Alright then.”
Lu Zhiling stopped her polite insistence. She turned slightly, her voice calm. “Uncle Feng.”
Feng Zhen stepped forward, opening a laptop to a live feed. The screen displayed the teahouse’s secure vault. In the grainy footage, two men in security uniforms were caught in the act: one acted as a lookout, while the other systematically swapped the auctioned treasures with crude replicas and tossed the originals out a window.
The room erupted. Gong Zihua’s face drained of color. Impossible. They had scrubbed the servers; they had looped the footage. How was this happening?
Lu Zhiling offered a serene explanation to Ji Jing. “The thieves were sophisticated, Mr. Ji. They bypassed our main network. However, I am a naturally cautious person. I installed a secondary, offline encryption system that doesn’t use the teahouse’s Wi-Fi. It’s nearly impossible to hack from the outside.”
“You’re this paranoid over a small-time auction?” Gong Zihua spat, her voice trembling.
“I am poor, Miss Gong,” Zhiling replied with devastating frankness. “I simply cannot afford the fines.”
Li Minghuai, the towering security captain, stepped in. “Boss Lu brought this to my attention earlier. These men are veterans of my firm. For them to risk their careers, the bribe must have been astronomical. We waited to catch the person who ordered the hit.”
“And the collection?” Ji Jing asked, his voice tight.
“My men followed the ‘mules’ to the drop point,” Li Minghuai said, opening a second video. A white car was idling at a roadside. A man stepped out to receive the stolen goods. The teahouse security moved in like a coordinated strike team, apprehending the thieves and the loot in one clean sweep.
Gong Zihua frantically checked her phone. “Why is there no signal?”
“Perhaps our teahouse is just too remote,” Zhiling mused, her voice like velvet.
“The man receiving the goods,” Li Minghuai continued, his eyes fixed on Zihua, “is Wang Xing. He is a senior employee at Gong’s Real Estate. The car is also registered to the Gong family.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Ji Jing turned to Zihua, his face a mask of betrayal. “We are friends, Zihua. And you’re sabotaging my family’s reputation?”
“I… I had no idea!” Zihua shrieked. She snatched her bag and fled the room like a ghost pursued by a demon. No one stopped her. But the damage was already done.
Lu Zhiling turned to the stunned crowd. “I didn’t want the police involved immediately because the collection would have been tied up as evidence. Now, you can take your treasures home today.”
The buyers, once a lynch mob, were now humbled. Feng Zhen also began handing out tea gift boxes—premium Ming Qian [tea picked before the Qingming Festival—the most delicate and expensive harvest]. “As a token of our apology, tea is on the house for your next visit.”
Once the room cleared, Zhiling spoke to Ji Jing. “Please apologize to Old Madam Ji for me. Gong Zihua was targeting me, and I hate that your family was caught in the crossfire.”
It was a masterstroke of Guizi [cunning/manipulation]. She knew Old Madam Ji’s pride. If the Gong family had tried to smear her auction house, the fallout between the two clans would be legendary.
Upstairs, the lounge was a sanctuary of silence. Lu Zhiling entered to find Bo Wang asleep on the sofa. Even with the chaos below, he had drifted off. In the fading light, his features were sharp, beautiful, and—for once—entirely harmless.
She sat at her desk, putting on headphones to block out the world. Outside, the sky bruised into a deep rouge, the “burning clouds” of dusk painting the room in fire.
When Bo Wang stirred, he saw her. She was a silhouette against the window, the white headphone cord snaking around her pale neck. She looked peaceful.
“You’re awake?” she asked, sensing his movement.
“Mmm,” he rasped. He had slept for four hours—a miracle he couldn’t explain.
“Drink some water.” She poured a cup, her voice soft with concern. “Fusheng said you were out. I didn’t want to wake you with a blanket. Did you catch a cold?”
Bo Wang remembered the last time she had covered him, and how he had reacted. He took the cup, his fingers brushing hers. The heat of the water—or perhaps her proximity—made his pulse quicken.
“Grandma misses you,” she suggested gently. “Want to grab Dinner at the Wutong Courtyard?”
Bo Wang’s eyes darkened. “Are you managing my schedule now?”
“Just a suggestion,” she whispered.
The Wutong Courtyard was a pocket of warmth in the sprawling Bo estate. Ding Yujun was in the kitchen, her heart was full because her grandson had actually come home to eat dinner with her .
Bo Wang sat on the sofa, bored and restless, while Lu Zhiling engaged the Alzheimer’s-stricken Old Master, Bo Qinglin, in a shadow puppet show. Behind the screen, a leather Sun Wukong [The Monkey King] flipped across the fabric.
“Wukong,” Zhiling recited in a gentle, melodic voice, “the Five Precepts of Buddhism forbid killing. Your ferocity is a burden I cannot allow.”
Bo Qinglin huffed, “What are the Five Precepts again, Zhiling?”
“To abstain from killing, stealing, sexual misconduct, lying, and drinking,” she replied, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
Bo Qinglin suddenly pointed his puppet at Bo Wang. “Then he’s doomed! He didn’t abstain from lust! He got you pregnant! He’s a lewd little demon!”
Zhiling nearly choked. “Grandpa!”
Bo Wang threw his coat aside, a dangerous glint in his eye. “Grandpa, you have a dozen heirs. At what age exactly did you master abstinence?”
“Go away!” the old man snapped. “Don’t say such lewd things in front of a lady!”
The room temperature seemed to drop ten degrees as Bo Wang’s gaze turned aggressive. Zhiling quickly pulled the old man back to the puppets. “Grandpa, let’s talk about ‘falsehood’ [the precept against deceptive speech].”
“I know,” the old man whispered, leaning in. “But you’re definitely thinking of my grandson. Your heart isn’t pure!”
“I’m not,” she whispered back, though her face flushed.
Dinner was a quiet affair until Ding Yujun squeezed Zhiling’s hand under the table. “Thank you for bringing him home,” the old lady whispered, her eyes wet.
“Bo Wang, try the beef,” Ding Yujun urged, reaching out with her chopsticks.
“I can feed myself,” Bo Wang snapped, pulling his bowl back.
Bo Qinglin, offended on his wife’s behalf, swung his chopsticks at his grandson. “You brat! Learn some respect!”
Lu Zhiling, acting on instinct to protect Bo Wang, threw her hand out to block the strike.
Smack!
The wooden chopsticks landed hard across the back of her fair hand. A bright red welt rose instantly on her skin.
The table went silent. Bo Wang’s eyes turned into piercing shards of flint.
“Ointment! Get the ointment!” Ding Yujun cried. She turned to her grandson. “Bo Wang, apply this for her. My eyes are too blurry.”
“I can do it myself, Grandma,” Zhiling said, her voice steady despite the sting. She took the tube, but she could feel Bo Wang’s gaze burning into her.
As the night deepened, the news of the “happy family” in the Wutong Courtyard reached the main building.
In her suite, Xia Meiqing accidentally smudged her nail polish. She threw the brush down in a silent fury. “The Old Lady is testing the succession rules again,” she hissed. “She wants to use the ‘old ways’ to favor the firstborn. Is Yu Yunfei really just going to sit back and watch Lu Zhiling give birth to the heir?”