Morning light filtered through the thin curtains, spilling into the cold room. The pale glow fell across the figure lying on the bed.
The moment the light touched his face, Ming Ze opened his eyes and sat up. He slept far more lightly here than he ever had in the dormitory.
He glanced at the time.
6:45 a.m.
Without hesitation, he got out of bed and went to the bathroom to brush his teeth. When he finished, he returned and sat at the edge of the bed, opening his laptop.
The screen lit up, displaying the first programming job he had taken on.
The payment had already been transferred.
Ming Ze checked the amount.
It wasn't much—but it was enough.
He planned to return to the village to see Auntie Chen, but not now. The Zheng family banquet was just around the corner, and he had no time to spare before it was over.
After working for a while, he rose from his seat and stretched. The brown shirt he wore rode up slightly, outlining the young man's slender waist. The sight was quietly alluring—seductive, even—but unfortunately, there was no one was around to appreciate it.
Hungry, having eaten only a bowl of noodles the day before, he headed downstairs. From the steps, he saw a family of four gathered in the dining room, the scene warm and complete. No one invited him over, and he had no intention of inserting himself.
His steps were slow and lazy, yet the moment he appeared, the atmosphere shifted. One by one, the people at the table glanced in his direction.
When it came to appearances, Ming Ze resembled the Ming family more than anyone else. Yet he was also the one least acknowledged as belonging to them.
Ming Ze possessed a beauty that was both striking and dangerous—cold, seductive, impossible to ignore. He had inherited the finest traits of both his parents, as if fate itself had been meticulous when shaping him. If one spoke purely of appearances, he was undeniably a Ming.
Those in the upper circle all knew the truth. Ming Ze was the Ming couple's biological son—this was no secret. Yet the Ming family had never made a formal announcement, never openly acknowledged his position. That alone told everyone everything they needed to know.
He was not favored.
And no one cared.
In their world, a family cherishing a fake son more than their real one was nothing unusual. It was the kind of spectacle people observed with mild interest before turning away. After all, it had nothing to do with them.
When Ming Ze stepped into the dining room, the previously warm atmosphere shattered instantly.
Song Yuran's smile vanished as if wiped away by frost, her expression turning cold and distant the moment she saw him.
Ming Feng frowned, his face hardening, irritation flashing through his eyes.
"You're only coming down for breakfast now?" Ming Feng asked sharply, his tone edged with displeasure—as if Ming Ze's mere presence was an offense.
Ming Ze did not respond immediately.
Across the table, Ming Gu didn't even bother to look up. His attention was fully occupied as he carefully served food onto Ming Yu's plate—fish carefully deboned, vegetables arranged neatly, soup poured to the perfect level. Every movement was meticulous, attentive, gentle. He also had the same expression when he ordered his men to break his legs and lock him up.
Before Ming Ze read the novel, he had always been confused.
Why did he have to suffer?
Why did he have to die just so Ming Yu could live happily?
Why was it that no matter how hard he tried—no matter how careful, obedient, or silent he became—he would never receive even a shred of his parents' attention?
He searched for reasons everywhere. In himself. In fate. In the people around him. But no matter how much he reflected, the answers never came.
This world had never belonged to him.
It had been tailor-made for Ming Yu from the very beginning.
Ming Yu was meant to be cherished. Protected. Spoiled without consequence. He was never supposed to experience hardship, never meant to feel pressure or responsibility. Whenever trouble appeared, there would always be someone willing—eager, even—to step forward and shield him.
If one person failed, another would take their place.
Only after he read the novel did everything finally make sense.
It was as though Ming Yu were incapable of lifting a finger himself.
Watching the scene, Ming Ze felt a chill crawl up his spine.
Sometimes, he couldn't help but think—if Ming Yu were truly crippled, would the family still dote on him this excessively? Would they still orbit around him so naturally, so unquestioningly?
The thought made Ming Ze shudder.
"Madam, the soup is ready."
Auntie Wang's voice broke the heavy silence in the dining room.
Ming Ze's gaze shifted toward the nanny. She was the one who had raised Ming Yu—almost entirely on her own. Back when the Ming family had just begun testing the waters in business, both Ming Feng and Song Yuran were perpetually busy. They had hired a nanny to care for the young Ming Yu.
At that time, Ming Gu was already a little older. Quiet and independent, he rarely needed much attention. Ming Yu, however, grew up in Auntie Wang's arms.
Auntie Wang was a middle-aged woman, gentle in manner and meticulous in her work. The Ming family trusted her deeply. Although she was, in name, a servant, the Mings treated her as one of their own.
In his previous life, Auntie Wang made his life difficult.
To everyone else, she's kind and loyal.
But Ming Ze knew how she treated him. Everyone else in the family knows but they decided to turn a deaf ear to the situation. Because he was always excluded and not favoured, the servants in the house also treated him like air. When it's dinner time, no one will call him.
The first time such happened, he complained that no one called him but Auntie Wang said," Oh, it's my fault," she said regretfully. "I reminded him, but Young Master Ze said he wasn't hungry. Children his age are often like this."
Everyone decided to tactily approve it.
Meals were always "forgotten." His clothes were washed last—sometimes carelessly, sometimes returned wrinkled or missing buttons. His room was cleaned perfunctorily, dust lingering in the corners, the air always faintly stale. When misunderstandings arose, Auntie Wang would sigh helplessly and say, "Young Master Ze is already grown. He should be more understanding."
Understanding.
That word had followed Ming Ze throughout his life like a curse.
When Ming Yu fell ill, it was always Ming Ze who had been "too noisy." When something went missing, it was Ming Ze who had "probably moved it and forgotten." Auntie Wang's tone was gentle, even apologetic, but her eyes always slid past him, settling instead on Ming Yu with concern and worry.
And the Ming family believed her.
After all, Auntie Wang had raised Ming Yu. She had been with the family for decades. She was "one of them."
What weight did the words of a newly returned son carry against that?
Ming Ze remembered one winter night especially clearly.
He had developed a high fever. His body burned while his limbs shook uncontrollably. He had knocked on the servant's door for a long time before Auntie Wang finally opened it, her expression impatient.
"Endure it for a bit," she had said. "The doctor just came today. If I call him again, Madam will be unhappy."
But that same night, Ming Yu had coughed twice.
The entire household had been roused.
A car was prepared. A doctor was summoned. Song Yuran stayed by Ming Yu's bedside all night.
Ming Ze lay alone in his cold room, teeth chattering, staring at the ceiling until dawn.
It was only the next day that Auntie Wang suddenly remembered—there was another person in the house who was also sick.
"Oh dear," she exclaimed softly, pressing a hand to her chest in self-blame. "How careless of me. I must be getting old. I completely forgot about Young Master Ze."
Her voice was filled with regret. Her expression sincere enough to fool anyone who looked at her.
By then, Ming Ze's body was burning.
The fever had climbed relentlessly through the night, scorching his skin until even the thin blanket felt suffocating. His lips were cracked, his throat raw, his head spinning so badly that the ceiling seemed to sway above him.
When Auntie Wang finally entered his room, she wrinkled her brow in concern.
"Why didn't you say it was this serious?" she asked gently, as though the fault lay with him.
Ming Ze tried to speak, but his voice came out hoarse, barely a sound.
She sighed. "You children…" Then she turned and called for water, her movements unhurried, as if there was no urgency at all.
Later, when Song Yuran heard of it, Auntie Wang immediately took the blame upon herself.
"It's my fault," she said, eyes reddening. "I was so focused on Young Master Yu's illness that I neglected Young Master Ze. Please don't scold him—he's always been very obedient."
Song Yuran only nodded. Anyway, she didn't care about the long lost son.
Ming Ze lay there, half-conscious, listening.
He finally understood then.
Auntie Wang didn't forget. She deliberately decided to ignore him.