: Did he tell you anything?
The reply came back almost instantly. No.
Bai Qi leaned back in his seat, the grin gone now, replaced by a thoughtful curve of his lips. Shu Yao… hiding something? But what could it be? The boy was shy, easily flustered, but he had always seemed transparent in his emotions. What shadow could he possibly keep concealed?
His gaze slid sideways, falling on Armin, whose profile was cast in half-light. The guilt gnawed then, sharp and immediate. This was his fault. His reckless games, his refusal to keep harmony, had turned Shu Yao into someone who carried unspoken burdens. He sighed, almost inaudibly, the weight of responsibility pressing down.
Armin did not move, did not meet his gaze, though his jaw clenched as though he had caught the tail of his brother's sigh.
Bai Qi turned back to his phone, typing with quick fingers: It's fine. Sometimes boys act that way. Don't worry too much.
He stared at the blinking cursor, dissatisfied. He knew it wasn't fine. He knew he had to fix it. But how?
As the car glided away from the curb, he sank deeper into his thoughts. He could invite Shu Yao to the villa—yes, but that might feel like a trap, too overwhelming. Perhaps a fine restaurant? No, that would be ostentatious, another gilded cage for a boy who preferred simplicity. He drummed his fingers against his knee, mind racing. What could erase the sting of Armin's aloofness? What could pull Shu Yao from behind the mask of exhaustion?
Then the thought arrived, clean and sharp: his father. If father agreed to give Shu Yao a day's reprieve, perhaps even free him of his duties entirely tomorrow, it would be perfect. Shu Yao needed rest more than anything. Yes, Bai Qi thought, that was it. He would make it happen. He would wipe away the fatigue and the shadow in Shu Yao's gaze, and replace it with something softer, brighter.
Satisfied, Bai Qi typed his final message to Qing Yue, punctuating it with a bold heart emoji, a seal of promise. Then he slipped the phone into his pocket and leaned back with a languid sigh. The car's engine groaned softly as it pulled into the night, the city lights rushing past in ribbons of silver and gold.
Armin sat beside him, silent still. His thoughts clawed at him, chaotic and merciless, yet he refused to betray them with even a flicker of expression. He stared out of the window as though the darkness there could absorb what churned inside.
Bai Qi, unaware or perhaps unwilling to pry, let the silence linger. A smile, faint and amused once more, tugged at the corners of his lips as he pictured tomorrow. He was determined: whatever shadow lingered over Shu Yao, he would chase it away.
And so the car rolled on, one brother grinning at a future he thought he could shape with ease, the other drowning in feelings he dared not name. The night swallowed them whole, but their thoughts burned too fiercely to be dimmed by darkness.
"Meanwhile in shu Yao house"
The stairway creaked beneath Shu Yao's weight, each step sounding louder than it should in the hush of the night. His hand lingered on the rail as though even the wood must carry some of his weariness, and yet his smile, that fragile performance worn for Qing Yue's sake, had long since slipped away. The shadows clung to him, wrapping around his slender frame like garments woven of silence.
When at last he reached the door to his room, he paused, fingers brushing the cool brass of the handle. A breath escaped him—half sigh, half surrender. He pushed inside, the dim lamplight revealing the quiet sanctuary of his space. It was simple: a narrow bed neatly made, a desk scattered with papers and half-written thoughts, a single chair that bore the weight of his solitude.
He closed the door carefully, as though afraid the sound might wake the entire world. Then, with a trembling hand, he turned the lock. The click rang sharp and final, a barricade between himself and every gaze, even the loving one of his sister. The mask he wore so well fell away at once, leaving only the exhaustion etched across his features. He leaned his back against the wood for a moment, his eyes closing, the silence heavy enough to bruise.
Shu Yao did not cry this time. Instead, he crossed the room in measured steps and sank down upon the edge of his bed, his hands folded limply in his lap, his thoughts weaving a net he could not escape. Alone, he looked like a man half-sinking into shadows—present, but fading, as though some part of him wished to vanish altogether.
While his silence lingered above, in the room across the hall Qing Yue sat with her knees pulled close, the orange cat Juju curled loyally by her side. The lamplight glowed faint, golden against the pale of her cheeks, but her eyes were restless, stormed with unspoken grief.
Her brother—her gentle, selfless Shu Yao—was always like this. Always locking himself away. Always wearing that practiced smile until it cut into him like glass. And she hated it. She hated the way he tried to protect her with silence, as though she was too fragile to bear his truth.
Her hand lifted almost unconsciously, and the moonlight spilling through the window caught on the silver band encircling her finger. The engagement ring glimmered with a cold kind of promise, its metallic light flickering across her face. She studied it with narrowed eyes, lips parting with words meant only for herself.
"I won't let you be bullied again, gege," she whispered, her voice trembling with both sadness and vow. "Never again. Not while I'm Alive."
The cat stirred, pressing its warm body against her arm as if to anchor her resolve. She lowered her hand slowly, the ring still catching faint glimmers of light before sinking into shadow. Her lashes fluttered shut, exhaustion finally breaking through her resolve, though the promise still rang within her heart.