Lily sat there, frozen—eyes wide, shimmering with unshed tears, her breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob.
"You're… selling me off?" Her voice trembled, barely a whisper, as if even speaking the words aloud would make them feel too real.
Her father didn't even flinch. "Business requires sacrifices, my dear. You're the last piece I need to finalize the merger with the Shulong Group. Take it or leave it."
Sacrifices.
That word struck her like a slap.
Like she wasn't a person—but a token, a pawn carved in porcelain, ready to be handed over for the right price. A bitter laugh echoed in her chest, but never made it past her lips.
So this was it.
The reason they had kept her all these years in that golden cage lined with silks and etiquette classes. The late-night dinners with strangers. The forced smiles at charity galas. The endless lectures about duty, decorum, and legacy.
All a performance. All for this moment.
To be auctioned off like property.
"At last, it all makes sense," she thought, her fingers digging into her palms, nails biting her skin. "This… this was why they never let me choose. Why they kept me on a leash dressed like a pearl in a jewelry box. It was never about love or family. I was leverage. A bargaining chip."
Her father stood gave her a look, as if the conversation was no more significant than a quarterly report. "I'll take your silence as a yes."
Yes. As if she had a choice.
The blood drained from her face. She didn't even realize the meeting had ended until the room emptied around her. Han, her devil of a brother patted her shoulder like she was a pet being sent off to a new home.
Lily sat, unmoving, on the cold marble floor, her limbs numb and trembling. Her ears rang. Her throat burned. Something cracked deep inside her chest—quiet, devastating.
And when she couldn't take it any longer, she staggered to her feet and ran.
The bathroom door slammed behind her, muffling her broken gasps. She barely made it to the sink before she retched, her entire body convulsing. Tears blurred her vision as she clutched the basin like it was the only solid thing left in her life.
This was disgusting. Horrifying.
She was being traded—like a contract, a currency, an object.
The Lily in the mirror didn't even look like her. She was pale, her mascara smeared, lips trembling.
She splashed water on her face, desperately trying to calm the chaos thundering in her chest.
"And who the hell is this Lihyun anyway?!" her mind screamed.
Heart pounding, she pulled out her phone and furiously typed:
Lihyun Shulong.
Her fingers hovered as the screen loaded.
No results.
Nothing. Not a photo. Not a headline. Not even a whisper.
"You've got to be kidding me..." she breathed, her voice hollow with disbelief.
She slid down to the tiled floor, curling in on herself like a wounded animal, the weight of her future pressing down like iron chains.
From the hallway beyond the bathroom door, the echo of laughter drifted in—cold, victorious.
Her shoulders trembled as she pressed her forehead to her knees.
Was this all she was worth? A footnote in a merger deal?
Where was the girl who once dreamed of painting sunsets and chasing cherry blossoms in spring?
Buried. Forgotten. Rewritten into a name on a contract.
But somewhere deep beneath the shock—beneath the grief—something flickered.
Anger.
Lily stared at the flickering screen of her phone, her fingers hovering uncertainly. Her reflection in the blackened glass looked tired, broken… but her eyes—her eyes were hard now, burning with quiet fury.
They could take everything else from her. But not her will.
Not without a fight.
With trembling hands, she opened a message thread with Li Meng—the only person she knew and trusted who was capable of doing what she was going to ask for.
She typed slowly at first, then faster.
LILY:
Hey…
Is Zichen doing okay?
Hopefully he's landed safely.
Also… something happened. Something bad.
They've arranged a marriage. For me. Without asking.
I'm being sold off to someone named Lihyun Shulong like some limited-edition asset in their billion-yuan portfolio.
I can't even find a single damn article or photo on this guy.
Li Meng… I need a favor. A big one.
I need you to dig. Find out everything you can about Lihyun Shulong. I don't care how obscure or buried it is. I want to know what he eats, who he hangs out with, what he's hiding.
Because I'm not walking into this blind.
And I'm not letting them sell me without knowing who's bidding.
Please. Help me.
--------------------------
She hovered over the send button, her thumb hesitating only for a second.
Then she hit send.
A beat passed. Two.
And then, a small green check mark appeared beneath the message. Delivered.
Lily let the phone fall into her lap as she exhaled shakily, wiping her face with the sleeve of her blouse. Her stomach still churned, but her mind had cleared, sharpening like a blade.
They thought they'd broken her.
But all they'd done was wake the girl who had been silently swallowing rage for years.
Just then, the bathroom door creaked open.
Lily flinched, instinctively trying to wipe away her tears, her body still trembling from the weight of it all.
A maid stood in the doorway—young, with soft eyes that flickered with something dangerously close to pity. Pity was rare in this house. Forbidden, even.
"Madam has asked me to get you ready for the charity gala in three hours," the maid said gently. "Please return to your room."
Lily didn't respond. She couldn't. Her throat was raw from retching, her limbs weak and unsteady. The maid didn't move, didn't press, only waited with quiet resignation, her gaze lingering on Lily's crumpled figure on the cold tiles.
Of course. A gala.
They wouldn't give her time to process. To breathe. To scream.
There was no space for breakdowns in the Liang household—only schedules, photo ops, and strategies.
Slowly, Lily pushed herself off the floor, her knees aching. She stumbled a little, but the maid didn't offer help. She couldn't. That too would be seen as weakness—both hers and Lily's.
They walked in silence—past the tall, porcelain vase that cost more than most people's homes; through the grand drawing room, where her father hosted foreign diplomats and pretended she didn't exist; and into the private in-house elevator reserved for family members and trusted staff.
DING.
Her floor. A corridor of dull beige walls and dim lighting.
Lily stepped out. Unlike the opulent upper floors, hers was buried near the west wing—technically "family quarters," but in reality, it was servant housing. She could hear soft voices behind staff room doors, the clatter of dishes being dried, laughter that never quite reached her world.
Her key clicked into the lock.
She opened the door to her room.
The familiar scent of sandalwood and dust hit her first.
Paint peeled from the corners of the ceiling. Cracks spiderwebbed across the walls, half-concealed by posters and fading photos of her younger self—singing on stage, clutching a trophy, laughing into the spotlight. A version of Lily who still believed this house could one day feel like home.
And there, laid across her neatly made bed like some ghostly offering, was a white tweed dress.
Pristine. Elegant. Stark.
It didn't belong here—not among cracked plaster and outdated speakers and a wardrobe with two broken handles.
It belonged to their world. The curated, controlled world of the Liang family.
A world where charity galas weren't about generosity—they were about reputation management.
Lilyhad seen it time and again:
A scandal breaks.
A photo leaks.
A whisper spreads in the tabloids.
And within days, the family in question appears at a glittering gala, their children dolled up in designer brands, smiling beside billionaires, holding flutes of untouched champagne while camera shutters flash like gunfire.
It was a performance. A cleanse. A reset.
Charity galas were the chaebol way of rewriting the narrative.
Tonight, she was to be their puppet—a walking apology draped in white. An image of innocence and grace. The "misunderstood daughter" returning to the public eye.
No one would mention the engagement yet—not publicly—but this was clearly the soft launch.
"Smile. Walk two steps behind your father. Keep your chin up but your eyes low. Don't speak unless spoken to."
The instructions echoed in her head.
They had drilled them into her since she was thirteen.
She stared at the dress for a long moment.
Something inside her stirred again—quiet but burning.
They were going to parade her. Like everything was fine. Like she wasn't being sold off to a ghost with a forged name.
Yuyan sat on the edge of the bed, still trembling.
Her fingers brushed the fabric of the dress. It was cold. Just like this house.
Just like them.