"Take it," Lan Xia spat, the words shaking with fury she could barely contain. "Take everything you want. I don't care. Now move aside—I need to make a call. If anything happens to my mother, Lin Huiyue, I swear I'll kill you."
Lin Huiyue's face blanched. She had expected tears, begging, maybe even collapse—but not this. Not Lan Xia standing there like a cornered animal ready to rip someone apart.
She stepped back unconsciously as medical staff rushed into the room, lifting Shen Ling carefully from the bed and transferring her to a stretcher. The moment the gurney left the room, Lan Xia followed closely behind, never once looking back.
Only after the last white coat disappeared down the hallway did Huiyue seem to wake from her shock. She crouched down immediately, frantically rummaging through the carpet until her fingers brushed the cold metal chain.
The Angel's Heart necklace.
Her smile bloomed like a poisonous flower.
"Hmph… lucky it didn't break," she muttered, snapping the box shut. "If it had, I'd have broken you even worse than whatever man did last night."
*
Zinhai City Central Hospital – Department of Cardiology
Dr. Qi Fengsheng flipped through Fan Yujing's file while rubbing his temple. Since his return from the U.S., he had taken on the most difficult cardiology cases—and Fan Yujing's was at the top of that list.
"The hypnosis trial didn't work," Dr. Qi said finally. "To be honest, CEO Jin, we're treating symptoms without knowing the cause. It's extremely difficult to cure a condition when we don't even know what triggered it."
Fan Yujing rose from the plush leather chair—its price was a closely guarded hospital secret. His expression remained unreadable, though a faint tension tightened his jaw.
Dr. Qi pressed on gently. "You really remember nothing before age ten?"
Fan Yujing shot him a cold, flat look in silence.
Zhang sighed. He understood exactly what that silence meant.
If I remembered, I wouldn't be here.
He shuffled through the papers. "And as per our test results, your physiological rejection of women… hasn't improved. Which is why last night's incident is, well… medically shocking."
He took a gulp of water—only to choke mid-sentence violently. "All sorts of behavior…"
Fan Yujing's eyes narrowed dangerously.
"Ahem—anyway," Dr. Qi said hurriedly, "My point is that perhaps the woman from last night has some connection to your condition. She might be a key. I recommend you… continue interacting with her."
He looked everywhere except at Fan Yujing's face.
*
Outside, Steve Han, Fan Yujing's secretary, waited patiently near the emergency department. His job required him to be a wall—silent, steady, enduring whatever strange instructions the president threw at him.
He was staring at the wall clock when a hospital bed sped past him, accompanied by frantic voices.
He caught a glimpse of yellow fabric.
A flash of pale skin.
And a face he was certain he'd seen recently.
Wasn't that the girl from yesterday?
Why is she at the hospital? And why is she wearing a bathrobe?
Before he could process it, the door opened behind him.
"What's wrong?" Fan Yujing asked.
Steve Han turned—and froze.
Because at that moment, Lan Xia appeared in front of the emergency department doors. She stood barefoot in the cold hallway, hair dripping onto the tiles, her yellow bathrobe clinging to her shivering form. She sank into a small crouch outside the ER—like someone trying to make herself invisible, or trying not to fall apart.
She looked fragile.
Lost.
And absolutely breakable.
Steve Han glanced uncertainly at Fan Yujing, but the president's face remained unreadable.
After a moment, Fan Yujing spoke.
"Buy a set of women's clothes. Something that fits her. And shoes—37 and a half. Flats."
After a momentary pause, he added. "Bring them to me."
Steve Han blinked. "Y-yes, President."
He hurried off immediately—he didn't dare ask questions. He didn't dare remind him about the company meeting scheduled in ten minutes, either. Clearly, the meeting would have to wait.
*
Outside the Emergency Room;
Lan Xia pressed her palms against the cold floor and tried to stand. But the moment she put weight on her foot, a sharp sting shot through the sole—she must have stepped on something outside while running barefoot.
Her breath hitched. Tears welled instantly, hot and uncontrollable.
She bit her lip hard, trying to hold herself together.
But the hallway spun, her body swayed, and the ache in her chest grew heavier than the pain in her feet.
She had been strong her whole life. Held herself together through years of humiliation, betrayal, and duty.
But right now—
She felt like a wounded animal waiting helplessly outside a cage door.
And she had no idea what would happen next.
The only thing she could think about—the only thing anchoring her to the hallway floor—was her mother.
If anything happened to her…
If the doctors came out shaking their heads…
Her mind refused to finish the thought.
She pressed her palms together, fighting the growing lump in her throat.
Then a pair of black calfskin flats appeared in her blurred vision, neat and new, the kind of shoes from a brand she had only dared to admire in magazines.
She blinked in confusion. "Thank you… nurse," she whispered automatically, reaching out.
But the shoes didn't come from a nurse.
When her trembling hands lifted the flats, she noticed that the legs standing in front of her weren't dressed in white scrubs—they were fitted in expensive black slacks, the fabric smooth and sharp under the hospital lights.
Her heart skipped.
Slowly—almost fearfully—she raised her head.
A tall man stood over her, his posture relaxed but commanding, hands still tucked into his pockets. His brows were drawn low, his expression carved from something cool and controlled. And his eyes...
She had definitely seen those eyes before.
Dark gray, like cold smoke trapped under crystal. Clear, Bright, and Piercing. He looked down at her as if nothing else in the hallway existed.
"Lift your feet."
His voice was deep and composed, appeared like an instruction, not a suggestion or request.
Lan Xia stared, stunned, her mind refusing to connect reality with the man in front of her. Before she could form a question, he bent down with fluid, practiced ease, and took hold of her ankle.
Her bare foot hovered in his grasp.
The sole was smeared with dirt from running across the pavement. Small cuts and bits of gravel clung to her skin. The man's elegant eyebrows furrowed tightly, a silent flash of displeasure crossing his expression.
Flustered, she pulled back instinctively, cheeks heating. "W-who are you? What are you doing?"
He didn't release her.
Instead, he spoke slowly—almost pointedly.
"Hilton Hotel."
Her breath seized.
The Hilton.
Last night.
The room she had run out of.
The one she never paid for.
A wave of mortification washed over her so suddenly she thought she might faint. She remembered the soreness of her body that morning, the hickey on her collarbone she'd covered with trembling hands…
If this man was involved....
She swallowed hard, feeling her throat dry. "You… Who exactly are you?"
The man finally looked up at her fully. A humorless smile tugged at the corner of his lips—one that somehow made her chest tighten.
"Oh. Now you want to know?"
He set her foot down gently and met her gaze—direct, unreadable, too intense.
In that moment, she felt as if she'd fallen into a deep, star-filled well. A place where she couldn't breathe, think, or escape.
Before she could pull herself together, his hands were suddenly under her knees and back—lifting her clean off the ground.
Her heart leapt. "H-Hey—what are you doing?!"
"Taking you to the nurse's station," he answered simply. "Your foot needs disinfecting and dressing."
His tone carried no room for argument. And strangely—she didn't argue.
The nurse who treated her seemed unsure what to make of the situation. She kept sneaking glances at the man—someone who clearly wasn't a regular patient or visitor—someone far too well-dressed, too composed, too important-looking to be carrying a stranger around barefoot.
After finishing the bandage, the nurse hovered awkwardly.
The man finally turned to her and said, "My secretary will come for me. Please wait outside."
The nurse immediately fled the room, relief written all over her face as she shut the door behind her.
Now it was just the two of them.
Meanwhile, Lan Xia stared at him, bewildered.
In Zinhai City, she had met half the business world. She could recognize most wealthy heirs or powerful figures by face alone. But this man—this impossibly handsome man with a presence sharp enough to slice through silence—she had never seen before.
He wasn't a small figure. His clothes alone cost more than her entire monthly budget. His aura said he belonged to the city's highest circles.
Yet she couldn't match him with any name or face she knew.
And of course—there was the Hilton.
She swallowed again, dread prickling her skin.
"Um… excuse me," she began, voice shrinking in embarrassment, "did I… order some kind of… special service last night at the Hilton? I can't remember. I was… uh… drunk."
Whenever she got drunk, she remembered nothing the next morning.
Only Zhao Wang's exhausted sighs echoed in her memory: Lan Xia, promise me you'll never drink again. Please.
She had always assumed she must have done something humiliating each time.
And now—staring at this man who had found her half-naked, barefoot, and possibly after an… encounter—
Her terror grew.
Did she… hire him?
Did she throw herself at him?
Did something actually happen?
She nervously tugged her bathrobe tighter around her.
What the hell did I do last night?