The jewelry was finally recovered by the following evening.
Zhao Jiaming had always been astonishingly efficient.
He sent more than a dozen men to search every pawnshop, jewelry store, and auction house in Linjiang City, turning the entire city upside down.
The gold necklace and jade bangle were found at a small pawnshop. The owner hadn’t recognized their value and had bought them for an extremely low price, intending to resell them for a profit. He hadn’t gotten around to it yet.
The sapphire brooch was at Datong Auction House, where it was waiting to be put up for auction at the end of the month.
The jade brooch had been the most difficult to track down. It had passed through three intermediaries before finally ending up in the hands of an antique dealer. Zhao Jiaming personally went to see him and, through a combination of threats and incentives, took it back on the spot.
The only thing that required Shen Che himself to intervene was the pair of diamond earrings.
They were small and delicate. The diamonds were of decent quality, though hardly exceptional. They had been sitting in the corner of a display case at a little jewelry shop, marked at eighteen silver dollars.
The owner said a young woman had come in to sell them.
She had been dressed simply, but there had been something refined about her. At a glance, it was obvious she wasn’t an ordinary woman.
She had sold them without hesitation, without even haggling over the price. She took the money and left.
Shen Che stood inside the little shop and picked up the earrings, holding them in his palm.
The tiny diamonds caught the dim yellow light, sparkling faintly like two points of frozen starlight.
He paid for them and slipped them into his pocket.
When he returned to the residence, he laid every piece of jewelry out on his desk, one by one.
The jade brooch had an exquisite, lustrous quality, glowing with a deep, mysterious green beneath the lamplight.
He remembered her wearing it at the reception that day. The orchid embroidery at her collar had complemented the green of the brooch, making her look even more elegant, pure, and coolly composed.
The gold necklace was finely crafted, its chain as delicate as a strand of hair, with a tiny orchid pendant.
The jade bangle was a flawless green, without a trace of impurity, like a pool of spring water frozen solid.
The sapphire brooch was small, but the stone was a pure, deep blue, like the star-filled sky on a winter night. Set in silver, it was delicate and understated.
And then there were the diamond earrings.
He placed them side by side.
Under the light, the diamonds gave off tiny flashes, flickering like the little sparks of light that appeared in her eyes whenever she smiled.
Shen Che sat at his desk and stared at the jewelry for a long time.
He took a soft cloth and carefully wiped each piece clean before placing them all inside a rosewood jewelry box.
The box had belonged to his mother. Its carvings were intricate, its corners trimmed with fine gold wire.
It had always sat empty.
He had never imagined that the first things it would hold would be hers.
The moment he closed the lid, his fingers lingered on its surface for a brief moment.
These were all hers.
She had sold them all for a man.
And he had bought every one of them back.
Shen Che leaned against the back of his chair, closed his eyes, and lightly tapped his fingers twice against the jewelry box.
Just then, someone knocked on the study door.
The knocks were hurried, unlike the usual measured rhythm.
“Come in.”
Zhao Jiaming pushed the door open.
His military uniform was immaculate, but his expression was grim.
His brows were drawn tightly together, his lips pressed into a thin line.
“Young Marshal, we’ve received word from the hospital.”
Zhao Jiaming kept his voice low.
Shen Che opened his eyes.
“This afternoon, Miss Yu went to the hospital. She brought a nourishing soup she’d made herself for Lin Ziheng’s mother. While she was serving it, she accidentally knocked the bowl over, and the soup spilled onto her hand…”
Shen Che’s fingers suddenly tightened around the armrest.
“She was burned,” Zhao Jiaming continued. “Her right hand—the back of her hand and her wrist. They said the soup had just come off the stove. It was boiling hot.”
The study became so quiet that the crackling of the coals in the fireplace could be heard clearly.
“Mm.”
Shen Che’s voice rumbled from deep in his chest.
“The nurse bandaged her and applied medicine, but she didn’t leave. She stayed at the hospital to look after Lin Ziheng’s mother.”
Zhao Jiaming paused.
“She is still there.”
Shen Che rose to his feet.
The chair scraped backward with an ear-piercing sound. He ignored it and strode toward the coat rack, yanking down his military jacket and putting it on in one swift motion.
His hands trembled slightly as he fastened the buttons.
It was anger.
He buttoned the last one and turned to take his overcoat from the wall, draping it across his shoulders.
“Ready the car.”
His voice was as cold and hard as tempered steel.
“Take me to the hospital.”
Zhao Jiaming froze.
“Young Marshal, now?”
“Mm.”
Zhao Jiaming didn’t ask another question.
He turned and hurried away, his footsteps echoing sharply down the corridor before disappearing at the staircase.
Shen Che stood in the middle of the study and took one last look at the rosewood jewelry box on his desk.
Then he strode out, descended the stairs, and crossed the entrance hall.
The guards at the residence immediately snapped to attention and saluted when they saw him.
He paid them no attention and walked straight toward the black automobile waiting outside.
Old Fang was already in the driver’s seat, while Zhao Jiaming had opened the rear door.
Shen Che bent down and got in, leaning back against the seat. His face was dark, like the sky just before a storm.
“Renji Hospital,” Zhao Jiaming told Old Fang.
Old Fang hit the accelerator, and the car shot out through the gates of the residence.
It sped along Cuiwei Road, through the bustling city center, past streets glittering with neon lights.
The cityscape outside blurred rapidly past the windows.
Shen Che stared out, but he saw none of it.
There was only one image in his mind.
Her hand had been burned, and she was still at the hospital taking care of that man’s mother.
Her own hand—the slender, pale hand that had captivated countless people whenever it appeared on the silver screen—had been burned by boiling soup.
And that man—
That man named Lin Ziheng—
Had stood right there and watched her get hurt. Watched her have her hand bandaged. Watched her endure the pain and still remain behind to care for his mother.
Couldn’t he even carry a bowl of soup properly?
Couldn’t he spare her even a little suffering?
Shen Che’s hand tightened around the overcoat resting on his knees, his knuckles turning white.
By the time the car stopped outside Renji Hospital, it was completely dark.
The hospital was an old three-story building with whitewashed exterior walls, the paint so weathered and chipped that it was barely recognizable.
A dim yellow lamp hung outside, illuminating the four characters reading “Renji Hospital.” The lettering was blurred, as though it had been there for years without ever being repainted.
Shen Che pushed open the car door and strode inside.
Zhao Jiaming followed close behind, along with more than a dozen men in military uniform.
Their leather shoes struck the hospital’s concrete floor in a steady, heavy rhythm, echoing through the empty corridor like some ominous warning.
Patients and their families hurriedly moved aside when they saw the group approaching.
The nurses at the station looked up.
The man at the front wore a black military uniform. The gold stars on his shoulder insignia gave off a dark gleam beneath the dim yellow lights. His overcoat hung from his shoulders, and he walked with quick, steady strides, like a drawn blade.
Behind him came more than a dozen fully armed soldiers, marching in perfect formation with an intimidating air.
A nurse was so frightened that the medical chart in her hands slipped to the floor.
“Which room?”
Shen Che’s voice wasn’t loud, but every word seemed frozen in ice.
Zhao Jiaming already had the answer.
“Second floor. End of the corridor. Room 205.”
Shen Che strode toward the stairs.
They were made of concrete, each step low, but he climbed them so quickly that the hem of his overcoat flew behind him. His leather shoes struck the steps in rapid, heavy beats.
Zhao Jiaming and the others followed.
Their footsteps were as synchronized as soldiers on the march, echoing through the narrow stairwell and shaking loose bits of plaster from the walls.
The lights on the second-floor corridor were even dimmer.
Only a few yellow wall lamps remained lit, casting a weak glow over the closed doors on either side.
The air was thick with the smell of disinfectant and traditional Chinese medicine, sharp enough to tighten the throat.
At the end of the corridor, the door to Room 205 stood slightly ajar, a sliver of yellow light spilling through the gap.
Shen Che strode over and stopped outside.
His hand closed around the doorknob.
He paused for a moment.
Then he heard someone speaking inside.
It was her voice.
“Auntie, have another sip. I simmered today’s soup for a long time. Try some.”
Her voice was soft and gentle, filled with patience and tenderness, like she was coaxing an obstinate child.
Something seemed to seize Shen Che’s heart.
Her own hand had been burned, yet she was still feeding someone else soup.
He didn’t hesitate again.
He shoved the door open.
Bang!
The door slammed against the wall with a dull, heavy crash.
Everyone inside the room froze.
It was a cramped three-bed ward.
The other two beds were empty. Only the bed beside the window was occupied by a thin, middle-aged woman.
She was half reclining against the pillows. Her face was sallow, her cheekbones sharply pronounced, her eye sockets deeply sunken, and her lips dry and cracked. One glance was enough to tell that she had been ill for a long time.
A faded cotton quilt covered her.
An enamel bowl sat on top of it, with half a bowl of soup still inside.
A young woman sat beside the bed.
She wore a simple navy qipao with a gray sweater over it, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, revealing a slender forearm.
Her right hand was wrapped in gauze.
The white gauze had already been stained pale yellow by iodine, and there was visible swelling around her wrist.
It was obvious the burn was serious.
It was Yu Shuang.
She held an enamel spoon in her hand, traces of soup still clinging to it.
At the sound of the door, she turned her head.
And saw the man standing in the doorway.
Black military uniform.
Gold stars on his shoulders.
An overcoat draped across his shoulders.
More than a dozen armed soldiers behind him.
Her eyes widened.
The spoon slipped from her fingers.
Clink.
It hit the floor, splashing soup across her shoes.
She didn’t even notice.
Lin Ziheng stood on the other side of the bed, holding a thermos and preparing to pour some water.
The moment he saw Shen Che, the color drained from his face.
His lips trembled, and the thermos nearly slipped from his hands.
Instinctively, he stepped forward and positioned himself in front of the bed.
Whether he was trying to shield Yu Shuang or his mother, even he probably didn’t know.
The woman in the bed—Lin Ziheng’s mother—was startled by the sudden commotion.
She shrank deeper beneath the quilt, terror spreading across her sallow face.
Her lips trembled as she tried to speak, but all that came out was a hoarse, indistinct rasp.
The atmosphere in the room seemed to freeze.
Shen Che stood in the doorway, looking down at the scene before him.
His gaze swept over Lin Ziheng’s face like the edge of a blade passing through tofu—silent, effortless, yet enough to send a chill down one’s spine.
He glanced at the woman in the bed.
She was frail, gravely ill, and pitiful.
His gaze lingered for barely a moment.
Then he looked at Yu Shuang.
His eyes fell on her right hand.
The gauze wrapped around the back of her hand and wrist, the swelling beneath it, stood out painfully beneath the dim yellow light.
A small patch of burned skin showed at the edge of the bandage, red and raw, like paper scorched by fire.
Her hand was so small and delicate.
Wrapped in gauze, it looked painfully swollen.
Shen Che’s pupils contracted slightly.
He remembered what those hands had looked like on the silver screen—
Slender and fair, with long, elegant fingers, holding a round silk fan painted with a pair of mandarin ducks.
And now those same hands were wrapped in gauze, the skin beneath them burned by boiling soup.
Yu Shuang was the first to recover.
She stood up and instinctively hid her injured right hand behind her back, as though she didn’t want him to see it.
A flicker of panic crossed her face, but she quickly suppressed it.
She looked at him, her lips parting slightly.
Lin Ziheng also recovered.
He stepped forward half a pace, his lips trembling.
“Young… Young Marshal Shen…”
His voice shook, and so did the thermos in his hands.
Lin Ziheng’s mother remained curled beneath the quilt.
She looked at Shen Che, then at Yu Shuang, then at her own son.
Her sallow face was filled with fear and confusion.
She didn’t understand what was happening.
She only knew that the man standing in the doorway frightened her son, made Yu Shuang tense, and filled the entire ward with an oppressive presence that was almost suffocating.
Three people.
Six eyes.
All fixed on the man dressed in black standing at the door.
And he stood there like a mountain bearing down upon them—silent, heavy, immovable.
The ward was so quiet that the sound of liquid dripping from the IV bottle could be heard.
One drop.
Then another.
Like someone gently tapping a drum, one beat at a time.
Shen Che’s gaze moved away from Yu Shuang’s injured hand and slowly rose until it met her eyes.
Their gazes locked.
Outside in the corridor, the footsteps of Zhao Jiaming and the other men had already stopped.
The entire floor was silent.
So silent that it seemed even the wind dared not enter.
Dim yellow light spilled from the ceiling, illuminating the tall, upright figure at the doorway, the woman beside the bed with her injured right hand hidden behind her back, the pale-faced man standing nearby, and the elderly woman trembling beneath the quilt.
Time seemed to stop.
Shen Che stood in the doorway without saying a word.
His overcoat was still draped across his shoulders. Every button of his military uniform was fastened perfectly, the collar button secured, emphasizing the sharp line of his jaw.
Behind him stood more than a dozen motionless soldiers, like a row of silent statues.
Yet their very presence was an unmistakable threat.
Yu Shuang looked at him.
There was no fear in her eyes.
Only something complicated, something she couldn’t quite put into words.
She didn’t know why he had come.
She didn’t know what he wanted.
She didn’t know what he had come here to see.
Lin Ziheng’s hands trembled around the thermos.
He opened his mouth as though he wanted to speak, but not a single word came out.
Lin Ziheng’s mother remained curled beneath the quilt, barely daring to breathe.
And Shen Che simply stood there, looking at them.
Looking at the hand Yu Shuang had hidden behind her back.
Looking at her bare earlobes and empty collar.
Looking at her simple navy qipao and the sweater with its sleeves rolled up.
His gaze moved from her to Lin Ziheng, then back again.
Finally, it settled on her eyes.
He simply looked at her.
Not a word.
The dim yellow light filled the cramped hospital ward, illuminating the young Young Marshal at the doorway, the silent soldiers behind him, and the injured woman sitting beside the bed, her back still straight despite the pain.
The air felt heavy, as though it had been filled with lead.