Marco walked slowly through the house, as if every step touched the lingering warmth of time before it had fully dissipated. The mansion felt like a century-old dream, kept afloat by its pink and mint-green walls—faded in places, yet somehow still vivid. The air carried the scent of dried flowers and old wood, soft and quiet, like the dust that slips from between the pages of an ancient family album.
He passed a towering mirror in the entrance hall, its ebony frame carved with gold-lined patterns like the solemn lintel of a shrine. At its base sat a tall green-glazed vase, painted with plum blossoms, peonies, and long-tailed phoenixes unfurling their stories across the surface. Pink flowers—lavish, excessive, eternal—spilled from its mouth. Marco saw his reflection caught among them, like an outsider gently absorbed into the house's intricate narrative.
He stepped into another room, washed in mint-green light. A ruby-red Venetian mirror hung before him like a window to some distant land, its ornate designs fine as lace. Pairs of pink candles stood tall on bronze candelabra, as if waiting for a banquet that had been promised but never held. Marble busts rested quietly on a cabinet—gentle faces melted by time, watching him, or perhaps watching the memories of lives long gone.
Ascending the stairs, he passed a coral-pink wall hung with gilded frames and old photographs. The deep wine-colored handrail, inlaid with brass, rose in a slow, elegant curve. At the landing, a sculpted magnolia and peach tree cast shifting shadows—auspicious blossoms trembling lightly in the filtered light.
He moved onward. In the dining room, a dark wooden table was dressed in lace, tea sets and silverware arranged beside pink napkins folded into the shape of rabbits—remnants of a childlike whimsy. The floral chair upholstery was soft and salon-like, carrying the solemn grace of another era. Near the window, embroidered drapes cascaded in heavy folds, like a long, quiet sigh.
Marco stopped. It felt as if the house itself had wrapped around him, its breath warm and enveloping. This home was not simply "beautiful"—it was a family epic told in objects and colored in light. Walking through it was like stepping through sentences, each footstep kept gentle by an unspoken respect for the fragility of the past.
He halted before a glass cabinet—a sea of pink glassware, frozen mid-tide. Rows of vessels layered from deep rose to pale lotus-pink shimmered beneath the lights. Poppy-shaped rims curled like petals caught in a breeze; serpentine vases glimmered like transparent fish tails swaying underwater. Soft pink light rippled along the cabinet walls, lifting the entire display like a slice of ocean drawn up from beneath a sunset.
But his gaze did not linger on the glass.It slid instead to the figure among them—a Chinese porcelain doll.
She wore a silk robe whose sheen had faded but whose warmth remained. Petals and leaves were embroidered so delicately they seemed ready to rise in a breeze. Her hair was pinned high, with a few strands falling by her ear like traces of spring wind. Her porcelain face was pale and luminous, a soft blush warming her cheeks, as though she had just woken from a long afternoon dream. Most haunting were her half-closed eyes—lashes lowered, corners lifted ever so slightly, carrying a quiet, innocent, almost unbearably tender expression.
An expression uncannily like Marco's mother.
He had always sensed the doll was forbidden. The entire cabinet was. His mother only needed to lower her voice for him to understand—but what child ever obeyed a boundary drawn too tightly?
He remembered it clearly. One day, when no adults were watching, he stood on his toes, opened the glass door, and lifted the doll. She was lighter than he expected, almost suspiciously so. Turning her over, he noticed for the first time a small circular opening at the base.
He slipped a finger inside. The hollow interior made his heartbeat flutter. The doll was empty—no, not empty. There was something within.
He pulled out a sheet of red paper, faded with time. He didn't read Chinese then, but the strokes looked like fragile insect wings—delicate, strange. He unfolded it carefully, though he couldn't understand a single word.
Years later, after studying Chinese, he realized it was someone's birth chart—a set of bazi, the Four Pillars of Destiny. And not his. Not his mother's.
There had also been a small bundle. He hadn't dared open it until adulthood. Inside was a lock of fine hair, wrapped with a kind of reverence.
When he finally sent it for analysis, the report came back with a number that made him stare for a long, long time.
IBD1: approximately 0.5. He knew instantly what that meant. Half-kinship. A genetic echo. Someone who shared half his maternal or paternal markers. Not his mother. Not himself. But close enough for their genes to recognize each other.
He thought again of the porcelain doll, standing quietly in the cabinet, her tender gaze pulling him back through the corridors of memory. A face like his mother's—yet holding the secret of another life.
The staircase groaned softly—an old melody polished by time. The deep red handrail glowed with age, brass ornaments catching the fading light. Each step released a muted creak, not harsh but weary, as if sighing beneath the weight of generations and unspoken history.
His mother descended, her silhouette outlined by a haze of warm lamp-glow. Her steps were slow, as though she were walking out of an invisible dream. The white qipao clung to her slender frame, soft yet distant; blue embroidery traced her collar like strokes of ink in an old study. Her face was porcelain-delicate, lashes lowered, gaze serene yet hollow—as if her soul lived in some far-off place while her body moved through this house on habit alone. Her short, softly curled hair framed her face like a heroine from an old film—refined, quiet, bearing the exhaustion of a woman who had endured too much.
Marco looked up. A faint ache crossed his gaze—a memory rising from childhood: the scent of old wood, the warmth of pink walls, the glitter of glassware, the softer shadow of a younger mother.
This house had been her dowry. She lived here more than anywhere else; his father was always away on business. Marco had grown up in the echo of this home—the creaking stairs, the colored windows, the dim amber lamps. Everything gentle. Everything lonely.
He had sensed early on the gulf between his parents. No fights, no cruelty—just the sadness of two lines once intertwined now drifting apart. Perhaps they had loved each other. Perhaps they had tried. But something had shifted after he turned nine.
His father stayed away more often. His mother disappeared for a period, then returned quieter than ever. Even the sunlight seemed to hesitate when entering the house. Still, Marco loved her. Even if she was distant, even if she was silent as porcelain, even if her spirit never seemed fully present—she was the most important person in his life.
She lowered herself gently onto the embroidered divan, her movements light as if afraid to disturb the air. Immediately, the house cat leapt onto her lap, curling against her stomach like a creature returning home. She stroked it slowly, lovingly, as though touching something fragile and precious. Sunlight filtered through the half-open shutters, laying a soft, golden wash across her face.
Then she looked at Marco. Her eyes, for once, were warm. Marco swallowed hard, his voice catching. He hesitated for a long moment before speaking.
"I… received a notice. I'm expected at the family meeting the day after tomorrow." He forced steadiness into his tone, though the unease beneath it trembled faintly. "It's sudden. I thought… maybe you'd heard something."
Her hand paused mid-stroke. Her lashes quivered—an emotion flickering across her face—before she murmured, "I haven't. I didn't receive anything." Then, more softly, "But don't worry. You've always done well. You'll be fine."
Silence fell again. A deep, weighted silence.
Marco watched her, feeling a surge of words rising inside him—the doll, the red paper, the birth chart, the hair, the report burning in his chest. For a moment he almost told her everything.
But he didn't.
Soft steps approached—the gentle, controlled stride of the household staff. The male steward of the Wang couple stepped in, bowed slightly, and murmured something into her ear. Whatever it was, her brow tightened instantly.
Marco knew. This was no longer his moment.
"I should go," he said quietly.
She lifted her eyes, filled with unspoken thoughts, but only gave a small nod.
Marco turned and left. His footsteps barely sounded, but behind him the old staircase released one last familiar creak.
A reminder that in this house, every person carried a secret of their own.
The Baroque estate seemed to have been summoned from the depths of an old era of power, slowly unfurling its exaggerated yet meticulously ordered splendor in the cool air of early morning. The gilded door fittings gleamed with a sharp light under the sun; the heavy main door stood like the silent yet arrogant entrance of a palace, as if every carved line were declaring: "Mediocrity is not welcome here."
The tree-lined avenue leading to the main building was so straight it felt almost cruel. Boxwood trees on both sides were trimmed into geometric shapes, every leaf obeying strict linear discipline, like an honor guard that had rehearsed for power a thousand times over.
At the end of the avenue, the marble steps unfolded in a grand, ancient gesture, as if pushing every visitor toward an inescapable scrutiny. The façade of the main building was made of pale grey stone, the grain as delicate as cooled silk. Rows of columns in exaggerated proportions supported a richly decorated cornice: Baroque volutes, floral motifs and leaping stone angels rose and fell in the play of light and shadow, as though they might detach themselves from the wall at any moment to resume an unfinished drama. Tall arched windows were arranged in perfect symmetry, their frames traced with fine golden lines. From within, the faint reflection of crystal chandeliers—still not fully lit—glimmered out, hinting at a luxury that never truly came to an end.
In front of the estate stretched a carefully planned garden. Paths fanned out in radial lines, like a forceful web of influence rippling outward. Roses, clematis and white hydrangeas were arranged to bloom and close in a rhythm calculated to precision. A few peacocks strolled slowly across the lawn, their tails shimmering with jewel-like iridescence under the sun—at once natural and affected. The still pond was like an inverted sky, reflecting the façade of the estate in a way that made it seem even more solemn than reality. At its center, a fountain sculpture depicted a cluster of Baroque figures: a youth with tensed muscles, curling shells and surging stone water—excessive, overdone, yet so beautiful it stole one's breath.
The entire estate resembled a carefully directed visual assault. It was gorgeous, but that gorgeousness felt more like the silent authority of an ancient family, pressing visitors first into shadow, then hurling them mercilessly into the light—impossible to ignore, and equally impossible to escape.
Passing through the heavy front door, the air instantly grew colder, quieter, as though some invisible etiquette demanded that all emotions be reined in. The domed ceiling of the entrance hall was so high that one instinctively had to look up. On it stretched a vast fresco of a radiant mythological scene, bodies exaggerated and entangled, as if trapped in an eternal revelry for glory. Gold leaf was flaking slightly at the edges of the painting, like cinders left by time, adding a haughty, antiquated pride to the splendor.
A crystal chandelier hung down from the center, its pendants so intricate they bordered on cruelty. The fixture resembled an upside-down tree of light, each facet reflecting brightness into sharp fragments that skipped and shattered across the marble floor, as though ready at any moment to cut into footsteps not noble enough to tread there. As Marco stepped across the threshold, the faint, crisp sound of his shoes striking the polished stone rang out in the vast hall—jarringly loud, as if the estate itself were fastidiously recording his presence.
On both sides of the hall hung enormous oil portraits, their frames so thick they seemed part of the wall. The figures in the paintings were all ancestors of the family, their gazes sharp and solemn, carrying a cold authority that judged descendants and strangers alike. As Marco walked past one of them, an absurd feeling rose in him: those eyes seemed as if they would continue to follow his back, silently questioning what right he had to step into their domain.
Following the marble staircase upwards, he trailed a hand along the banister: dark-gold wrought iron, its curves as elaborate as a Baroque craftsman's obsession. The walls were covered in dark-red damask, its pattern rendered in dense, luxurious gold thread embroidery—like a coded language for aristocratic bloodlines. The air held a faint scent of oak and candle wax: still, old, as if each breath inevitably carried a trace of the past's weight.
A dark wooden door was opened silently by a servant, and the reception room inside brightened at once. The carpet was thick enough to swallow footsteps. The fire in the massive fireplace burned in a small, wavering way, its light hesitating across the carved mirror above and stretching the whole room into a warmth that still didn't feel trustworthy. The clock on the wall ticked almost imperceptibly, as if reminding every guest: here, everything is calculated, and everything is under scrutiny.
Marco glanced around, the corner of his mouth lifting in the faintest of cold smiles—this magnificent estate was still the same world it had always been: obsessed with appearances, intoxicated by power, addicted to ornament. And he had long since seen through it all.
Marco had barely stepped half a foot into the reception room when the low murmur of conversation inside was abruptly cut off. A few cousins of his generation, who had arrived earlier, sat along both sides of the long table, their postures relaxed yet unmistakably guarded. They lifted their eyes to Marco, their gaze brief and cool, like they were inspecting an outdated but bothersome antique. The next second, everyone casually shifted their eyes away, as though he had never appeared.
Marco didn't mind. He was long accustomed to this "familial style of silent exclusion"—elegant, discreet, and vicious in the extreme.
He walked to the table with steady, unhesitating steps and pulled out a chair to sit down. Only the sound of the chair legs rubbing against the thick carpet lightly tore through the air, sounding piercingly loud. The others continued talking among themselves. Their topics flowed from business and territory to some seemingly trivial old stories, yet every sentence carefully circled around Marco, avoiding him with an accuracy that felt rehearsed.
He knew perfectly well why.
By family rules, he was supposed to be the most rightful heir. In terms of seniority, ability, and the elders' public praise, he was the "natural future leader." The problem was—his father had never clearly voiced his support. Worse still, the older generation, especially his grandfather and those of his grandfather's cohort, maintained a kind of ambiguity so cruel it was almost deliberate.
That silence was the most dangerous, most expensive weapon in any power struggle.
It was precisely because of that silence that his cousins dared to begin their little moves—on the surface as mere tests, but in reality steadily hollowing out the foundation beneath Marco's feet. Even his own business had run into trouble several times over the past few months: partners suddenly pulling their investments, shipments getting held up, deals that had seemed settled abruptly sabotaged. Anyone with half a brain could see this wasn't bad luck, but someone in the family carefully setting traps.
Betrayal from blood relations is always the most precise kind.
Marco lifted his gaze and swept it over those present. There was no anger, no hatred, no visible emotion in his eyes—only a certain lucid chill, the kind born in someone who had long grown used to living in the shadows. His fingertips tapped the table lightly, as if reminding certain people: I'm still here. I haven't fallen yet.
In this poised stand-off, another door of the reception room opened. Footsteps sounded—measured and heavy, carrying a kind of authority that could not be ignored.
Marco looked up. It was the stride of an elder of the family.
The family meeting—was finally about to begin.
The main door of the reception room opened amid hushed whispers.
Marco's father walked in. The man was tall, but he carried a cold fatigue about him, like a cogwheel in a machine of power that had been turning for too long—still sharp, but no longer bothering to conceal its exhaustion. His gaze swept from the far end of the long table across the room, resting on Marco for no longer than half a second, as if seeing not a son, but an unresolved matter.
In that look, there was no affection, no affirmation, no support—only a cold, clinical appraisal.
Marco had long since grown numb to it.
His father took the head seat without a word. Behind him came a heavier set of footsteps.
Everyone instinctively rose to their feet.
Marco's grandfather was helped into the reception room. His back was slightly stooped, yet his presence was as solid as a stone monument cast and weathered by history. The old man said nothing; his gaze simply drifted over the assembled faces, and that alone seemed enough to make the air grow colder and tighter.
This was a kind of silent authority—the most suffocating kind.
No sooner had they all sat down than the cousin seated to Marco's right, Lorenzo, cleared his throat in a slow, lazy way, his voice soft as though casual, yet intentionally grating.
"Well, Marco, you're quite punctual today. I thought you'd be too busy to come. Aren't things… a bit messy in your business lately?"
Another cousin chuckled. "Yeah, we heard. Your partners seem to be throwing tantrums one after another. What a pity."
A few subdued laughs slipped around the table, like blades grazing bare skin—not deep, but enough to hurt.
Marco didn't answer. He merely raised his eyes and glanced at Lorenzo. The look was so calm it verged on contempt—he knew exactly who was sticking knives in his back, but this was not the moment to tear off the mask.
In the taut silence that followed, his father finally spoke.
"I called you all here today to introduce a new member."
As soon as the words left his mouth, another door of the reception room was pushed open by a servant.
A young man stepped in—early twenties, features delicate but not weak, his steady gait betraying the fact that he'd clearly been well trained. Dressed in a simple cashmere coat, he appeared less tense than anyone else in the room, even carrying a hint of courteous, faint smile.
"This is—" his father paused for two seconds, "Matteo."
The air seemed to be sucked out in an instant.
He went on: "He is my child from outside the marriage. From today on, he will be officially recognized by the family."
Even Grandfather raised his eyes slightly, though he looked anything but surprised, as if he had known about this for a long time.
They now stood in the same line of succession, destined to tear at one another.
Someone at the table gasped. More people sneaked looks at Marco, waiting for him to crack—rage, lose control—anything that might turn into a spectacle.
Marco merely remained silent.
That silence was like an extremely thin yet razor-sharp blade, slicing the table into two invisible halves.
Matteo inclined his head toward him at this moment—polite, gentle, dangerous—like a young wolf wrapped in lamb's wool.
And Marco understood with perfect clarity:
his father's move was a declaration—he was not the only one.
Marco felt weak and furious all at once. He had never liked all this talk about inheritance since he was a child. He loathed the family business. Yet for the sake of the family, and for the chance to win his father's approval, he had been tearing himself apart, working relentlessly. His father had never given him the place that should have been his, allowing the cousins to grow restless and ambitious—and now he'd produced another "brother" on top of it all.
Marco's fingers clamped down on the back of his chair, his knuckles turning white. His chest felt as though it were pinned beneath a boulder; his breath came tight and shallow, and yet he still sat perfectly straight. More than anyone, he knew that showing emotion in a setting like this was the same as laying bare flesh on a blade.
Just as the silence was about to congeal into humiliation, a faint commotion sounded outside the council chamber.
The door opened.
A servant reached out, flustered, trying to block someone. "Madam, you can't—this is—"
But the woman had already stepped into the room.
Marco's mother, Lian, wore a long, dark-ink overcoat. The sound of the fabric falling across the carpet was nearly inaudible. Her stride was as usual—graceful, composed, and as unhurried as a blade landing lightly on the ground. There was no anger in her face, no panic, not even any excess expression—only a poise that was impossible to ignore.
Her presence caused a slight tremor in the room.
Marco's father frowned. "Lian, what are you doing here?"
Lian gave him only a brief, cool glance—a look that was both distant and estranged, as if she were regarding a man she had long since seen through and no longer bothered to conceal her distrust of.
Grandfather, however, was much more direct. His voice came out cold and hard. "A woman has no place in the council chamber. No sense of propriety."
The air froze at once.
But Lian did not retreat even half a step—she didn't even raise her voice. She simply said calmly:
"Father, I know the rules."
The "Father" she used was for Grandfather, not her husband.
"But today," she continued, "since you can bring in an extra 'family member,' I naturally have the right to come and see as well."
The chamber fell utterly silent.
Her gaze moved slowly to Matteo.
The young man gave a small nod, courteous to the point of seeming insincere. Lian's eyes lingered on him for only a moment, as if she were merely identifying an inconsequential piece of furniture.
Then she turned to Marco.
Her look was light, but it felt like a steady hand laid over his back—not indulgent or doting, but a kind of stabilizing force that said: I'm here. Don't be afraid.
She gave Marco a small nod.
Only then did he realize that he had been holding his breath since earlier. The exhale that followed was not weakness, but a controlled, instinctive release—an act of survival.
The fragile warmth of that instant was quickly severed by Grandfather's voice.
"Lian, your presence here makes this meeting… unclean."
"Your idea of 'clean,'" Lian suddenly laughed softly, her voice clear and edged, "is that all the ugly things must be done behind closed doors where women are not allowed to see them, isn't it?"
Faces around the table changed color.
Grandfather glared at her, showing true anger for the first time. "Are you questioning me?"
"I'm merely stating facts," Lian replied, her tone still steady, unshaken by his authority.
She turned her head slightly; the light fell across her silk qipao beneath the coat—dark ink as the main color, with understated gold thread tracing dense peony patterns that rose and fell gently with her breath. Standing among a room full of men in Western suits, she did not look out of place in the slightest. Instead, she seemed like an Eastern blade about to be drawn, quiet yet deadly.
"The clothes you're wearing are not appropriate for this place," Grandfather said coldly. "That is the rule."
Lian only smiled faintly.
"Father, rules are made for those who need them," she said softly, "not for me."
The air was once again completely stripped bare.
Even Matteo, who had been sitting to the side like a mere ornament, couldn't help lifting his eyes to look at her for a second longer.
Lian ignored the shock rippling across everyone's faces and turned to Marco, her voice gentle but resolute.
"Let's go," she said. "There is no humiliation here that you are obliged to endure."
When Marco heard that, it felt as though his chest had been struck hard. Instinctively, he wanted to shake his head, to insist on staying, to pretend unbothered… but Lian's hand had already come to rest lightly on his shoulder.
Her touch was not forceful, yet it felt as if she were hauling him out of a deep sea.
Marco rose in silence.
Grandfather finally snapped. "Lian, if you take him away now, do you know what that means? It means—"
Lian cut him off.
Her interruption was quiet but clean, like the scrape of a blade against metal.
"It means," she said, "that I no longer take your little game seriously."
The council chamber fell into dead silence.
Lian turned back and gave Grandfather a perfectly executed bow—flawless in form yet utterly devoid of warmth. Then she said slowly:
"Father, please don't forget my surname."
The air tightened at once.
Grandfather's breath hitched. He found himself unable to speak.
Lian's gaze was icy.
"So do not lecture me about rules," she said.
"Marco. We're leaving."
Marco kept his head lowered, but his steps were steady. The snickering, curiosity, and gloating of his cousins buzzed behind him like flies, but they could no longer pierce him. His mother walked ahead, the line of her back straight as a sword.
And in the instant she turned away, the balance of power in the estate seemed to tilt, all at once.