“Since I’m lying down anyway, looking at something isn’t tiring.” Gu Zeming closed the magazine and stood up.
He was more than half a head taller than Gu Ziyao, but terribly thin.
The white loungewear hung loosely on his frame, the fabric taut over his shoulder bones as if about to tear. His complexion was pale—not a healthy pallor, but a translucent, sickly white, his lips lacking color.
But his eyes were beautiful. Gentle, soft, like amber washed by water, with a patient, unhurried gaze when he looked at people.
“What’s for dinner today?” Gu Ziyao followed him toward the dining room.
“Braised fish, stir-fried seasonal vegetables, and the tomato egg drop soup you love. Also…” Gu Zeming walked ahead, his steps slow but trying not to let it show.
“I had Auntie make it.” Gu Zeming pulled out a chair and sat down. “I was feeling a bit better today, so I went to the kitchen to check, but I didn’t do any cooking.”
“Please don’t ever cook again.” Gu Ziyao sat down across from him and picked up her chopsticks. “Last time you cooked, the kitchen almost caught fire.”
“That was an accident.” Gu Zeming smiled faintly. “I didn’t control the oil temperature well.”
“You still say that.” Gu Ziyao picked up a piece of fish and put it in her mouth. The fish was tender, melting on her tongue. “Hmm, Auntie’s cooking keeps getting better.”
Gu Zeming watched her eat, picking up a bite of vegetables himself and chewing slowly.
The dining room was quiet, with only the sound of chopsticks against dishes. The overhead pendant light cast a warm glow, bathing both their faces and lending a faint warmth to Gu Zeming’s pale skin.
“You didn’t come home last night?” Gu Zeming asked.
Gu Ziyao’s chopsticks paused briefly before resuming.
“Yeah, the banquet ended too late, so I just stayed at the apartment.”
She placed a piece of fish in Gu Zeming’s bowl. “Eat some fish, don’t just have vegetables.”
“Alright.” Gu Zeming didn’t press further, lowering his head to take a bite of fish.
“How about the company? How was it today?” he asked again.
Gu Ziyao set down her chopsticks and looked at him seriously.
“Second Brother.”
“Hmm?”
“The company is fine.” Her tone was earnest, almost stern. “Your top priority right now is to recover. If you keep worrying about the company, I’ll get angry.”
She deliberately furrowed her brows and pouted slightly, putting on an angry expression.
That expression made her look less like a company executive and more like a little girl pouting at her older brother.
Gu Zeming looked at her, a complex light flashing in his eyes—a mix of heartache, helplessness, relief, and a deeply hidden guilt.
“Alright.” He sighed. “I won’t ask anymore.”
“Promise?” Gu Ziyao extended her pinky finger.
Gu Zeming looked at her finger, momentarily stunned, then smiled.
“How old are you, still doing this?”
“Promise?” Gu Ziyao insisted.
Gu Zeming shook his head, extended his pinky, and hooked it with hers.
His fingers were cold, knuckles prominent, nails neatly trimmed. When their fingers linked, Gu Ziyao could feel the bones of his fingers pressing against her skin.
Her heart ached, but she didn’t show it.
“Let’s eat.” She released his finger and picked up her chopsticks again. “The soup won’t taste good if it gets cold.”
The two of them finished the meal in silence.
9 p.m., second floor, east wing of the Gu family estate.
The lights in the hallway had been switched to night mode, casting a dim, honey-like glow across the floor as if melted honey had been poured over it.
Gu Zeming sat on the sofa in his room, holding a cup of warm water but not drinking it.
He leaned back against the sofa, eyes closed. The faint warmth that had lingered on his face earlier had faded, revealing his true complexion beneath—pale, weary, as if something had hollowed him out from within.
He was thinking about what his sister had said at the dinner table.
“The company is doing fine.”
These four words, he had heard them for two years.
Every time he asked, it was these four words.
Every time she said them, Gu Ziyao would smile, her eyes curving gently, her tone light, as if speaking of something completely unworthy of worry.
But he knew it wasn’t.
How could he not know?
What state the Gu Group was in now, he understood better than anyone.
He had spent three years stabilizing the situation before falling seriously ill.
His sister had resolutely taken over the Gu Group.
She was only twenty-four when she took over. Fresh out of school for barely two years, without even having written a complete business plan, she had to face Zhou Guoping and his pack of old foxes who had been navigating the business world for thirty years.
These past two years, he had watched how she struggled, and it pained him deeply.
He remembered one late night when he couldn’t sleep and went downstairs for water. Passing through the living room, he saw Gu Ziyao sitting on the sofa, hugging a cushion, staring blankly at her phone screen.
On the screen was the company’s financial report. She stared at it for a long time, then flipped her phone face-down on the sofa and buried her face in the cushion.
She didn’t cry out loud, but her shoulders trembled.
That was the first time he felt that he, as her older brother, was utterly useless.
“Cough, cough—”
A muffled cough interrupted his thoughts.
The cough came suddenly and violently, surging up from deep within his chest as if something were stuck in his windpipe—unable to be coughed up or swallowed down. Gu Zeming bent over, quickly covering his mouth with a handkerchief in one hand while bracing himself on his knee with the other, his entire body trembling with each cough.
He coughed for a long time.
So long that a metallic, sweet taste rose in his throat.
Finally, the coughing stopped. He straightened up slowly and removed his hand from his mouth.
On the handkerchief in his palm was a patch of bright red.
Not a trace of blood, but blood.
A small patch, about two fingers wide, soaked into the white handkerchief, its edges already beginning to oxidize into a dark red.
Gu Zeming stared at the blood, frozen in place.
His expression didn’t change—no fear, no panic, not even surprise.
He simply stared, as if looking at something he had long known would come but had been unwilling to acknowledge.
After about ten seconds, he moved.
He folded the handkerchief, tucking the blood-stained side inward so nothing showed on the outside. Then he stood up and walked to the bathroom sink, turning on the faucet.
Water washed over the handkerchief, diluting the red liquid as it swirled down the drain. He squeezed a bit of hand soap, rubbed it in, rinsed it clean, wrung it out, and hung it on the towel rack.
After finishing all this, he looked up and stared at his reflection in the mirror.
The person in the mirror was as pale as if coated in a layer of whitewash, his lips tinged purple, his eye sockets slightly sunken.
But his gaze was calm, as still as stagnant water.
He knew what this meant.
The doctor had said that if coughing up blood occurred, it meant the illness had entered a new stage. Immediate hospitalization was needed, further tests were required, it was necessary to—
He didn’t continue that train of thought.
He walked out of the bathroom, picked up his phone from the nightstand, opened the contacts, and found a number saved as “Eldest Brother.”
His finger hovered over the screen for two seconds.
Then he pressed the call button.
The phone rang for a long time, so long he thought no one would answer. Then a hoarse male voice came through.
“Zeming?”
“Eldest Brother…”