The rain came early that morning, pounding against the black sedan's roof as Zhao Wei's driver pulled up to St. Augustine Academy.
It was supposed to be a quick drop-off — Xiao An was half-asleep, clutching his backpack, still chewing the last bite of toast.
But the moment the gates came into view, Zhao Wei knew something was wrong.
A cluster of reporters stood just outside the wrought-iron fence, umbrellas tilted against the drizzle. Their cameras were already aimed at the car.
"Drive through the side entrance," Zhao Wei ordered.
The driver shook his head. "Side gate's closed this early, sir."
---
They hadn't even stopped before the shouting began.
"Mr. Shen, is it true the boy's not legally yours?"
"Are you planning to return him to the orphanage after the scandal clears?"
"Is this a publicity stunt for the port contract?"
The last one made Xiao An stiffen in his seat. Zhao Wei glanced down — the boy's fingers had gone white around the strap of his bag.
"Don't answer them," Zhao Wei murmured. "Eyes forward."
He stepped out first, shielding the passenger door, but the reporters surged forward. Rain slicked their microphones, drops clinging to the foam tips like sweat.
---
One of them leaned too close. "What's his real connection to you, Mr. Shen? Blood, or just—"
Zhao Wei didn't let him finish. His arm swept out, blocking the view of the backseat as Xiao An slipped past him toward the gate.
Inside, the security guard tried to usher the boy in quickly, but the voices kept following.
"—not a real father—"
"—using him for sympathy—"
Xiao An paused halfway to the lobby. Zhao Wei could see his small shoulders rising and falling too fast.
"Go inside," Zhao Wei said, voice low but firm.
The boy didn't move. His head turned, eyes darting toward the wall of cameras.
---
That's when Zhao Wei saw him — standing apart from the crowd, under a black umbrella, smiling faintly.
Huang Min.
No microphone, no camera. Just watching.
It was the kind of smile that said this is only the beginning.
---
By the time Zhao Wei got back in the car, his jaw ached from clenching it.
"Find out who tipped them off," he told Gao Fang over the phone. "And make sure it never happens again."
"It's him," Gao Fang said without hesitation. "The timing, the location — it's classic Huang Min."
"I don't want speculation," Zhao Wei snapped. "I want proof."
"You'll have it. But…" Gao Fang hesitated. "If he's willing to harass the boy at school, he's crossing into territory we can't counter with press releases. This could get ugly."
"It's already ugly," Zhao Wei said.
---
That night, Xiao An barely touched his dinner.
Instead, he sat in the study with a blank sheet of paper in front of him, pencil rolling between his fingers.
"You're not eating," Zhao Wei said, leaning against the doorway.
"Not hungry."
Zhao Wei crossed the room and sat opposite him. "Something on your mind?"
The boy looked down at the paper. "Why do they hate me?"
"They don't hate you," Zhao Wei said slowly. "They don't even know you. They hate the idea of what you represent to them."
"What do I represent?"
Zhao Wei hesitated. "Change. And some people don't like change."
Xiao An's lips pressed into a thin line. "Then I should go away. So they stop talking."
"No." The word came out sharper than Zhao Wei intended. "You don't run from this. You stand your ground. That's the only way they stop."
---
Much later, after Xiao An had gone to bed, Zhao Wei poured himself a drink and stared out at the city lights.
The storm had passed, but the air was still heavy, expectant.
He thought of Huang Min under that black umbrella.
If his rival wanted a war, Zhao Wei would give him one.
But this time, it wouldn't just be fought in boardrooms or newspapers.
This time, it would be personal.