Yu Shuang stayed in the suite for about half an hour.
Shen Che stood in the corridor with his back against the wall, one hand in his trouser pocket, his gaze fixed on the carved pattern of a flower on the wall lamp opposite him.
He had changed clothes.
The tailored suit jacket he’d been wearing earlier had been stained with champagne and had been taken away by a waiter to be cleaned.
Now he was wearing another suit, this one dark gray with peaked lapels, made from lightweight British wool. It was impeccably tailored, emphasizing his broad shoulders and straight back and giving him an imposing air.
Zhao Ming had come upstairs at some point and was standing quietly at the other end of the corridor. When he saw Shen Che turn around, he walked over a couple of steps.
“Young Marshal, the clothes have been delivered inside. Miss Yu’s assistant has also been notified and is waiting downstairs,” Zhao Ming said in a lowered voice.
Shen Che nodded.
“Also…” Zhao Ming hesitated. “Manager Chen from Dahua sent someone to ask if you would do him the honor of having a drink with him once Miss Yu comes out—”
“No.”
Two curt words.
Shen Che didn’t even lift his eyes.
Zhao Ming answered, “Yes, Young Marshal,” and turned to leave.
He had followed Shen Che for so many years that he was already accustomed to this tone.
When the Young Marshal said he wasn’t seeing someone, then he wasn’t seeing them. Not even if the Emperor himself came knocking.
The corridor fell silent again.
Shen Che could faintly hear rustling from inside the room, perhaps the sound of fabric brushing against fabric, perhaps footsteps.
Through the heavy wooden door, the sounds were muffled and indistinct, as though he were listening from beneath the surface of the water.
He suddenly remembered the moment Yu Shuang had walked past him earlier, when her fingertips had brushed the back of his hand.
Cold as ice.
Light as though it had barely happened.
He lowered his eyes to his hand and unconsciously rubbed the spot with his thumb.
Just then, the door opened.
Yu Shuang stood in the doorway.
Shen Che looked up—
And forgot to breathe.
She was wearing a goose-yellow velvet qipao.
The yellow was extraordinarily pale, like the first tender shoots budding on willow branches in early spring, or the thin line of warm light that appeared on the horizon just before dawn.
The corridor lights fell across the velvet, bringing out its soft, delicate sheen and enveloping her in a warm, luminous glow.
The qipao had been exquisitely tailored. Its high collar framed her slender neck perfectly, with a small pearl button fastened at the throat.
The waist was fitted beautifully, outlining her graceful curves. The hem fell just to her knees, revealing a smooth, shapely length of calf. On her feet were matching satin heels.
Her hair had been redone as well.
The damp strands that had been plastered to her face by the spilled champagne had been carefully gathered behind her head and twisted into a loose low bun. A few wisps of dark hair fell naturally beside her ears, making her delicate features appear even smaller and more refined.
Her makeup had been touched up too. It was light and understated, with brows shaped like distant mountains and lips as soft as a dab of cherry blossom. There was a faint weariness around the corners of her eyes and brows, as though the earlier accident had drained what little energy she had left.
She stood in the doorway, bathed in the dim golden light of the corridor, looking like a yellow rose that had quietly blossomed in the darkness.
Not the vivid, flamboyant yellow of something bold and passionate, but a gentle, restrained shade that made it impossible not to look twice.
Shen Che said nothing.
He simply looked at her.
His gaze traveled slowly from the crown of her head to the tips of her shoes, then back up to her face.
There was no scrutiny in his eyes, no appraisal.
Only a nearly dazed stare—
Like a man who had wandered through a desert for a very long time and suddenly discovered a clear spring, afraid to blink in case the water vanished.
He remembered a sunset he’d seen in Beining.
It had been after a hard-fought battle. He had ridden alone to a high ridge and turned back to look at the road he’d come from.
The sun was sinking in the west. The clouds along the horizon had been transformed into brilliant shades of orange and gold, spreading across the sky as though someone had thrown an entire barrel of paint overhead.
He had simply sat there on horseback, head tilted back, staring at that magnificent, breathtaking sunset until, for a moment, he’d forgotten where he was.
That was exactly how he felt now as he looked at Yu Shuang standing in the doorway.
Yu Shuang noticed his gaze.
She raised her head and met his unfathomably deep eyes, momentarily startled.
The way he looked at her now was different from before.
In the banquet hall, although his gaze had followed her, there had always been something between them, as though he were watching a person through the screen of a movie theater.
Now his gaze was direct and completely undisguised.
In those usually deep, stern eyes, there was one thing written unmistakably clear:
He thought she was beautiful.
Not the polite, socially appropriate kind of “beautiful,” but a genuine, heartfelt reaction—the kind of beauty that struck straight through the heart and left a man momentarily at a loss.
The tips of her ears quietly turned red.
“Young Marshal?” she called softly.
The corners of her lips curved into a slightly embarrassed smile.
“The clothes fit perfectly. You’ve gone to a lot of trouble for me.”
Shen Che came back to himself.
He blinked, and the dazed look in his eyes receded like a tide, leaving behind his usual composure and inscrutable calm.
But his Adam’s apple moved slightly—a tiny gesture he didn’t even notice himself.
“Miss Yu, you’re too polite,” he said.
His voice was lower than before, deep like the lingering final note of a cello as it drifted through the empty corridor.
“The dress suits you.”
He deliberately kept his tone casual when he said those three words, as though he were merely stating an insignificant fact.
But he knew he’d put a little too much force into them.
Enough that he had nearly bitten his tongue.
Yu Shuang lowered her head and adjusted her shawl. That shy smile still lingered at the corners of her lips, like a flower refusing to wither.
“Thank you. It’s getting late.”
She glanced toward the window at the end of the corridor.
Outside lay a heavy darkness. Most of the neon lights in the distance had already gone out, leaving only a few scattered ones glowing like tired eyes.
“I should go home. Otherwise, my family will start worrying.”
Her family.
Hearing those two words, something stirred faintly inside Shen Che, but he didn’t think much of it.
“All right.”
Just two words.
Crisp and decisive. No attempt to persuade her to stay, no unnecessary pleasantries.
He stepped aside and let her go first.
As Yu Shuang passed him, she carried with her a faint, delicate fragrance.
Shen Che followed half a step behind her, just as he had on the way there.
And yet, somehow, something had changed.
The elevator slowly descended from the seventh floor.
The brass lattice doors reflected the light from the wall lamps, sliding downward one section at a time.
Yu Shuang stood at the front, facing the elevator mirror. She adjusted her hair, then looked down at her clothes as though making sure she still looked presentable.
Shen Che stood behind her, watching her reflection.
In the mirror, her head was lowered, her lashes casting fan-shaped shadows across her cheeks. The faint smile from earlier still lingered on her lips, soft and subtle.
Suddenly, she lifted her head and their eyes met in the mirror—
Both of them looked away at the same time.
The elevator reached the first floor.
When the doors opened, the scene in the lobby surprised them both.
The banquet was already over.
Three or four uniformed waiters were clearing away the remains of the feast. Ribbons and scraps of paper were scattered across the floor. Several female guests had left their shawls and handbags behind on the chairs, sitting there forlornly as they waited for their owners to return.
The band was packing up its instruments. A cello was being placed into a black case, while a violinist shoved his bow into its case and yawned.
The lively scene of wine, laughter, fine clothes, and glittering conversation from earlier had vanished as quickly as a dream.
Someone noticed the elevator doors opening and looked up. Upon recognizing Shen Che and Yu Shuang, they gave each other a knowing look before lowering their heads and returning to work.
Yu Shuang frowned slightly.
She knew exactly what they were thinking.
Shen Che, however, didn’t care.
His gaze fell on the entrance to the lobby.
Two people were waiting there.
One was his adjutant, Zhao Jiaming, standing ramrod straight at the bottom of the steps. His military uniform was immaculate, and he held an overcoat over one arm.
The other was his driver, Old Fang, who had already opened the rear door of the car and was waiting for him.
When Zhao Jiaming saw them come out, he hurried forward.
“Young Marshal.”
He saluted. His gaze paused briefly on Yu Shuang before quickly moving away, and he respectfully stepped aside.
Shen Che took the overcoat Zhao Jiaming handed him. He didn’t put it on, merely draping it over his arm.
Then he turned toward Yu Shuang.
“Where do you live, Miss Yu?” he asked, his voice neither loud nor soft. “I’ll take you home.”
His tone was casual, but there was an unmistakable firmness to it, as though refusing wasn’t an option.
Yu Shuang shook her head.
“No need,” she said, polite but distant. “I don’t want to trouble you, Young Marshal. I’ll make my own way home.”
Shen Che looked at her, his brows shifting slightly as though he still wanted to say something.
But Yu Shuang’s attitude was firm.
She took a small step back, putting half a step of distance between them, and wore the perfectly courteous smile that left no room for offense.
Just then, hurried footsteps came from across the street.
“Shuangshuang!”
The voice was clear and warm, slightly breathless, as though the man had run all the way there.
Shen Che turned toward the sound.
A young man came running from beneath the streetlamp across the road.
He wore a gray-blue cotton changshan beneath a short black wool coat. His scarf had been blown loose by the wind, one end hanging over his shoulder while the other fluttered behind him.
He was running rather hurriedly. Streetlight gleamed off his glasses, flashing with every step, while a thin sheen of sweat had gathered at his temples.
He looked scholarly and refined.
His features were gentle, with round-framed glasses resting on the bridge of his nose, giving him an unmistakably bookish air.
He wasn’t short, but standing before Shen Che, he was still nearly half a head shorter.
His build was nowhere near as broad and upright as Shen Che’s. His shoulders were somewhat slender, and the long changshan hung loosely from his frame, as though his bones alone couldn’t quite fill it out.
Standing beside Shen Che, one was a drawn blade fresh from its sheath, the other an ancient qin tucked safely inside its case.
Yet there was something clean about his eyes.
Completely clean.
They looked like the eyes of someone who had never weathered great storms and had never been betrayed by anyone.
Now those eyes were filled with anxiety and concern. He had run all the way from across the street, his gaze locked entirely on Yu Shuang as though she were the only person left in the world.
The moment Yu Shuang saw him, her expression changed.
With Shen Che, she’d been polite and distant, maintaining just the right amount of restraint.
But now a completely different smile blossomed across her face.
It wasn’t the faint, elusive smile she’d worn earlier.
It was genuine happiness, rising straight from her heart.
Her eyes lit up. Her lips curved high, and two unmistakable flushes appeared on her cheeks.
“Ziheng!”
She called his name.
The way she said “Ziheng” was soft and almost sweet, with a hint of playful dependence in her voice, like a cat stretching lazily in the afternoon sun—unguarded and utterly at ease.
She took two steps toward him.
The man called Ziheng ran up to her and stopped, breathing heavily. He immediately took her hand and looked her over from head to toe.
His gaze moved from her face to her clothes, then down to her shoes, going over her several times as though making absolutely certain she hadn’t been hurt.
“I heard something happened at the reception?” he said, his voice full of worry. “Are you all right? Why did you change clothes? Were you hurt—”
“I’m fine.”
Yu Shuang squeezed his hand in return, gently patting it in reassurance before giving his fingers a little squeeze, as though calming an overly anxious child.
“It was just a small accident. It’s already been taken care of. The Young Marshal helped me.”
She turned and glanced toward Shen Che.
Lin Ziheng followed her gaze and only then noticed Shen Che standing on the steps.
He froze for a moment.
The man on the steps was simply too tall, too imposing, too commanding.
The dark-gray tailored suit emphasized his broad shoulders and back. Streetlight shining from behind him traced his figure with a hard, cold outline.
He stood there with one hand in his trouser pocket, his face expressionless. He wasn’t even deliberately putting on an intimidating air—
Yet somehow, no one would dare meet his eyes for long.
That kind of presence wasn’t something clothes could create.
It came from the bone.
It had been forged by commanding armies, tempered through countless brushes with death amid flashing blades and gunfire.
He didn’t need to speak.
He didn’t need to move.
He only had to stand there for people to understand—
This man belonged to a different world.
Lin Ziheng instinctively straightened his collar and adjusted his glasses before taking two steps forward and bowing respectfully.
“Young Marshal, I’m Shuangshuang’s fiancé,” he said, his voice sincere with gratitude. “Shuangshuang told me what happened just now. Thank you for helping her. I’m sorry to have caused you trouble.”
His manner was neither servile nor arrogant, but the respect in his voice was genuine.
It wasn’t the obsequious respect of someone currying favor with the powerful. It was the natural caution of an ordinary man standing before someone of immense power.
His back was slightly bent, like a reed bowed by the wind—supple, but unbroken.
Shen Che looked at him.
He noticed the angle of the man’s bow.
A perfectly proper gesture from a younger man to his elder. Neither too deep nor too shallow.
He noticed the hand that had held Yu Shuang’s.
Long fingers, clean hands, nails trimmed short.
There was a thick callus on his middle finger, worn there by years of holding a pen.
He noticed the man’s glasses.
The lenses were somewhat scratched, and a strip of white adhesive tape had been wrapped around one temple, as though he’d been using them for years and couldn’t bear to replace them.
An ordinary man.
Poor but respectable.
Content to live a quiet, honest life.
A man from an entirely different world than his own.
And then there was the way Yu Shuang had called him—
“Ziheng.”
Something exploded soundlessly inside Shen Che’s mind.
Shuangshuang.
Ziheng.
Family.
So the “family” she’d mentioned wasn’t her parents or siblings.
It wasn’t some distant relative.
It was this man.
Her fiancé.
The realization passed through Shen Che’s chest like a bullet.
Silent, invisible, yet burning with pain.
He felt as though he were standing on a battlefield in Beining, struck by a stray bullet.
It hadn’t hit a vital organ, but blood was flowing, and he had no idea when it would stop.
His expression didn’t change in the slightest.
“It was nothing. No need to mention it,” Shen Che said, his voice flat and emotionless.
His tone was exactly the same as when he’d spoken to Secretary-General Sun at the banquet—polite, distant, maintaining an understated sense of separation.
But he knew there was a difference between the courtesy he showed now and the courtesy he’d shown earlier.
Earlier, he’d simply been too lazy to entertain them.
Now, he had no choice but to.
Lin Ziheng bowed once more before straightening and turning toward Yu Shuang.
He naturally took the handbag from her hand and adjusted the shawl that had been blown loose by the wind.
His movements were gentle and familiar, as though he’d done it countless times before.
When his fingertips brushed her shoulder, she instinctively shifted slightly to let him tuck the edge of the shawl securely into place.
Their understanding was as natural as breathing.
“Let’s go, Shuangshuang. The rickshaw is waiting over there,” Lin Ziheng said, pointing toward the corner.
A rickshaw was parked there. The rickshaw puller was crouching beside the shafts, waiting. When he saw them looking over, he hurriedly stood up and dusted off his cotton trousers.
Yu Shuang nodded and followed Lin Ziheng for two steps before stopping.
She turned around.
She looked at Shen Che, the streetlight softening her features.
She smiled slightly.
This smile was different from the one she’d given Lin Ziheng just moments ago. It was polite and proper, but more sincere than any of the smiles she’d worn at the banquet.
“Young Marshal, thank you for tonight,” she said. “If I have the opportunity, I’ll personally come to thank you another day.”
Shen Che nodded.
“You’re too polite, Miss Yu. Take care on the way home.”
Yu Shuang acknowledged him, then turned and slipped her arm through Lin Ziheng’s.
The two walked side by side toward the corner.
Lin Ziheng lowered his head and said something to her. She tilted her face up to listen, the smile never leaving her lips.
When they reached the rickshaw, Lin Ziheng helped her into the seat first, then carefully tucked her shawl around her before climbing in himself.
The rickshaw puller lifted the shafts and began making his way down the street.
The wheels rolled over the cobblestones with a soft, rhythmic rumble.
Farther and farther away.
Quieter and quieter.
Shen Che remained standing on the steps, watching until the rickshaw disappeared around the corner.
He saw Yu Shuang turn her head in the carriage and say something to Lin Ziheng.
He saw Lin Ziheng smile and nod, then put an arm around her shoulders.
He saw her head tilt slightly, coming to rest against the hollow of his shoulder—
Then the light at the corner went out.
The rickshaw disappeared into the heavy darkness of the night, and there was nothing left to see.