The next day
The cold had settled deep in her bones, no longer sharp but lingering—like grief that wouldn't pass. Yinlin lay curled on the worn sofa, an old blanket wrapped around her shoulders, the window cracked open just enough to let in the rain-scented air. Her wounded arm throbbed beneath fresh gauze; the glass from that night still lived in her memory—the way it shattered, the way his gaze didn't flinch.
She hadn't returned to the hotel. She hadn't answered any of the calls. She didn't owe Xu Tao anything.
So when the knock came—firm, exact, deliberate—her blood ran cold.
She rose slowly, quietly, pausing at the mirror in the hall to check her face. Pale. Hollow-eyed. Her hair pulled into a weak ponytail. Not the look of a woman who wanted company.
She opened the door just a crack.
He stood there. Again.
Xu Tao.
He wore a dark wool coat tailored to perfection, the collar upturned against the drizzle misting across his broad shoulders. His hair was slightly damp, but otherwise he looked untouched by weather, by guilt, or by the past. He carried a massive fruit basket wrapped in cellophane, ribboned in wine-red silk and gold foil. It was the kind of presentation too extravagant for a casual visit, reeking of performance and a debt being subtly called in.
"I heard you were ill," he said smoothly.
Yinlin's breath caught. "You shouldn't be here."
He tilted his head slightly. "Is that how you thank someone who brings you Korean pears and thousand-yuan honey?"
"You brought guilt in cellophane." She tried to slam the door shut.
But he stepped forward, fast and precise.
The heel of his polished shoe wedged between the frame and the threshold. The door halted with a soft, defiant thunk.
Her eyes flashed with adrenaline. "Move."
"Yinlin." His voice dipped—silk over steel. "You're running a fever and you nearly sliced your arm open because of me. The least I can do is check on you. I'm trying to be decent."
"You don't know how," she snapped.
But just then—
Tiny footsteps padded down the hall.
A child's voice, curious and bright: "Mommy? Who's that?"
Yinlin's spine locked with terror.
Mei.
She'd been napping in her room, but now she stood a few paces away in socks and pajamas, rubbing her eyes. Her gaze landed on Tao, and she blinked at the imposing, handsome man who smelled of rain and wealth.
Xu Tao softened. Not in an awkward, overly sweet way, but like a mechanism shifting: calculated charm replacing cold intensity. He looked at Mei like she was an unexpected prize, a new piece on his board.
"Hello there," he said, crouching slightly. "You must be Mei. I'm a friend of your mother's, Xu Tao. And you're even prettier than the pictures."
Yinlin froze, the blood draining from her head. She never showed him pictures.
Mei's eyes lit up. "You know me?"
"I've heard all about you," Tao said, his focus unwavering from the child. He reached into the basket and pulled out a small velvet-red gift box tied with a ribbon. "I brought something just for you. May I come in for a minute?"
Yinlin opened her mouth to refuse, but Mei had already padded forward, excitement bubbling.
"You brought something for me?" she asked, taking the box in both hands. "Wow! Mommy, can he come in for a bit? Just a little bit?"
Yinlin looked down at her daughter—so bright, so easily touched by kindness. Then up at Tao, who stood patient and calm, as if he hadn't trapped her with fear and silence two nights ago.
She felt utterly cornered.
Behind her, the hallway stretched long and dim. Mei had already opened the gift—dried strawberries dipped in white chocolate, arranged in the shape of a bunny. The girl squealed in delight.
Yinlin stepped back. Just one step.
"Five minutes," she said stiffly, her voice barely a whisper. "Then you leave."
Tao's smile barely moved—a victory confirmed. "Of course."
He stepped inside, removing his shoes with deliberate care, like he was walking onto consecrated ground. Her home. Her daughter. Her last line of defense.
Yinlin watched as he bent to Mei's level, listened to her innocent chatter, complimented her drawings on the fridge with genuine, focused interest. He didn't touch anything else. He didn't loom.
But he didn't need to. His presence filled the room like an expensive, invasive perfume, designed to saturate the space and linger long after he left.
Yinlin stood in the kitchen doorway, arms folded tightly across her chest, the blanket still draped over her shoulders. Mei had wandered back to her little art corner, humming while unwrapping another chocolate strawberry.
Tao leaned against the archway between the living room and the tiny kitchen, making himself comfortable as if her silence gave him permission.
"You've seen her now," she said flatly. "You can go."
His gaze slid to her—slow, assessing, memorizing the way she looked in faded cotton and fatigue. Her skin was still pale, but her eyes were the same: defiant, exhausted, unbowed.
"I wanted to see you," he said simply.
"You've seen me, too," she countered. "Not exactly at my best."
His voice was low, almost amused. "I don't mind. I prefer the real view over the performance."
"Of course you don't," she muttered, stepping farther into the kitchen. "You don't feel shame like the rest of us."
He raised a brow. "You think I should feel shame for wanting you?"
She stilled, back to him. "Is that what this is about? Wanting?"
"I haven't stopped since the day I lost you," he stated.
Her head turned slightly, just enough to catch his reflection in the kitchen window. His expression was unreadable, softened around the edges, but his eyes—sharpened obsidian—glinted with possession.
"You don't get to say that," she said quietly.
"Why not?"
"First of all, I don't remember who you are. And second, people who want you don't trap you in hotel suites and call it affection."
He didn't answer.
For a long beat, all she heard was Mei softly humming, the rustle of crinkled paper, and the steady whisper of rain against the windowpane.
Then Tao spoke again. "I didn't come to fight, Yinlin. I came to see you. I had to."
Yinlin turned to face him fully, clutching the blanket around her shoulders like armor. "So you used my daughter as a ticket inside my house."
He flinched—just barely, a muscle twitching near his jaw. "That's not fair."
"It's not fair that you could just show up here and pretend that nothing happened."
A pause. Then, quietly, "That's a funny way to talk about yourself."
"I've told you I don't remember you, I don't know who you are. I dare tell you I don't ever wish to want to know a guy like you," she said, her voice strained. "You sent people to stalk me and my daughter, trapped me, used me."
He paused again. In that flicker moment he almost looked hurt, and she almost believed that.
"Alright, I get it." He said. Tao stepped forward once—too close. Her body tensed, even though he didn't touch her. His sheer presence saturated the small space.
He tilted his head. "You're angry. I understand."
"No, you don't." Her voice trembled. "You think this is some kind of twisted courtship. It's not. This is me telling you—don't come here again. And told your man to stop following me."
His mouth opened, but she lifted her bandaged hand.
"No. I'm not giving you a speech. I'm giving you a boundary."
He looked down at her outstretched palm—bandaged and shaking slightly. For a moment, his face flickered with a raw, fleeting emotion. Then it was gone.
"Yinlin," he said quietly, his gaze lifting to meet hers, "you're still mine. Whether you say it out loud or not."
Her breath caught in her throat.
Then—
"Uncle Xu!" Mei came bounding into the room again, holding a freshly colored drawing. "Look! It's you and Mommy and me at the park! I drew it just now!"
Yinlin stiffened, her voice disappeared. Tao's eyes lingered on her for a second too long before he turned to Mei and crouched down again.
"It's beautiful," he said, genuinely impressed. "Can I keep it?"
Mei nodded proudly.
He stood, smoothed the paper flat, and glanced back at Yinlin, holding the drawing like a signed treaty. "I'll go."
She didn't move.
At the door, he paused, his gaze sweeping over the small, worn apartment one last time. "You can shut me out, Yinlin. But I'm not walking away."
Then he stepped out into the rain, the drawing of Mei's imaginary family clutched in his hand.
Yinlin didn't collapse. She didn't cry.
She simply stood in the kitchen, clutching the edge of the counter, her whole body humming with rage and something worse—the crushing fear that he meant every word.
She realized that something in her body thrummed when he was close, a familiar but unregistered feelings. She swore she tried to ransack her memories of him, at any corner or a passing, but she couldn't remember a thing about him.
She couldn't prove the authenticity of his words with her unreliable memories. It terrified her not knowing the kind of life she had before the accident, the kind of promises she had made, and the terrifying realization that he had just found her most significant, most effective weakness.