Chapter 68– Unspoken Gaze
The corridor hummed with faint echoes from the ballroom. Crystal laughter and the clink of glasses drifted faintly through the archway, blurred like distant waves. Soft golden light spilled from chandeliers overhead, glinting against polished marble floors.
Mo Yue adjusted the lapel of his suit, glancing toward Andre who stood a step behind him, ever steady.
"I'll head back in," Mo Yue said casually, voice lacking its usual sharpness. His eyes, though shadowed by lowered lashes, carried that restless spark that never seemed to leave him.
Andre's reply came measured, calm. "Alright. I'll stay here for a bit. I should use the restroom."
Mo Yue studied him briefly, as though deciding whether to prod further. He didn't. With a slight shrug, he tipped his head in acknowledgment.
"Don't take too long. I don't enjoy being left with vultures for company."
Andre's lips moved calmly replying . "Understood."
Mo Yue gave a small, dismissive wave and strolled back toward the ballroom. His steps were unhurried, confident, and soon the noise of the event wrapped him in its glow again.
When he was gone, Andre remained. He had not moved toward the restroom as he claimed. Instead, he positioned himself at the corridor's midpoint where the path curved one way toward the hall and the other toward the rest area. The light caught his sharp profile, casting long shadows across the wall.
There was no tension in his body, only stillness—a stillness threaded with quiet patience.
He was waiting.
Not for Mo Yue.
For someone else.
Earlier Above the Ballroom
On the upper floor of the hall, where the crowd's noise dulled into a muted buzz, two men sat facing each other across a small table. Decanters of amber liquor gleamed between them, glasses catching the soft lamplight.
Zhen Yichen leaned back in his seat, posture immaculate, glass in hand but untouched. His presence was steady, composed, as though the chaos below had nothing to do with him.
Across from him lounged Mo Han, his expression laced with amusement. He raised his glass and tipped it lazily toward the hall.
"Your little brother's causing waves again. Typical Mo Yue. I'm surprised you're not storming down there to drag him out by the collar."
Mo Han lips curved faintly, though not quite into a smile. "I stopped interfering with him a long time ago. He's grown. He can fight his own battles."
"Oh." Yichen replies
Mo Han's chuckle rolled out warm and sharp. "Is nothing, just his emotion getting best of him. Look down there. It's hardly a fight—more like he enjoys the sparks too much to step away."
Yichen's gaze shifted, not toward Mo Yue, but beside him—toward the young man standing still, composed, shadowed yet unyielding.
Andre.
Mo Han chuckled. "My little brother is noisy enough to set fire to an entire ballroom, yet you're not watching him. You're watching his assistant."
Yichen's expression didn't shift, but his grip on the glass tightened just slightly. "You're imagining things."
"Am I?" Mo Han leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table. "That boy… he doesn't flinch. Do you know how rare that is? Standing beside Mo Yue is like trying to walk a tightrope in a hurricane. But him—he stood there like stone. Even Yue seemed… smaller next to him. And you noticed."
Yichen's silence said more than words.
Mo Han smirked. "Tell me, Yichen. Does he remind you of something? Or perhaps… someone?"
The remark hit too close. For a brief flicker, Yichen's calm fractured.
And then, as if sensing it, Andre lifted his head below. His gaze tilted upward—unhurried, steady, piercing the distance with unnerving precision.
Their eyes met.
The world blurred at the edges.
Yichen's breath hitched before he could stop it. Heat curled at the base of his neck, memories breaking through his iron walls: the weight of shadowed silence, closeness he shouldn't have allowed, a night best left buried.
He tore his gaze away. The glass in his hand clinked sharply against the table. "I need air," he said abruptly, voice lower than intended.
Mo Han raised a brow, watching him with amusement but choosing not to press. "Go, then. But remember—running doesn't kill curiosity."
Yichen ignored the words and stood, leaving with clipped steps.
****
Back at The Corridor
The hum of the ballroom was softer here. Music and laughter bled faintly into the quiet corridor, but they did not break its stillness.
Andre stood where he had been all along. The golden light traced sharp lines across his tall frame, making him seem carved from something unyielding. His expression was unreadable, but his posture carried the weight of intent.
Footsteps approached.
Zhen Yichen came into view, emerging from the far stretch of the corridor. His stride was measured, polished as always, but the control in his movements masked the subtle tension beneath.
The moment his eyes found Andre standing there, he stopped.
Andre turned his head slightly, acknowledging his presence. His voice was calm, professional, respectful in tone but untouched by deference.
"Mr. Zhen."
The greeting was simple, yet it struck like a stone in still water.
Yichen felt the echo in his chest—an unwelcome rush of memory, a warmth he could not permit. His composure strained as he looked at the boy's face in this quiet place, close now, no distance of balconies or crowds to soften it.
Andre didn't shift. His dark eyes remained steady, patient, holding without pressing. He seemed to wait for something Yichen didn't know how to give.
Yichen's throat tightened. He should speak. He should dismiss this moment as nothing. But silence clung to him, heavy and binding.
That night's ghost pressed in closer—the heat of it, the breath of it, the truth of it he had tried to bury. His chest felt too tight.
He inhaled, low and sharp, as though the air itself resisted him.
Andre didn't move. Didn't relent.
From the ballroom, a burst of laughter carried faintly into the corridor—
The sound slipped past, but it didn't break the silence. It only deepened it.
Andre stood as though carved into the space.
Yichen stood as though the ground beneath him had shifted.
The corridor held its breath.
And in that charged stillness, something unspoken took root—too fragile to name, too heavy to dismiss.
The moment stretched long enough to promise it wouldn't end quietly.