Few minutes earlier, inside the Qinghe Zhuchan Pavilion.
Shen Zeyan sat in the quiet corner, the muted rustle of bamboo leaves brushing against the wind barely reaching his ears. His phone rested against his ear, but his gaze was unfocused—cool, distant, and fixed somewhere far beyond the lattice windows. His finely arched brows were drawn together in a habitual frown, the shadow of restrained impatience flickering across his striking features.
"A Yan, are you listening to me?" The warm, feminine voice on the other end broke the silence.
He didn't answer. Not a word.
For a moment, the other side was quiet, as though holding its breath. Then came a soft, helpless sigh. "A Yan, you're scaring your mother. What's happened to you? Your father and I… we're both worried. If you won't answer our questions, then at least do this—go to Wuhan this time. The arrangements have been made. You'll live at Master's house. After your high school entrance exams, you can return to Beijing. But for now, you must go."
Her voice, tender yet firm, continued, as if willing him to yield. But when she received nothing in response—no hum, no breath, no acknowledgment—her tone softened again, almost pleading.
"…Alright. I won't disturb you anymore. Love you, my baby boy."
The line clicked dead.
Shen Zeyan lowered the phone onto the table with slow precision, as though even the smallest action was weighed and deliberate. His gaze lifted at last, revealing eyes as cold as winter frost—yet today, there was a faint, dangerous redness in them, the kind that smoldered beneath the surface.
They said he had a strange personality, that his temper was quick to flare without warning. They called him unapproachable, volatile—someone in desperate need of therapy, counseling, and "corrective guidance." His parents had paraded him before psychologists and so-called experts, hoping to "fix" him.
But none of them understood.
He hadn't always been this way. Once, a long time ago, he had been just another boy—bright-eyed, curious, capable of laughter. That boy had been buried long ago.
From his earliest memories, he had known that something about his life was different. He wasn't allowed to run through gardens with other children, to attend kindergarten, to scrape his knees and laugh it off. Questions about why were always met with vague, dismissive answers: It's for your own safety.
Safety. That word had been a cage.
While others played under open skies, Shen Zeyan was confined within the high walls of the Shen estate—watched, guarded, and home-tutored from dawn till dusk. The constant suffocating "love" from his parents and grandparents, the watchful eyes that never left him, felt less like protection and more like invisible chains.
When he was finally deemed old enough to attend school, the reality outside was no less stifling. Classmates approached him with practiced smiles, their words laced with calculation. Teachers fawned over him, showering him with attention that felt more like flattery than guidance. Shopkeepers refused his payment, strangers bowed a little too low. No one's eyes were free of purpose.
And then came the uglier things. The day his location leaked and a black van attempted to snatch him outside the school gates. The night masked men tried to breach the estate walls, blades glinting in the dark. The "accidental" car that swerved into his path during a school trip. At least twice, he'd seen the cold glint of a gun barrel pointed in his direction.
By the time he was eight, his grandfather had decided that survival could not depend on guards alone. "The world is cruel," the old man had said, his tone brooking no refusal. "You must be crueler."
Thus began the training.
Every dawn, while other children still dreamed in their warm beds, Shen Zeyan was dragged onto the practice grounds. Wooden swords gave way to steel. Light sparring turned into bone-bruising combat drills. He was taught how to strike to incapacitate, to maim, to kill if necessary. Weakness was met with harsher regimes, injuries ignored, exhaustion mocked.
The cost was not merely physical. It hollowed something inside him. Trust shriveled; warmth became a memory. He learned to see people as threats, masks hiding greed or malice. Every smile was a transaction, every kindness a potential trap.
Now, at fifteen, he had lived through more than most men would in fifty years—and it showed in the cold stillness of his gaze, in the unyielding line of his jaw.
His mother's concern didn't comfort him; it only grated. She, too, had played her part in shaping this isolation.
Leaving Hong Kong had been his escape. Beijing, though still noisy and full of eyes, offered small pockets of quiet—pockets like this tea house, where the air smelled faintly of bamboo and tea leaves, and the outside world could not so easily intrude.
He reached for the steaming cup beside him, the faint aroma of Himalayan white tea curling into the air. Lifting it to his lips, he inhaled deeply, letting the fragrance smooth the edges of his thoughts. The first sip was pure clarity—clean, floral, almost weightless.
Wuhan… His mother's suggestion returned to him. It was not without merit. Smaller than Beijing, quieter. If he kept his name buried and his background hidden, perhaps he could breathe a little there.
He took another sip—
—and then, from the entrance of the pavilion, came the soft click of the door and a sudden gasp.
Shen Zeyan's eyes flew open in an instant, a razor-sharp chill flashing through them. His head tilted slightly, and his gaze landed on a young teenage girl standing not far away, staring at him as if she'd just seen a rare treasure.
Her eyes were wide, pupils trembling, and though she tried to mask it, he caught the fleeting emotions buried deep inside—possession… greed… obsession.
A faint sneer tugged at the corner of his lips.
Rong Ruxue was still caught in her daze, drinking in his face as if it defied logic. But the moment she heard that soft sneer, she blinked, snapping herself out of it. His full features now in view, she was even more captivated. How can someone be so impossibly good-looking?
Composing herself, she curved her lips into an innocent yet charming smile, letting her eyebrows tremble just slightly in a practiced display of fragility. Her voice came out coy, honeyed but deliberate.
"Oh… I'm really sorry, brother. I thought my father would be here and wanted to surprise him."
Her tone was pitched perfectly—the kind she believed could ensnare any boy her age.
Unfortunately for her, she had chosen the wrong target.
Shen Zeyan's jaw tightened. He knew exactly what kind of game this girl was playing. Without a word, he reached out and rang the small gold bell in the corner.
The clear chime cut through the air.
Rong Ruxue stiffened. Why wasn't he reacting like other smitten teenagers? She quickly stepped forward with a soft, grievance-laced expression.
"I'm truly sorry for disturbing you. How about I make you some tea instead? I've mastered the gongfu cha style—I promise you'll love it. Let me use it as an apology."
Her smile brightened, and she began to move toward the tea table, her gaze never leaving his face.
Shen Zeyan's eyes snapped to her, dark and unblinking, his voice finally spilling into the quiet pavilion—
"Leave."
It was a single word, but it carried a weight that pressed into her chest. Cold, dangerous… yet inexplicably beautiful, the kind of voice that could both lure and kill.
Rong Ruxue instinctively stepped back, a shiver running down her spine. How can a boy so young have such a dangerous aura? Her heart thumped wildly, but the temptation in her eyes refused to die.
Before she could speak again, hurried footsteps echoed from outside. The doors of the Qinghe Zhuchan Pavilion were thrown open.
"Young Master!"
A man in his early twenties stepped in first, his posture sharp, aura suffused with danger. His gaze swept across the room, and when it landed on Rong Ruxue, his expression darkened instantly.
For the first time in Beijing, Rong Ruxue felt real fear.
"I… I…"
The words faltered on her tongue as more people entered, their presence pressing down on her like a physical force.
She recognized one of them immediately—the General Manager of Cuiwei Xiangyin. Her knees nearly buckled.
Cuiwei Xiangyin wasn't just a tea house; it was an institution. Aristocratic families lined up for reservations. Its name alone could silence most in the capital. And the man before her wasn't just a manager—he was said to have personally served tea to His Excellency.
Her confidence cracked. She should have investigated before barging in.
The General Manager, normally poised and untouchable, was pale and sweating. Even the attendant assigned to the Qinghe Zhuchan Pavilion stood frozen, her face white as paper. She had only stepped away for a quick trip to the washroom—how had it turned into this?
Shen Zeyan's gaze shifted to the General Manager, his voice as cold and crisp as shattered ice.
"It seems you've grown too old to keep your position."
The words landed like a guillotine.
The General Manager dropped to his knees with a thud, his forehead nearly touching the floor.
"Young Master Shen, please forgive me! It was my negligence. We had no idea this girl would trespass into the Qinghe Zhuchan Pavilion. Please… give us another chance."
The attendant quickly followed suit, kneeling beside him.
"Young Master, it was my fault. You told me not to disturb you, so I stepped out for just a moment. I never imagined this would happen. Please… don't punish Cuiwei Xiangyin for my mistake."
She had made her choice—better she take the blame than let the entire tea house be condemned. Inwardly, she cursed Rong Ruxue.
Shen Zeyan didn't so much as glance at the others. Instead, his gaze drifted lazily back to Rong Ruxue, his lips curving into a smile that wasn't a smile—something sharp enough to cut.
"You wanted to serve me tea?"
His voice was low, each word polished to a razor's edge.
"Then here's your chance—brew it for the General Manager. He'll need something warm… after I have him thrown out."
The General Manager froze mid-kowtow, his forehead barely brushing the floor. Panic washed over his features as he scrambled to plead.
"Young Master Shen, you can't do this to me. I've served Cuiwei Xiangyin faithfully for over two decades—"
Shen Zeyan's eyes slid to him at last, the weight of his gaze enough to still the man mid-sentence.
"That," he said, his voice dropping into a dangerous calm, "is the only reason you'll be able to walk out of here alive."
The meaning was as clear as it was final. The manager's lips clamped shut.
Without another word, Shen Zeyan's attention shifted to the tall man standing just behind him. That single look was enough. Gao Shun—bodyguard, driver, personal assistant—had been assigned to Shen Zeyan by the old master himself. Six years his senior, Gao Shun had shadowed him through training and service, and their bond was one of unspoken understanding. After years together, he could anticipate Shen Zeyan's wishes before they were voiced.
Now, his expression chilled as his eyes moved to Rong Ruxue.
"Who are you?" The question was delivered in a voice so cold and direct it carried the weight of an interrogation.
"I'm Rong Ruxue," she replied quickly. "From the Rong family in Beijing."
She deliberately invoked her family's name, convinced it would give him pause, perhaps even soften his stance. But she was gravely mistaken. Not only did Shen Zeyan not look impressed—he didn't even spare her a glance.
In truth, she had made her worst mistake yet.
Gao Shun's eyes turned glacial. "Why are you here?"
Rong Ruxue swallowed hard. "I thought my father was at the Qinghe Zhuchan Pavilion, so I came to surprise him. When I saw he wasn't there and you were, I… I wanted to apologize. And since you were alone, I thought I could… keep you company."
For a moment, Shen Zeyan didn't respond, letting her voice hang in the air like an unwelcome draft. Then, with deliberate slowness, he looked up—his gaze cold, unhurried, and cutting through her like fine steel.
"Miss Rong," he said smoothly, though the bite in his tone was unmistakable, "I didn't know Cuiwei Xiangyin had begun letting just anyone wander in to disturb its guests."
"I only wished to—"
"To what?" His lips curled faintly, but the expression was void of warmth. "Offer me company I never asked for? Is Beijing truly so dull that you've taken to loitering in places that don't belong to you?"
His gaze sharpened, each word deliberate.
"Do you think Cuiwei Xiangyin is your personal social playground, where you can flit about like some gilded butterfly?"
He flicked his eyes to Gao Shun. The signal was silent, but clear.
Gao Shun stepped forward, his tone deceptively mild.
"Mr. Liu, consider this your last day as General Manager. You've failed to uphold the decorum my young master demands."
The manager blanched. "Y–Young Master Shen, I—"
"Out," Shen Zeyan's voice cracked like a whip. "And take the attendant with you. If you can't teach your staff the meaning of discretion, I'll find someone who can."
The young attendant, who had earlier poured Rong Ruxue's tea, went rigid with fear. Gao Shun didn't raise his voice—he didn't need to. A single step in their direction was enough to send both the manager and the attendant retreating in a flurry of bowed heads and murmured apologies.
The silence that followed was heavy, almost suffocating.
Shen Zeyan's gaze returned to Rong Ruxue. She stood stiffly, her pride stung by the humiliation, but her voice failed her.
"Miss Rong," he said at last, softly, almost mockingly, "if you wish to impress me, start by knowing whose territory you've just trespassed into."
Her lips trembled. "Y–Your territory?"
Shen Zeyan returned to his tea without so much as another glance. "Gao Shun, see Miss Rong out. Make sure she takes the shortest way back to wherever she came from."
"Yes, Young Master," Gao Shun replied smoothly, already stepping to her side. His shadow loomed over her as if to remind her—here, she was not the predator.
She was prey.
---
Rong Ruxue sat rigidly on the edge of her bed, her hands clenched into tight fists. She had finally calmed her trembling nerves, but the quiet only allowed her humiliation to fester. Slowly, anger began to seep into her veins, scorching away the last remnants of composure.
"Shen Zeyan…" she whispered through gritted teeth, her voice trembling with a mix of fury and longing. "I will make you pay for today's humiliation. Just wait until I enter your life—until I marry you. Then… then I will punish you for what you did to me."
The thought sent a small ripple of satisfaction through her chest, enough to momentarily ease the burn. But then, unbidden, his face flashed in her mind—those cold, devastatingly handsome features, the unyielding authority in his eyes. Her expression softened against her will, her lips curving into a lovestruck smile.
"No… I cannot let one setback ruin everything," she murmured to herself. "This time, I was too abrupt. But if I move slowly, carefully… if I weave myself into his life, he will notice me. And when he does, nothing will stop us from marrying."
She let the fantasy play out in her mind, savoring the imagined look of admiration on his face. But just as her daydream began to swell, a sudden knock on the door shattered it.
Her eyes darkened instantly, irritation sharpening her tone. "Come in."
The door opened to reveal a maid in a crisp brown-and-white uniform. She bowed respectfully. "Young Miss, Old Madam requests your presence in the living room."
The moment the words left the maid's lips, Rong Ruxue's knees nearly gave out. Her pulse spiked, but she forced a calm nod, waving the maid away.
As soon as the door closed, she muttered under her breath, "Has Grandma… found out what happened at Cuiwei Xiangyin?" Her fingers curled tighter, the tremor in her hands betraying her unease.
---
Downstairs, in the grand living room, three women were seated.
At the head of the room, on a single high-backed sofa, sat an elegant woman in her early sixties. Clad in a richly embroidered qipao, Qiao Yuhua—the matriarch of the Rong family—exuded the scholarly air of a woman born into refinement. But her composed features were darkened by an unmistakable anger.
Facing her, on opposite sofas, sat two middle-aged women.
The cause of Qiao Yuhua's foul mood was no trivial matter. Earlier that day, she had received an unthinkable phone call from Cuiwei Xiangyin: her platinum membership had been revoked. From now on, no member of the Rong family would be permitted to step foot inside the establishment.
It was more than a personal slight—it was a public disgrace.
In Beijing's upper circle, Cuiwei Xiangyin was not merely a teahouse. It was the venue where society's most influential women hosted afternoon gatherings, and where powerful men conducted discreet meetings with dignitaries. Being banned was the social equivalent of being exiled—an outright expulsion from the elite stage.
And it had all happened… because of Rong Ruxue.
Earlier, when Ruxue had persistently begged for Qiao Yuhua's membership card, she had assumed the girl only wanted to host a small gathering with her classmates. Never—never—had she imagined the audacity of offending the Young Master of the Shen family himself.
The matriarch's jaw tightened at the thought.
Across from her, Rong Lihong, dressed immaculately in a fitted Dior ensemble, broke the tense silence with a voice laced in icy contempt. "Mother, I warned you not to indulge that adopted grand-daughter of yours. And now you see I was right." Her gaze slid to the other woman in the room. "Fang Meiling, is this how you've been teaching your daughter? Do you have any idea what Father and Eldest Brother have endured to elevate the Rong family to where it is now? We are the second richest family in China. Do you understand the weight that carries? And yet… your daughter is single-handedly tarnishing it."
Fang Meiling sat with her hands folded in her lap, her expression strained. Every word from Lihong was a barb, and each one struck deep. She had long endured such treatment from her sister-in-law—years of scorn and veiled hostility. Her only comfort had been the Old Master's quiet support.
"Lihong," she began, forcing a smile that did not reach her eyes, "I had no idea Ruxue would make such a foolish mistake. She has always been obedient. Perhaps this is just… a misunderstanding. Let us hear her explanation first."
"A misunderstanding?" Rong Lihong's laugh was sharp, cruel. "The misunderstanding was bringing her into this house at all. If you were so desperate to care for the daughter of your dead best friend, you should have sent her to your Fang family instead of dragging her into ours. I still don't know what Father and Brother were thinking back then—but now, today, they can see the price for their misplaced charity."
Fang Meiling's fingers clenched, the composure in her face barely holding against the heat rising in her chest.
"Enough," Qiao Yuhua's voice cut through the air like a blade. She had remained silent until now, but the weight of her authority was undeniable. "I did not call you here to mock Meiling."
The room fell into immediate, uneasy silence.
None of them noticed the slender figure standing just outside the doorway, her hands balled into fists at her sides, her eyes bright with unshed tears of rage.
Rong Ruxue's breathing grew shallow, each word she had overheard pounding against her ribs. Adopted daughter. How could she ever forget—especially while this so-called aunt of hers lived—to remind her? For fourteen years, Rong Lihong had made her life inside the family a constant battle for dignity. She was one of the reasons why Fang Meiling pushed so insistently for Ruxue to marry into the Shen family: a marriage that would secure her place beyond reproach.
She had hidden her origins from the public, but within the upper circles of Beijing, the fear of exposure was never far from her mind. If Rong Lihong ever chose to reveal the truth, the consequences would be devastating.
Rong Ruxue's gaze burned with unmasked hatred as it lingered on Rong Lihong. Slowly, she drew in a deep breath, smoothing the storm from her expression. Then, with her back straight and her face composed into a perfect mask, she stepped gracefully into the grand hall.