Five hours had passed.
The living room had settled into a quiet unease since Han Su and Xiao Lin arrived, voices low as they replayed the chaos online. Netizens were in an uproar, dissecting Bai Lanyue's banquet announcement and stirring up old ashes. Bai Zhiqi hadn't come out since then. Not a word. Not even a whisper behind her door.
Ji Yanluo checked his watch again.
Enough.
He moved through the quiet corridor of the Ji penthouse with purpose. Each step toward Bai Zhiqi's room felt heavier than the last, but he didn't hesitate. Not this time.
He stopped in front of her door and lifted his hand.
Three knocks.
No response.
He waited.
Still nothing.
He pressed his hand to the cool knob and turned. Unlocked. The door opened without resistance, creaking slightly into the room's hush.
"Zhiqi," he called softly as he stepped in.
The curtains were half-drawn, casting a dusky blue light into the room. Shadows stretched along the walls, and the air felt still—too still.
There she was.
Seated at the edge of her bed, her back to the door, spine straight like always. But something was different. Off. Her shoulders weren't composed—they were slumped. Her head slightly bowed.
Ji Yanluo's brows knit together as he stepped closer. Slowly.
He stopped a foot behind her.
"Zhiqi," he repeated. Not sharp. Not gentle. Just… steady.
Still, she didn't move.
But then—he saw it.
Her hand.
Tightly fisted on her lap, trembling slightly.
His chest tightened.
"Zhiqi… look at me."
She didn't.
But she didn't have to.
He moved a little more, around the side just enough to see her face—only he wasn't ready for what he found.
Bai Zhiqi—untouchable, calculating, cold-as-marble Bai Zhiqi—was crying.
Tears, silent and glassy, slipped down her cheeks like they didn't belong there. Like they had been held back for too long, and now that they'd escaped, they couldn't be stopped.
She didn't blink. Didn't breathe. Her jaw was clenched so tightly it looked painful, but the tears kept falling.
Ji Yanluo didn't speak. He couldn't.
Because this—this was a version of her no one was ever supposed to see. Not even him.
And yet here she was. Bare. Unraveling.
He slowly lowered himself beside her on the bed, careful not to touch her, not to break the thin glass of the moment.
Her gaze remained distant. Fixed on nothing.
"When did it start?" he asked, voice low.
No answer.
He glanced at her, but her face didn't change.
"You've always known she'd come this close," he murmured. "But I don't think you expected her to be this loud."
Her bottom lip trembled slightly. She bit it, hard.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped.
"You can't keep it in forever, Zhiqi," he said. "You've been carrying this since that day. Everything. Every lie. Every scar."
Her breath hitched—just once.
But it was enough.
He turned to her again. "You don't have to be strong right now."
Her head finally tilted toward him, and her eyes—red-rimmed and glistening—met his for the first time.
And he saw it.
The fear.
The guilt.
The weight.
"I don't know how to stop it," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I don't know how to make her stop."
"You can't," he replied, honest. "She's not going to stop."
She inhaled sharply, like she was choking on the truth.
"She's going to drag everything into the light," she murmured. "Everything I buried."
Ji Yanluo nodded slowly.
"And when she does?" he asked.
Bai Zhiqi looked away again, shoulders shuddering.
"I won't survive it."
Ji Yanluo reached out this time—just enough to lay his hand gently over hers.
"You already did," he said. "You just never let yourself feel it."
The room fell into silence again, thick and heavy, but this time, it wasn't empty.
It held something real.
She didn't move. Didn't thank him. Didn't cry harder.
But she didn't pull away either.
And maybe… for now, that was enough.