"He Xinlan, do you really think I don't dare? Do you still think you're the same He Xinlan as before?"
Feng Haitian's face had long since lost its composure. After everything that had happened, there was no dignity left to hang on to.
Outside, rain lashed the windows and thunder rolled like cannonfire.
He Xinlan hadn't expected him to be so ruthless. She felt her hope crumble. Feng Qingsheng clung to her, trembling. "Dad, this has nothing to do with Mom. It's Feng Yu's doing! If it weren't for that— that woman—how could this happen? She must've tipped off that witch at Liye Group. It has to be her!"
Feng Haitian snorted coldly. There was no point in arguing now; his reputation had been shredded.
"Zhang, pack their things. Get them out of the Feng household," he said, staring at them with a hollow, severe look.
He had no intention of becoming fodder for the papers again. This scandal had already ruined him.
"Mom—what do we do? Dad won't have us anymore…" Feng Qingsheng sobbed, burying her face against He Xinlan.
He Xinlan clenched her fists until her knuckles whitened. Red veins threaded across her beautiful irises. She mouthed the name Feng Yu, one syllable at a time, a hatred so sharp she wanted to tear the woman apart.
You think you can crush me like this? Ha. That little brat didn't have the power to ruin her. She still had cards to play.
At that moment Feng Qingsheng's phone rang. When she answered it, her face lit up. "Shi Yan? You're back?"
He Xinlan's lips curved in a cold, small smile. Of course—one of her cards had returned. "Go. Go see the welcome for your brother."
A crack of thunder rumbled so loud it seemed to split the sky, and He Xinlan's smile took on a dangerous edge.
---
The presidential suite.
Fu Qianchen stood outside the small room for a long while before finally pushing the door open.
He'd heard someone leave, but whether she had returned he couldn't be sure. He had stayed on the balcony for a long time, lighting cigarette after cigarette and never taking a drag, the smoke curling up like a veil that hid whatever passed over his face.
When the rain grew furious enough to soak the pack in his hand, he went inside.
The bed was empty. A sneer flickered through his dark eyes—half mockery, half exasperation at himself. He was about to turn away when a faint voice behind him stopped him cold.
"Fu...Mr. Fu, is that you?"
He moved toward the wardrobe and opened it.
There she was, curled in the corner with her arms around her knees. Her face, usually delicate as porcelain, was drained of color; her lips had lost their healthy pink. Strands of hair clung to her forehead. Her pretty eyes were misted over, staring up at him with the helplessness of a stray animal.
For the first time, something tightened around his chest.
Thunder split the sky again; his voice nearly drowned by the roar. "Why are you here?"
"Don't—don't go." Tears hung on her long lashes. Feng Yu clutched at his jacket and bit her lip. "Please, Mr. Fu, don't go."
Fu Qianchen's brows drew together. The darkness in his eyes softened into something like pity.
He scooped her up in a single motion and laid her across the bed. "Afraid of thunder?"
She clung to his sleeve and nodded.
She had been afraid ever since the night her mother died. That storm—her birthday, of all nights—had been like this: rain like curtains, thunder cracking the sky. She should have been on the school bus home, but a classmate's prank had locked her in the supply closet. Rain streamed through the gaps. She shivered until someone found her the next day, and the news that met her wasn't relief but tragedy — her mother was dead and her brother gravely ill. Since then, thunder had become a terror she couldn't shake.
On the bed, Feng Yu still trembled. Fu Qianchen held her close, warmth transferring between them. Her hands and feet felt bone-cold; the lively girl who could charm a room had been reduced to something fragile and breathless. It unnerved him.
"Don't be afraid. I'm here," he murmured against her hair, repeating it until the panic in her chest eased. His voice was low and tender, and for the first time in a long while the thunder became just another sound in the background.
The storm subsided, the rain tapered off, and pale morning light crept through the white curtains.
When Feng Yu woke, she watched the man sleeping beside her. Even masked, his profile was handsome enough to stop her breath. His whispered reassurances still echoed in her ears — he had said them all night, until the storm had passed.
She had not felt such comfort since her mother's death. Yet seeing him now made her dizzy. "Mr. Fu…this isn't right," she said, trying to reclaim distance and the last of her sense.
She wanted to stay sensible, to not lose herself. But in the short time she'd been with him, the calculated restraint she'd practiced for years was unspooling. All she wanted was to sink into his forceful gentleness and forget.
He turned, the eyes he opened like black pools that seemed to look right through her. "We…what, exactly, are we doing?"
His gaze was so intense her skin prickled.
"Mr. Fu—"
"Let's be blunt. When it comes to exposing someone, you're second to none. No one dares to be first. My Mrs. Fu…you're lucky you're not a man. If you were, you'd be ruthless—no mercy at all."
His teasing made something like a laugh break out of her, despite herself. "Mr. Fu, that doesn't sound like you."
Sunlight fell through her hair, setting it to a glossy sheen. She smiled as if the world had just remembered how to be kind.
Fu Qianchen flipped and pinned her gently to the bed, his hands bracing on either side of her head. He bent, and his lips brushed hers.
This kiss wasn't like the harsh ones before. It was slow and careful and wholly tender—no reproof, no command—only softness. She felt herself follow his rhythm, at first lightly then deeper, like a puppet whose strings were being pulled into warmth.
"Fu…Mr. Fu," she whispered.
"Shut up," he said, a rare impatience in his tone.
He had tolerated a long night of complications and care. He was only human. Sharing a bed and doing nothing was not comfortable for a man like him. He bit her lip once—hard—and felt an odd sting of anger at her apparent lack of conscience. Yet when she winced, the anger dissolved into concern.
"Maybe…should I—" she began, sitting up with a tentative flush.
"Should you what?" he asked, eyes narrowed.
"Say thank you," she answered after a moment.
He gaped, affronted by the simplicity of his own expectation. When had he sunk so low that having a girl thank him would make him feel better? Was he really so desperate for validation? He hated that thought.
"And how exactly do you plan to show your gratitude?" he asked, one elegant brow lifted.
She leaned forward and pecked him once on the lips — a quick, light touch like a dragonfly skimming water. She stared at him, a little dizzy. "Like this? Is this okay?"
"What do you think?" he said, propping his head on his hand and watching her with a mischievous glint.
She couldn't help herself and kissed him again, another soft, fluttering peck.
He felt the ridiculous itch of wanting more. The girl kept fluttering these small kisses like coy little darts, and his annoyance melted into exasperated amusement.
"Mrs. Fu, have you finished playing yet?" he asked, half scolding, half laughing.