“You were here?”
Ling Qianchen asked again, that small, uncertain question trying to nail down a fact he wasn’t sure of.
“Really—you were here?” Chai Yanyu’s curiosity sounded more like a hunter’s whisper than a question. Seeing his cousin so visibly on edge, smelling the possibility of gossip, Chai’s grin widened. He couldn’t resist poking.
“Yeah. Yuan Meng came with bags and bags of stuff—like tonic food. But when she saw me sitting here she looked nervous, like I might help myself, so she took everything back with her.”
When it came to tall tales, Chai Yanyu was second to none; nobody would argue he was number one. The memory of that one warning message—the one that would have ruined him if the truth slipped out—made him shudder. Both his cousin and Yuan Meng were people he didn’t dare cross.
Ling had long known his cousin was a drama queen and hadn’t taken Chai’s ramblings too seriously. But when Chai clarified that Yuan Meng wasn’t the female doctor he’d mistaken her for, Ling finally let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He couldn’t say exactly why he felt relieved, only that something lightened inside him.
Chai, afraid of staying too long and exposing himself, suddenly remembered an errand and slipped away. Ling didn’t stop him—hadn’t even had the chance. He watched his cousin go, vanishing down the corridor like he’d never been there.
Outside the ward, Chai Yanyu let out a long, theatrical sigh, pressing a hand to his racing heart. “That was close,” he muttered to himself. Had he stayed five minutes more he might well have folded under his cousin’s silent authority. If he’d blurted the truth, the fallout for Yuan Meng would have been impossible to explain. He had escaped with his skin intact—at least for now.
Lost in his own relief, Chai didn’t notice the presence behind him. Yuan Meng had been standing just outside the elevator, watching. She’d finished talking with the doctors and meant to return to the ward, but prudence—and a wish to check on Ling—pulled her back. She’d stepped out of the elevator without thinking, and nearly startled when she saw Chai frozen in the doorway.
Chai finally noticed someone watching him and spun around. His face went pale as if his heart had nearly stopped. “You—you don’t make a sound when you walk?” he blurted.
Yuan Meng laughed, an amused, easy sound. “Your reaction time is something else.”
Chai’s face flushed. Who could blame him? What sane person stood dazed at an elevator and pretended to be invisible? He had no lies left to tell, no courage to invent more, so he kept quiet until Yuan Meng himself asked the next question. Then he answered everything she wanted to hear—cautious, measured.
Inside the ward, Ling felt a throb at his temple. It might have been post-op fatigue; it might have been his own mind overworking itself. He decided to lie down for a little while, thinking a rest could do no harm.
That plan dissolved the moment Yuan Meng reached the door. She paused, hand on the handle, just as a sharp female voice cut through the corridor like a blade.
“Qianchen—how could you think that? Momo would never do something like that on purpose!”
“Mom, you don’t need to overreact. I’m only speculating,” Ling said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “If the Bei family really didn’t meddle, then that’s the best outcome.”
“Of course the Bei family wouldn’t take advantage of the situation—Momo’s feelings for you would move heaven and earth!” Yu Luqing’s voice on the phone was fierce enough to rattle the plaster. Ling wished he hadn’t picked up the call. He’d only been asking about the company; curiosity and a careless word had invited his mother’s fury.
Yu Luqing’s protectiveness of Bei Mo was nothing new; Ling should have expected it. Her tone grew softer, anxious now. “Qianchen, Momo truly cares for you. Don’t jump to conclusions.”
Ling said nothing. He could hear the impatience in his mother’s breath. “Let’s not argue about that now. The company is in chaos. There’s a lot only you can handle—if you feel up to it, come back as soon as you can.”
Yuan Meng’s expression tightened. She’d come here planning to finalize a divorce, yes, but she had dragged him back from death’s door once; she wouldn’t let his recovery be jeopardized. Maybe it was indignation or a sudden pang of concern, but in the next heartbeat she pushed the door open and walked in.
Her arrival set off a frenzy.
“You’re in such a hurry—aren’t you the one who carried him for ten months?” Yu Luqing barked, venom coiling in her words. “Do you even care what you’re doing?”
Yuan Meng’s face went blank for a moment. Then, with a dry little sound, she listened as Yu Luqing’s voice spiked into full would-be outrage. “How dare you say that? If not for you, my son might’ve gone straight into the hospital!”
Yuan Meng’s expression flickered with incredulity. Of course—now she was the convenient scapegoat.
“Mom, calm down,” Ling said quickly, and his voice carried a faint edge that hadn’t been there before. “Mengmeng isn’t like that.”
When Yuan Meng defended him, a dark glint passed through Ling’s eyes. She had taken his side—plain and simple—and he couldn’t stand by while his mother sprayed that anger at the wrong person.
“You want me to calm down?” Yu Luqing’s voice climbed an octave. “Qianchen, have you really been taken in by that wretch?”
“I won’t have this,” she cut through, decisive and absolute. “I don’t care what you think, Qianchen—this marriage, you must end it.”
If this had been a year ago, Ling would have welcomed that edict. Today, it landed like a strange stone in his gut. He shifted his gaze to the ring on Yuan Meng’s hand and found himself fumbling for some other topic. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—give his mother the satisfaction of a quick answer.
Sensing his reluctance, Yu Luqing read the hesitation and pressed on, readying a new volley of accusations. Ling’s phone screen glowed in his palm; he used the familiar excuse of a doctor making rounds and cut the call off. The line went dead before his mother could climb to the next crescendo.
Yuan Meng stood there, suddenly unsure how to place what she’d just heard. She reached up and asked, almost casually, “Where did you get that bracelet you’re wearing?”
“Someone gave it to me,” Ling replied.
“Hm. It looks nice.”
Whether it was a test or merely a way to step back from the awkwardness, it worked. They fell into easier, domestic conversation—what they’d been doing lately, the oddities of hospital food—and the tension loosened, if only a little.
Miles away, in the conference room of Ling Group, Yu Luqing stood trembling with fury after having the call cut off. She was about to redial when the secretary knocked and opened the door with a nervous creak.
“Enter,” she barked.
The secretary froze for a heartbeat, then reported, “Mrs. Ling, Miss Bei is here.”
At the mention of Bei Mo’s name, Yu Luqing’s face changed like a painting flipped at the theater: the hard, furious mask slipped into something almost placid—too placid.
“All right. Send her in.”