The car ride back to the Yan residence was silent.
Not the comfortable kind of silence, but the kind that pressed against the ears, heavy and unavoidable. The city lights streaked past the window in blurred lines, reflecting faintly across the glass like fractured memories that refused to settle.
Sophia sat perfectly still in the passenger seat.
Her hands rested in her lap, fingers interlaced, posture immaculate. Anyone watching her would have thought she was calm.
Ethan knew better.
He did not look at her at first. He had learned that forcing conversation too early only made people retreat further. Instead, he focused on the road, replaying the night in his mind with the precision of a strategist dissecting a failed negotiation.
Richard Shi's face.
The crowd's reaction.
The children.
And the way Sophia had stepped back.
That single step said more than any argument.
When the car finally slowed at the gates, Ethan spoke.
"You don't owe me an explanation," he said evenly. "But what happened tonight will not end there."
Sophia's gaze remained fixed on the window.
"I know."
The gates closed behind them with a quiet finality.
Inside the house, the atmosphere had shifted. News traveled fast in places like this, especially when humiliation was involved. Servants moved more carefully than usual, their eyes lowered, their steps lighter, as if the walls themselves were listening.
Mrs. Collins met them in the foyer.
"Mr. Yan," she said, her tone controlled but tight, "there have already been several calls."
Ethan removed his jacket.
"From?"
"The Shi family. And… others."
Sophia stiffened almost imperceptibly.
Ethan caught it.
"Filter them," he said. "Nothing reaches her."
Mrs. Collins hesitated, then nodded.
"Yes, sir."
Sophia finally turned to look at him.
"You don't have to do that," she said quietly.
Ethan met her gaze.
"I do," he replied. "Because whether you like it or not, their next move will involve you."
She did not argue.
That silence told him more than words ever could.
Sophia did not sleep that night.
She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, her mind replaying fragments of the evening she had tried so hard to forget.
Her father's voice cracking as he spoke her name.
Margaret's sharp intake of breath.
Irene's carefully hidden panic.
And then—her children.
The moment they had stepped forward, innocent and confused, into a battlefield they did not understand.
Sophia turned onto her side and closed her eyes.
She had promised herself five years ago that no one would ever pull them into her past.
She had failed.
At dawn, she rose quietly and went to the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face. Her reflection stared back at her, composed but pale.
"You did the right thing," she whispered to herself.
She had to believe that.
Across the city, the Shi family residence was anything but quiet.
Richard Shi sat in the living room, his hands clasped tightly together, his shoulders hunched as though bearing a physical weight. He had not slept either.
"She was right there," he murmured. "I was standing right in front of her."
Margaret paced the room, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor.
"You shouldn't have said it," she snapped. "You shouldn't have announced it like that."
"I didn't plan to!" Richard shot back. "Do you have any idea what it felt like, seeing her after all this time?"
"You embarrassed us," Margaret said coldly. "Do you have any idea what people are saying?"
Richard laughed bitterly.
"People?" he said. "I lost my daughter."
Irene sat on the sofa, her hands clenched tightly in her lap, her nails digging into her skin.
"She didn't deny being your daughter," Irene said carefully. "She just… rejected you."
Margaret stopped pacing.
"That's worse," she said. "If she had denied it, we could have shut this down."
Richard looked up sharply.
"Shut this down?" he repeated. "Irene, you heard her. She said she didn't know us."
Irene lowered her gaze.
"She's angry," she said softly. "Anyone would be. Maybe if we give her time—"
"Time?" Margaret interrupted. "Time is exactly what we don't have."
She turned to Richard.
"Do you realize what this means for Irene? For the family?"
Richard's jaw tightened.
"This isn't about Irene."
Margaret's eyes hardened.
"It is now."
Silence fell between them.
Irene bit her lip, forcing herself to appear fragile rather than furious.
"She has children," she said quietly.
The words landed like a bomb.
Richard looked up again.
"Children…" he murmured. "Five years old."
Margaret's face went pale.
"Five years," she repeated slowly.
A calculation formed behind her eyes.
"That's impossible," she said at last. "The timing doesn't make sense."
Irene said nothing.
But her mind was already racing.
Back at the Yan residence, Sophia took breakfast alone.
Ethan had left early for the office, but not before instructing Mrs. Collins to ensure that Sophia did not leave the house without notice.
It was protection disguised as control.
Sophia understood the difference.
She pushed her food around her plate without appetite, her thoughts drifting to the children upstairs. Leo and Luna had asked questions that night—gentle ones, curious ones.
She had answered only what she could.
"He's someone from a long time ago," she had said.
"Is he bad?" Luna had asked.
Sophia had hesitated.
"No," she had replied. "But he isn't someone we can trust."
That had been enough.
Children, she had learned, accepted truth more easily when it was not complicated by excuses.
Later that morning, her phone vibrated.
An unknown number.
Sophia stared at the screen for a long moment before answering.
"Hello?"
"Sophia," Richard's voice came through the line, unsteady. "Please don't hang up."
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
"How did you get this number?" she asked.
"I asked," he admitted. "I… I had to try."
She closed her eyes.
"What do you want?"
"I want to talk," he said. "Just once. Not as your father—just as a man who made mistakes."
Sophia's chest tightened.
"You had five years," she said quietly.
"I know," Richard replied. "And I will regret that for the rest of my life."
Silence stretched between them.
"I'm not coming back," Sophia said at last. "Not to the family. Not to that house."
"I don't want to force you," Richard said quickly. "I just want to understand."
Sophia laughed softly, without humor.
"You wouldn't like the answers," she said.
Before he could respond, she ended the call.
Her hands were shaking.
At Yan Group headquarters, Ethan sat through meetings without hearing half of what was being said.
His mind kept returning to one detail.
Five years.
He pulled up the preliminary report his assistant had sent him overnight.
The sealed clinic.
The altered name.
The overseas transfer.
And now—children.
"Run the timeline again," he said, his voice calm but sharp. "I want exact dates."
"Yes, Mr. Yan."
Ethan leaned back in his chair.
Sophia had built a wall around herself with extraordinary precision.
People didn't do that unless they had been taught the cost of being unprotected.
That evening, Sophia stood outside the children's room longer than usual.
She listened to their soft breathing, grounding herself in the sound.
She had survived worse than this.
But this time, she wasn't alone.
Downstairs, Mrs. Collins approached quietly.
"Mr. Yan will be late," she said. "But he asked me to tell you something."
Sophia turned.
"He said," Mrs. Collins continued carefully, "that you should not worry about the Shi family's pressure."
Sophia smiled faintly.
"Pressure isn't new to me," she said.
Mrs. Collins studied her for a moment longer, then nodded and left.
Sophia closed the door gently.
She did not know what the coming days would bring.
Only that the applause had ended.
And now came the consequences.