Summary: In a city heavy with memory and morning light, a daughter steps into the legacy her mother never let the world erase. Behind sealed vaults and soft-spoken letters, answers unfold—not just in wealth or heirlooms, but in love preserved and trust passed forward. And when hands meet paper that waited years to be held, what's revealed isn't just history—it's belonging.
Chapter Fifty
The soft trill of his alarm buzzed quietly against the hotel nightstand, subtle but persistent—the kind of sound meant to wake without startling. The pre-dawn light filtered faintly through the heavy curtains of the suite, casting the room in a cool silver hue. The world outside was still dark, quiet, the streets of Shanghai barely stirring.
Sicheng stirred slowly, eyes blinking open as he reached out with one hand to silence the alarm. His body was warm beneath the covers, the sheets tangled loosely around them from the way they'd slept—close, instinctively drawn to each other in the stillness of the night.
And then he felt her.
Yao.
Her body was curled tightly against his, her smaller frame pressed into the solid line of his chest, arms wrapped around his waist, one leg hooked over his. Her head was tucked beneath his chin, her breath soft against his collarbone, the strands of her loose platinum hair tickling against his throat. She wasn't just close—she was wrapped around him, holding onto him with a grip that hadn't loosened once during the night. His arms were already around her, one cradling her back, the other resting across her hip, and he hadn't realized it until now, hadn't needed to think about it.
Because this?
This was becoming normal.
She clung to him in her sleep not out of fear, not because she was afraid of losing him—but because some part of her had finally decided that she was allowed to hold on and he wasn't going anywhere.
Sicheng shifted slightly, brushing his lips gently against the top of her head, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo and something uniquely her. Her body didn't stir, but her fingers curled slightly tighter around the fabric of his shirt, as if even asleep, she could feel the movement. He let his eyes close for a moment more, letting himself feel it—her warmth, the steady rhythm of her breathing, the soft sound of her sigh as she nestled closer. And for the first time in a long time, he didn't resent the alarm. Because it had reminded him, before the rest of the day began—before the bank, before whatever truths waited in vaults and legal folders—that this was where they were now.
Together.
That she trusted him enough to sleep like this. To be like this. And he would give her the world if she asked. But for now? He just held her tighter. And didn't move.
The room was still wrapped in that hushed, early-morning stillness, the world outside the windows barely beginning to turn from silver to gray. The city below hadn't yet shaken off its sleep, and within the soft walls of the Palace Suite, neither had she.
Sicheng remained still for a moment longer, holding Yao gently against him, his arm curled protectively around her waist, her body warm and relaxed in a way that only sleep allowed. But they had things to do today, places to be, memories and legacies waiting just a few hours away.
So he moved.
Softly.
Carefully.
He tilted his head and pressed his lips gently to her crown, the scent of her hair comforting in a way that had become familiar and grounding. His lips lingered as he murmured low against her scalp, voice still gravelly with sleep.
"Yao…"
She stirred faintly.
Another kiss, slower this time, placed just behind her ear, his voice even softer now, layered with warmth.
"Wake up, beautiful."
A soft whimper left her lips as she buried her face further into his chest, resisting the pull of consciousness, her grip still strong around his middle.
He chuckled under his breath and ran a hand slowly up and down her spine, fingers moving with lazy affection. "Come on, Xiǎo Tùzǐ," he whispered. "Time to get moving."
That made her shift, her nose brushing his collarbone as her lashes fluttered, brows drawing in the tiniest bit as her sleepy voice finally reached him, muffled against his shirt. "Don't wanna…"
"I know," he said with a smile in his voice. "But we've got things to do. You go shower first."
She blinked up at him with hazy, unfocused eyes, her cheek still pressed to his chest.
Sicheng lifted a hand and gently brushed a few strands of hair from her face, pressing another kiss to her forehead. "I'll make coffee," he murmured. "Room service should be here soon with breakfast, and I'll take mine after you finish."
Yao's eyes finally opened fully, blinking slowly as her cheeks flushed slightly with sleep still clinging to her expression. She nodded once, slow and reluctant, but trusting.
And as she began to push herself up, still wrapped in the softness of his warmth, Sicheng's hand grazed the small of her back in one final gentle sweep. "Go on, Xiǎo tùzǐ," he said, voice low and fond. "I'll have it waiting."
And she went—reluctantly, adorably—but with a small smile tugging at her lips as she padded toward the bathroom, her hair tumbling down her back like silver ink in the dim morning light.
He watched her go for a moment, then, after a breath, he rose and moved toward the small in-suite kitchen. Because this morning? Everything would start with coffee, quiet conversation, and her beside him. Exactly where she belonged.
The soft steam still clung to the corners of the suite's luxurious bathroom as Yao stepped out, skin warm and flushed from the water, a fresh white robe cinched securely around her as she padded barefoot across the plush carpet, a mug of coffee cradled in her hands. The morning still carried that hushed reverence, the kind that clung to the air on days that felt bigger than themselves.
She passed Sicheng just as he moved past her toward the bathroom, his hand brushing gently across her lower back as he murmured, "Take your time." His tone was low, affectionate, grounded—he hadn't lost the softness from earlier.
Yao gave him a small nod, still drowsy but more awake now, fingers tightening slightly around her mug. With him disappearing into the bathroom and the shower starting a few seconds later, she moved toward the changing room connected to the suite—a private, beautifully designed space with tall mirrors, softly lit walls, and a vanity built into one side. It was quiet, made for calm mornings like this. For preparation, both outward and inward.
She placed her coffee down carefully before slipping out of the robe and dressing with deliberate precision. Fitted black slacks. A pair of polished black ankle-length boots. A long-sleeved white turtleneck, clean and minimal, tucked in neatly beneath a tailored black vest that accentuated her shape without being overly bold. Over it all, she shrugged into the sleek black and white leather jacket cinched at the waist—the one Jinyang had given her. Her fingers moved deftly, gathering her platinum-silver hair into a smooth bun before sliding a single jade hair stick through the center, securing it in place with a quiet finality. The green caught the morning light—subtle, elegant, a whisper of heritage woven into everything she was becoming. At the vanity, she applied her makeup lightly—concealer, soft liner, a gentle flush of color to her lips and cheeks. Polished, not painted. With a steadying breath, she stepped back into the main suite, heels clicking softly against the floor as she moved toward the kitchen area.
And paused.
Sicheng was already there, standing with his back to the counter, sipping his coffee like he wasn't the reason the room felt warmer despite the morning chill. Black slacks, black boots, a black dress shirt—open at the collar—and his own leather jacket layered over it, sleek and perfectly fitted. His dark hair was pulled back into a short ponytail at the nape of his neck, the strands gathered cleanly but not overly styled. Casual power—unbothered, lethal, quietly dominant. His eyes lifted the moment he heard her steps. And his gaze didn't move. He took her in with that quiet, unreadable expression of his, amber eyes scanning from her boots to the jade pin in her hair, lingering just a little too long before his lips curved, slow and subtle. "You look…" he paused, tilting his head. "Like you own the whole damn city."
Yao flushed as she ducked her head while walking past him toward the food as she muttered, "You're biased."
Sicheng smirked over his coffee. "Yeah," he said. "I am."
After breakfast—simple, quiet, and just enough to steady their stomachs—Yao slipped on her jacket fully, adjusting the collar as she double-checked the contents of the black leather folder in her hand. Inside, her birth certificate, her official ID, her academic credentials, and the sealed letter Lady Lu had handed her that morning—all tucked precisely into place.
Sicheng had helped her gather it, watching in silence as she moved with quiet efficiency. He didn't offer to carry it. He knew better. This was hers to hold. Hers to walk into. He just stood beside her.
As always.
By the time they stepped into the hallway, both fully dressed and composed, the others were waiting.
Lan stood with her purse already over one shoulder, perfectly composed in sleek gray slacks and a deep burgundy blouse, not a hair out of place. Her heels clicked in slow, even taps as she stepped forward to give Yao one last assessing glance—and nodded.
Sheng, beside her, wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit with a blue tie that had likely been picked by someone other than him, judging by how many times he'd tried to unbutton his jacket that morning before Lan slapped his wrist.
And Yue—half-buttoned navy shirt, black pants, and a gold ring he'd definitely stolen back from Sicheng's drawer—stood with his phone in hand, rocking on his heels but surprisingly calm.
Yao stepped up beside them, the folder held close to her chest. She didn't clutch it. She simply held it—shoulders square, chin lifted, eyes steady.
"Ready?" Lan asked, voice low but expectant.
Yao gave a small nod.
Sicheng didn't speak, but his hand came to rest gently at her back, a quiet reminder that he was there.
The private elevator chimed softly as it arrived, the doors sliding open with a hush. They all stepped in, the five of them filling the polished space with a quiet tension that wasn't heavy—it was focused. Anticipatory. Grounded in the kind of energy that only came when something long overdue was finally happening.
Yao stood in the middle, her reflection in the mirrored walls catching the black of her jacket, the green glint of jade in her hair, the firm line of her mouth as she stared straight ahead. No one spoke. Not as the elevator descended. Not as the city slowly came into view beneath them, framed by spotless glass. She didn't need words. Not with them behind her. Not when her mother had already written the first half of this story and she was here now, ready to finish it.
The SUV pulled smoothly into the private entrance of Shanghai Central Trust, the black-tinted windows catching the late morning light as the building rose ahead of them—glass, steel, and authority etched into every inch of its polished façade. It was quiet here, separated from the bustle of the main streets, the silence broken only by the soft engine hum and the gentle click of the car doors unlocking.
The driver stepped out first.
Then Sheng, immediately circling to open the door for Lan, who stepped out with her usual poise, heels touching pavement like she'd stepped into a boardroom rather than a memory-laden day. Yue slid out behind her, stretching his arms once, more subdued than usual, his eyes flicking between the building and his older brother.
Sicheng was the last to move—until Yao. She hadn't spoken since they left the hotel. Her hands had never left the folder. Now, seated still in the SUV's second row, her fingers tightened around it, the edges pressing slightly into her palms as she stared through the open door at the large glass doors ahead. They reflected back the world like a barrier. Sharp. Stark. And unforgiving. She didn't move.
Sicheng turned from where he stood on the curb, his eyes already catching the stillness in her. One step forward, then two, before he leaned down at the door, the world quieting around them. Yao hadn't noticed him yet. Her eyes were distant, wide but unfocused. Her grip on the folder was too tight now, knuckles pale, breath shallow and quiet. The confidence she'd carried this morning—the one she'd worn like armor—was flickering at the edges. She wasn't panicking. But she was paused.
Frozen.
Like her body was here, but her mind was somewhere years behind—standing in the shadow of people who had made her small and silent and forgotten. And now she was walking into the place where her mother had left something behind, and suddenly, the weight of it all had wrapped itself around her like a storm.
Sicheng crouched beside the door. "Yao," he said softly, voice even and low. Her eyes blinked, slowly turning toward him. "I'm here," he reminded gently, his hand reaching up to rest over hers where they clutched the folder. "You're not walking in alone."
Her lip trembled slightly—not a full quake, but enough to make her drop her gaze to their hands. "I thought I was ready," she whispered. "But now that I'm here…"
"You're still ready," he said simply. "You're allowed to feel this. You're allowed to stop. But you haven't lost anything. Not strength. Not focus."
She looked up at him again. And there was so much in her eyes—fear, uncertainty, grief. But beneath all of that… resolve. He stood slowly, holding out a hand to her. She stared at it for a breath, then set the folder flat across her chest and placed her hand in his. He didn't squeeze. He just held. And together, step by step, they walked toward the building and her mother's voice—written in ink sealed in vaults—was waiting.
The moment they stepped through the glass doors of Shanghai Central Trust, the cool stillness of the lobby washed over them. Polished marble stretched across the floor like a reflection of the sky outside, every line in the architecture speaking of wealth, discretion, and power—built not to intimidate, but to remind visitors exactly where they stood.
Yao stood just inside the threshold, folder held against her chest with both hands, fingers tight around the leather edges. Her expression was composed, her chin lifted—but only someone who knew her as well as the man beside her could see the way her breath slowed, sharpened, focused. The weight of her mother's name lingered in the air, and now the building her mother had once entrusted was opening its doors… for her.
A man broke away from a reception alcove with quiet, assured steps. Well-dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, his hair neatly parted, his demeanor calm and precise. His eyes scanned them quickly, noting every detail—every connection—and settled only briefly on each of the Lu men before landing on the woman who stepped confidently forward to meet him.
Lan moved with perfect, practiced ease, the soft click of her heels against stone the only sound in the vast hall. Every inch of her posture radiated command—not of arrogance, but certainty—and it made the man straighten slightly as he came to greet them.
"Lady Lu," he said with a respectful dip of his head, voice clear and practiced. "Mr. Lu, Mr. Lu Sicheng. Mr. Lu Yue and you must be Miss Tong."
Yao didn't move.
Not yet.
"I'm He Qiang," the man continued, his eyes flicking back to Lan. "Head of Private Holdings. I was the one who contacted Miss Tong. It is an honor to meet all of you."
Lan returned the gesture with a nod. "We appreciate your discretion."
His attention shifted again, this time to Yao—his expression softening with a hint of genuine respect, not forced courtesy. "Miss Tong," he said, "your mother left behind very specific instructions. We've already prepared the documentation for verification. The private vault is ready, and the bank has followed every protocol she outlined without deviation. If you're ready, we can proceed."
Yao's voice caught slightly in her throat, but before she could speak, Lan's voice came—low, smooth, and absolute, the kind of calm that didn't ask for reassurance, but offered it. "Lead the way," she said. "She's waited long enough."
He Qiang nodded once and turned toward a secured corridor near the back of the lobby, where a set of frosted glass doors silently parted at his approach.
Yao stood frozen for half a second more. Then she felt it—Sicheng's hand brushing lightly against the small of her back, grounding her without pushing. Yue walked just behind them, unusually quiet, watching with sharp eyes and a furrow to his brow that showed he knew—really knew—what this moment meant.
And beside her…
Lan walked forward like steel wrapped in silk. Not as a relative. Not as someone who owed anything. But as the woman her mother had trusted. Her best friend. The one who now stood, unshakable, in her mother's place. Because Xu Roulan had made sure that if she couldn't be here herself, Lan would be.
The walk down the corridor was quiet, the silence not heavy, but reverent—each step echoing lightly off the pristine walls as they followed Mr. He deeper into the heart of the bank. Security scanners passed them without pause, glass doors opening with subtle hisses, every movement designed to be unobtrusive yet seamless. The moment felt less like entering a financial institution and more like stepping into a mausoleum built for legacy.
Lan's voice came smoothly the moment they approached a modest private consultation room, spacious enough, but not nearly enough for her standards. "This isn't sufficient," she said calmly, but with that unmistakable steel beneath the silk. "We are not here for business accounts. This is personal history. You will bring us to your finest viewing room, the one reserved for your high-end, elite clientele."
Mr. He didn't blink. "Of course. This way."
No one argued. No one ever argued with Lady Lu.
They were redirected immediately, through a secondary corridor, then into a high-ceilinged room wrapped in rich, polished wood and soft cream tones. The lighting was warm and adjustable, the furniture a blend of comfort and elegance: wide chairs, a long central table, and sideboards stocked with water, tea, and private attendants who vanished the moment the door shut behind them.
Yao stood still, her heart thrumming quietly in her chest.
Then came the sound of polished steel sliding into the room. Five vault boxes. Heavy, rectangular, secured. Placed one by one on the table in front of her by two discreet bank staff, each box unlabeled, untouched, sealed until this moment.
"For your eyes only, Miss Tong," Mr. He said gently. "Everything here was logged under your mother's name. She marked the contents herself. Take your time." He bowed slightly and left them in silence.
Yao stood frozen before the boxes, her fingers tightening again around the folder she still held until Sicheng silently stepped beside her and took it from her hands, resting it gently on a side table. His hand found her lower back again—steady, quiet reassurance—but he said nothing. She didn't need him to.
Lan stood behind her, arms folded, her expression unreadable but fierce, while Lu Sheng took a quiet seat beside Yue, who was watching with uncharacteristic stillness.
Yao stepped forward and reached for the first box. The click of the latch releasing echoed in the silence. And then—slowly—she lifted the lid. Her breath caught. The first thing she saw was velvet. And then—light. Not from any lamp, but from the gleam of polished metal and gems tucked carefully inside: rings, brooches, earrings, necklaces—each nestled into place with reverent care. It wasn't just expensive jewelry. These were heirlooms. Her grandmother's jade and gold cuff. Her mother's matching pearl-drop earrings. A delicate sapphire bracelet she hadn't seen since she was eight years old. She reached out with trembling fingers and carefully lifted a silver pendant she recognized instantly—it was her mother's favorite locket. Oval-shaped, subtle and elegant, it clicked open under her touch.
Inside were three small photo slots. The first: her grandparents, younger, beaming. The second: her parents, seated closely together, smiling at the camera like they had the whole world ahead of them. And the third… All of them. Her parents. Her grandparents. Her, tucked in the center with a missing front tooth, wearing that red dress she remembered refusing to take off for a week.
She couldn't breathe for a moment. The lump in her throat was too sharp. Because she'd thought these things were gone.
Taken.
Stolen.
She had assumed her aunt had given them away—given them to her cousin, the girl who had taken so much, replaced so much, erased so much. But they hadn't been given away. Her mother had kept them safe.
Here.
Waiting.
Sicheng moved closer, one hand resting gently on the table beside hers, never touching the pieces, just being there.
She blinked rapidly, trying to focus, trying not to lose herself in the ache that cracked something open in her chest. Her voice was a whisper. "I thought I'd never see any of this again."
Sicheng's voice came just as quietly beside her. "She made sure you would."
Yao let the first box close with a soft, reverent motion, her fingertips brushing once more across the edge of her mother's locket before she shifted her attention to the second. The latch gave with a quiet click, the steel cool beneath her fingers. She opened the lid slowly, not sure what to expect. What greeted her wasn't velvet or memory, but paper—neatly organized, preserved, labeled in her mother's handwriting.
At the very top was a deed.
Shanghai.
An address in the French Concession district. Classic, old-style architecture. Elegant. Historic.
She picked it up, reading through the name and legal identifiers—her mother's, her father's, and now, hers. Beneath it were a set of heavy, engraved keys. Old-world in design. Beside them, a smaller card with a handwritten note, the edges slightly worn from time.
"Garage access key. Your father's and grandfather's collection is intact. You'll know what I mean when you see it."
Her brows furrowed slightly as she reached beneath the card, pulling out another document—an account ledger, tied to a savings account with years of detailed contributions and withdrawals listed with clinical precision.
At the bottom, a final line stood out:
Funds reserved for long-term maintenance, repair, and storage of family property and vehicles.
Yao blinked, stunned.
Sicheng, standing beside her with his arms crossed, gave a low whistle. "She kept everything," he murmured. "The cars… the bikes… that entire garage must be a museum by now."
"I didn't even know they had anything like that." Yao nodded slowly, eyes not leaving the page.
"She made sure it stayed hidden until you could protect it," Lan said softly from behind her, voice unreadable. "Because she knew what they would've done with it."
Before she could reply, something else caught her eye.
Another deed.
This one is different—cleaner, newer. A second set of keys tied with a pale blue ribbon.
Yao lifted the document.
Shenzhen.
Her eyes narrowed at the address.
It was familiar… very familiar.
"…Wait," she murmured, "this is near the base."
Sicheng leaned in, glanced over her shoulder, and snorted. "I know that building. I have a condo in the next tower. Sometimes I stay there when I want to avoid people."
Yue perked up behind them. "You have a condo there? Since when?!"
"Since none of your business," Sicheng shot back, then glanced down at Yao again. "That whole street's practically gated. Quiet. Private."
Yao made a thoughtful sound, fingers tapping once against the corner of the paper. "I might sell it," she muttered absently. "I mean… I've got the apartment above the base, and I don't see the need for a second place nearby."
"You might want to hold off on that," Lan said mildly. "At least until you see it. Your mother didn't keep properties she didn't consider worth something."
Yao nodded slowly and returned to the box, sifting through the rest.
Stock certificates.
Bonds.
Old paper with crisp edges and seals pressed into the corners.
Each one with her mother's signature.
Dozens of them.
She flipped through them slowly, real estate portfolios, equity funds, international holdings. Her breath caught again when she reached the final few pages. Not just domestic investments, global ones. Many matured. All diversified. All in her name. She couldn't even begin to calculate the total, but the numbers alone suggested millions.
Sicheng leaned in again, one brow rising. "Looks like the estate wasn't just preserved. It grew."
Yao didn't speak. She couldn't. Because in this moment, everything she thought had been stolen, lost, erased… wasn't just returned. It had been waiting. Protected. Preserved. For her.
Yao exhaled slowly, the weight of everything in the second box settling over her like the echo of a wave. Old property deeds. Her father's cars. Her grandfather's motorcycles. A collection that had survived the betrayal of family and time. Stocks. Bonds. Millions in assets carefully cultivated by hands that had long since left this world. Her mother hadn't just left behind memories—she'd left behind a foundation.
And now it all sat before her.
Waiting.
And hers to manage.
Her lips pressed into a thin line as she carefully closed the second box, the keys resting neatly on top of the documents. She sat back slightly in her chair, brows furrowed in deep thought, then sighed with quiet resignation and muttered under her breath, voice heavy with reluctant acceptance. "…Looks like I'm going to need your help again."
Sicheng didn't immediately respond, just leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest, a flicker of something deliberately dramatic curling at the corner of his mouth. "And who says I'm going to help?" he replied, his tone laced with mock detachment, clearly trying to lighten the mood. "I already got you started with the bank accounts, walked you through setting up the trust access, handled the legal bridge for your investments you asked me for help with… This sounds like bonus work."
From behind them, Yue snorted into his tea. "Wow. He really said 'good luck with your millions.' Cold."
Sheng bit back a laugh. Lan remained perfectly silent but her sharp eyes never left Yao.
Yao didn't respond right away. Instead, she slowly turned her head toward him, her expression unreadable at first. And then she hit him with it. The full force of her deep hazel eyes—wide, round, impossibly soulful. The wounded softness of someone very small and very overwhelmed who had been asked to shoulder something far too big. It was so sincere, so devastatingly effective, it sent a ripple of silence through the room.
The effect was immediate.
Sicheng blinked.
Then stiffened.
Like he'd been caught in a trap that had been waiting years to spring.
She tilted her head just slightly, blinked again, and let her lip part ever so slightly in a mix of helpless innocence and absolute emotional manipulation. It wasn't exaggerated. It wasn't even practiced. It was natural and devastating.
"Are you kidding me?" Yue burst out, voice high and scandalized as he looked between them. "Did you see that? She just—that was the look! The full Bambi!"
"No wonder he folds." Sheng gave a low whistle under his breath, clearly impressed.
Even Lan's brow lifted in quiet approval, her lips twitching faintly at the edges as she observed the exchange like a judge witnessing an execution done elegantly.
Sicheng didn't say a word. Didn't blink. Just stared at her—completely and utterly disarmed—as Yao blinked once more and let her lower lip tremble just slightly in that innocent I'm-in-way-over-my-head-and-you're-my-only-hope sort of way. And with the sound of absolute defeat buried under his breath, he sighed, leaned toward her, and muttered, "…Fine. I'll help you."
Yao blinked once more and gave him the smallest, most grateful smile. It was unfair. And it was perfect. Because everyone in that room saw what only a few ever got close enough to understand:
Lu Sicheng didn't fall for just anyone.
But when he did?
He fell hard.
The third box had taken her breath with its weight—literal and figurative. The fourth, though... the fourth unraveled something deeper. The moment Yao unlatched it, she could tell. This one was different. No velvet-lined trays or legally bound pages. No keys or deeds or documents stamped with bank seals.
Just paper.
Old, yellowing in some corners. Folded carefully, preserved in bundles tied with soft ribbons, delicate as memory.
She reached in slowly and lifted the topmost bundle, fingers grazing aged envelopes addressed in the graceful, unmistakable handwriting she'd once watched her mother use on birthday cards and school notes.
To my Yao.
She swallowed hard.
Beneath that were more—organized carefully, intentionally. One stack clearly belonged to a correspondence between her grandparents, the dates written in the corners like soft echoes of a time before she was born. Words about their daughter—Roulan—their hopes, their fears, the way they described her with admiration and pride. Then came letters exchanged between her mother and father—full of teasing, of shared frustration, of devotion spelled out with quiet, unwavering certainty. Love, uncomplicated and real.
And here Yao sat, fingers trembling as she read pieces of their world before her, woven through with ink and affection. She reached for the final grouping—smaller, neatly tied together with a crimson silk ribbon.
Four letters.
All dated the same day.
Her hands stilled.
The first envelope read: To Lan.
The second: To Sheng.
The third: To my daughter, when the time is right.
And the last—
She stared at it for a long moment. To my daughter's future husband.
Yao's breath caught in her throat, the edges of her vision blurring slightly. The weight of it—how her mother had known, planned, written not just for what was, but for what could be. What would be. Behind her, Lan stepped forward silently, eyes landing on the letter with her name. Her face remained composed, but her fingers, as she reached for it, curled around it like something sacred. Lu Sheng moved as well, slower, his hand closing around his letter with a rare stillness.
Yao looked down at the one addressed to her, then shifted her gaze to the last, still untouched. The one for a man who hadn't even existed in her life yet. And yet her mother had written to him anyway. She turned toward Sicheng, who was watching her with unreadable eyes, his arms still loosely folded, but tension written in every inch of his posture. Wordlessly, Yao reached out, held the letter out to him—her eyes glassy, her voice barely audible. "…I think this one is yours."
He didn't take it at first. His gaze locked with hers. Then drifted to the letter. Then back again. There was no teasing now. No dry remark or crooked smirk. Just a man realizing someone—a woman long gone—had looked into the future and expected him. He reached out finally, took the envelope gently, as though touching something holy.
And for a moment, no one said anything. Because legacy wasn't always gold or bonds or keys. Sometimes… It was a letter. Written in ink. Sealed in love. And left waiting for the hands that were always meant to receive it.
The room had gone still. Not quiet in the absence of sound, but in the presence of something reverent—something deep and untouchable, the kind of stillness that settled not in the air, but in the bones. Each person stood with a letter in hand, their fingers curled around paper that carried the weight of a voice long lost to time but preserved in ink. Xu Roulan's handwriting was as elegant as it was deliberate, every curve of the script unmistakably hers. They didn't ask for permission. No one needed to speak. They simply… read.
Lan's Letter:
Lan,
If you're reading this, then I am no longer there to fight beside you. And knowing you, you probably threatened to sue someone into oblivion just to be in the room when this was opened. I know you're angry. I know you're grieving in that way only you know how—quiet, sharp, and hidden beneath perfect lipstick and steel posture.
But I also know you're still standing. Because that's who you are.
I never told you enough, but you saved me once. Back in university, when I was drowning in silence and grief I didn't have words for yet, you pulled me out and forced me to live again. You made me fight for myself before anyone else could. And I've never stopped being grateful.
I am trusting you with the most important thing I have—my daughter. I chose you not because of your power or your name, but because I knew you would protect her like blood. Maybe more. She is not just brilliant—she is fragile in ways she won't admit to anyone. Not yet. But you'll see it.
Remind her she is more than what she was left with. And if she ever tries to give too much of herself away, remind her she's allowed to keep things, too—especially her heart.Don't let her go through this world thinking she owes it anything. And if she ever doubts herself, remind her… she's her mother's daughter.
—Roulan
Lan's hand didn't tremble as she folded the letter back with surgical precision, but the way her other hand came to rest over her chest spoke volumes. She said nothing. She didn't need to.
Lu Sheng's Letter:
Sheng,
You've probably just cracked a joke about Lan crying, haven't you? And she's probably smacked you for it. But that's your rhythm, and it always made me laugh more than I let on.
You were always the softest soul I knew in the disguise of a man who pretended to be thunder. I always admired how you loved without restraint—even when it was impractical or foolish or inconvenient. It made you… human.
I'm asking you now to love Yao the same way. Not as a father figure. Not as a mentor. But as someone who reminds her it's okay to laugh. To be young. To be angry, messy, loud. To take up space. To be loved without being useful. Don't let Lan turn her into another version of herself. Keep her wild. Keep her real. And don't let the world turn her into someone polite. She was never meant to be small.
And if she ever has someone in her life who forgets what a storm she can be…Remind them she came from one.
Thank you, for always being the heart we needed—even if we never said it.
—Roulan
Lu Sheng blinked quickly and let out a slow, shaky exhale. He folded the letter gently, like it was breakable porcelain, and tucked it into the inside of his jacket without a word, his gaze soft but raw.
Yao's Letter:
My darling Yao, If you are holding this, it means I am not with you. And for that… I am so, so sorry. I didn't want to leave you. I didn't plan to. But the world doesn't always give us time to finish what we started.
So I wrote this instead.
I don't know how old you are now. I don't know what you've seen or what's been taken from you. But I know this—you were always meant for more than survival. You were meant for joy. For peace. For something of your own. And if the people around you ever make you feel like you're a guest in your own story, then you tell them: my mother said this was mine.
You're clever. Brave. Far more stubborn than even I was. But I also know you carry silence in your chest like it's something earned. Please don't. Cry when you need to. Scream when you have to. Love boldly. And when the world tries to make you smaller, remember: you are the legacy of every woman in our family who refused to disappear.
You are my daughter. My wild, thoughtful, brilliant daughter.
Don't ever forget it.
And no matter where I am—
I have always, always loved you.
—Mama
Yao couldn't breathe for a moment. Her hand clutched the page, her knuckles white, her vision blurred as the words soaked through the pieces of her she hadn't let anyone touch. She didn't cry. Not yet. But her body trembled and beside her, Sicheng placed his hand over hers, steady and certain.
Sicheng's Letter: To My Daughter's Future Husband
To the man brave—or foolish—enough to love my daughter,
I don't know your name.
I don't know your face.
But I know one thing:
You have a sacred duty.
If you are reading this, then she has chosen you. That means something. Because my daughter is not someone who gives her heart lightly. She was raised in shadow, but she walks with light. She carries silence in her spine and sharpness in her smile. She will challenge you. She will never belong to anyone—not fully. But if she's yours, it's because she chose to be.
Respect that.
Honor it.
Never dull her edges to make her easier to hold. Never ask her to be quiet just because the world is loud.
And above all—
Protect her without making her feel like she needs protecting. You are not her savior. You are her partner. Stand beside her. And if you ever forget what it means to earn her love, remember this:
I will haunt you.
With sincere intent,
Xu Roulan
Sicheng stared at the letter for a long time, his jaw tight, his grip steady. Then he laughed. Just once. Quietly. A sound that was more reverent than amused. And folded the letter with a kind of care he gave to nothing else. He didn't look at anyone. But his hand never left Yao's.