Nie Rougang snorted, the sound cold enough to cut through the silence. "I took care of you for eighteen years," he said in a flat voice. "And apparently that still isn't enough. Now you want me to take care of you forever?"
Song Yue's small face darkened like storm clouds gathering. "Uncle, you have no taste," she shot back. "Why can't I take care of you for the rest of your life? Why do you have to take care of me?"
He blinked once, as if the idea startled him. Then—almost like a joke that had snuck out of a locked chest—he said, teasing and half-serious, "You've got ambition, little girl. Fine. If you can really manage to take care of me, I'll marry you. Now go sleep."
The joke hung in the air, ridiculous and impossible. Song Yue chewed the thought over in silence. Could she ever earn that kind of money? Could she be capable enough? He'd built an empire from nothing; he'd turned himself into something bigger than the name that birthed him. Out-earning him sounded like a fairy tale—bright, absurd, and delicious to imagine.
"Tsk. Whatever, Uncle." She changed the subject quickly—the safe trick when a dream was too big to admit. "Why don't I have memories of my childhood?" The question fell out of her mouth like a stone dropped in still water.
Nie Rougang's hand closed on her shoulder, firm and sudden. "How can you not remember your childhood?"
Song Yue rubbed the spot he'd grabbed, trying to make a joke of the ache. "Ow—uncle, you pinched me. I just can't think of memories. I don't remember much."
Her chest tightened. The photo she'd found in Li Meiran's wallet—little, faded, a girl smiling at the camera—swam into her mind. She realized, for the first time in a long while, that she couldn't picture herself when she was very small. Her earliest memory began the day Nie Rougang carried her home. What came before that was a blank, like a page torn clean from a diary.
Nie Rougang's jaw worked. "A lot of people don't remember their early years," he said slowly. "Events blur. Don't think too hard and sleep." He patted her shoulder with a rough tenderness and nudged her back toward her bed.
But when he looked down a moment later, she had already drifted off, curled on his arm like she'd been there all along. He watched her breathe—soft, even—and a frayed corner of worry tugged at him. Why had she asked about her childhood, all of a sudden? Had she remembered something?
He couldn't pry it out of her while she slept. So he folded his hands and kept the question with him, heavy and private.
*
The next day;
Morning came bright and absurd. Song Yue woke with a yawn and a stretch, his scent still on the pillow beside her. She smiled to herself—victory, small and sweet. She had slept in his bed. Maybe they had reconciled. Maybe the night had mended what had been torn.
She padded down the stairs to breakfast, humming a tune while skipping the slow, bitter thoughts that wanted to ladder up into her mind.
Nie Rougang sat at the table scrolling his phone; the house hummed with servants and soft clatter.
When she slid into the chair beside him, she wrapped an arm around his neck and leaned in for a kiss on the cheek. He turned his face away like a stubborn boy, but she managed a quick peck anyway.
"Uncle, why aren't you at work?" she asked, spooning cream soup into her mouth. The warm comfort of the food eased the last of the night's chill.
"Didn't I tell you?" he said without looking up. "We're going back to the old family mansion today. After breakfast."
The sentence knocked the flavor right out of the soup. Song Yue's tongue had the sudden, metallic tang of disappointment. They had to leave? Right after she'd claimed the small victory of sleeping in his room? The tiny triumph deflated.
After a while;
They returned to the old mansion with great reluctance from Song Yue. No sooner had she stepped into the living room than Song Weisha's voice cut through her like a paper knife. "I thought it was you," Song Weisha cried in a sharp voice. "You said you'd rather die than come back here. What changed?"
Song Yue's smile was slow, practiced. "Yes, I said I wouldn't come back. But if death was the only alternative—sure, I'd come back. Do you want me to die, Weisha?"
It was a cheap, reckless joke, but the sting in her chest justified the barbed humor. Song Weisha's mouth tightened; makeup couldn't hide the venom underneath. Song Yue hated the painted perfection, the way her cousin's smile was calibrated to hurt.
Song Weisha lectured on—about piety, reputation, and how old people worried. Her voice sat on high pillars of moral superiority.
Song Yuxuan—Song Yue's paternal aunt— was then seen marching forward in a conservative gray suit with hair swept into practiced waves. Her tone was all sharp angles and measuring looks.
"You disappeared, child," Song Yuxuan said primly. "You made the family's guards search all night. Your grandparents are old. Do you realize that? You must show basic respect."
Song Yue tilted her head, very small and very loud all at once. "Aunt, I'm sorry if I worried them. I climbed out of the window. But—why did you come to my room in the middle of the night to look for me? Why were you there?"
The question landed like a thrown stone—splash, silence. Song Yuxuan's face went pale, the kind of thin, brittle white that happens when a lie cracks. Her hands fluttered uselessly. She'd been caught making a moral point she couldn't explain.
Before the scene could worsen, He Fen—Song Yue's grandmother—softened it. "Let it be, Yuxuan," she said in her thin, steady way. "Song Yue is our child. Teach her gently."
Grandmother's voice was a small shelter. It shut the argument like a door.
Nie Rougang's hand then nudged Song Yue forward, like a silent order. She walked to the old woman and bowed in the formal, tiny way she'd been taught. "Hello, Grandma."
He Fen peered kindly at her and asked the predictable things: had she eaten, was she warm. Nanny Zhang scurried at her side like a small, worried bird.
Song Yue snapped back into mischief. "Thank you for thinking of me," she said loud enough for half the room to hear. "But I already had cream soup, macaroons, and black forest cake this morning."
A ripple of suppressed gasps and slight hilarity met her words. It felt good—like tossing a pebble into the quiet water of the family's expectations.
He Fen's concern overrode the argument. "Eat here anyway. You're going to school tomorrow, aren't you?"
"Song Weisha," a stern voice called, followed by her concern..."help your cousin with her homework. College entrance exams are near."
Song Weisha leapt at the chance with showy devotion. "Yes, of course. I'll help you study!"
Song Yuxuan sidled toward Nie Rougang, planting her hand on his arm. "Third brother," she said with practiced sweetness, "you promised to let me be your secretary. Shall we get to work?"
Song Yue's head snapped up at the implication. Her eyes blazed—part fury, part bewilderment.
What? Her aunt wanted to be his secretary? Was she angling for power now, parading beside him like a trophy?
Nie Rougang only gave the hint of a nod—business as usual. He had always been too careful, too controlled around family politics.
Song Yue's cheeks flared hot. She opened her mouth, ready to argue, to demand why her place was always questionable, why she was shuffled like a card in everyone else's hand.
"Uncle—" she began, voice small but fierce.