No prior weakness. No visible illness. No sign—not a flicker, not a stumble, not a second of hesitation. One moment, she was standing in the study, reviewing documents, the afternoon light slanting through the tall windows and catching the jade at her throat.
The next—
the pen slipped from her fingers.
It clattered against the polished wood, rolling once, twice, then still. Her body swayed—a slow, almost graceful tilt, like a tree finally yielding to a wind that had been pressing for years.
Then collapsed.
The sound of her hitting the floor was soft. Muffled. Almost gentle.
But it shattered the silence like a gunshot.
The mansion shifted instantly.
Servants ran. Phones were lifted. Doctors were called, their voices tight with urgency. Emergency systems activated—lights flickering, doors opening, the quiet machinery of crisis swallowing the ordinary afternoon.
Lu Yuze arrived before explanations did.
