CHAPTER 32: CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: THE QUIET BURN

The An residence was silent, but it was the kind of silence that pricked—like the moment before a blade fell.

An Zhiguo sat behind his desk, the desk light catching the silver at his temples. The room smelled faintly of sandalwood and ink, but beneath that was something sharper—the bitter thing of humiliation.

Across from him, An Yanming stood stiff, eyes fixed on the floor. He made no effort to explain because he knew that wasn’t what his father wanted to hear.

"You’ve shamed us," An Zhiguo said at last. His tone was calm, measured, and all the more dangerous for it. There was definitely no fatherly love in it. "Do you even realise what you’ve done?"

An Yanming opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat. What could he say? That he didn’t mean for it to happen? That this wasn’t the end result he wanted?

Anything that he said would sound like an excuse in An Zhiguo’s ears. The fact that he failed—and so miserably—was more than enough.

An Zhiguo continued, his gaze steady and cold. "I thought I’ve taught you better. But look at you, you couldn’t even clean your tracks properly!"

He rose slowly, each movement precise. "Instead, you allowed yourself to be caught—in public, in front of Yancheng."

"You’ve confirmed what everyone in the boardroom already whispers—that my branch of the family is reckless, unfit for leadership." His voice lowered to a hiss. "Do you know what this means, Yanming? We will be _outed_from the Group. Once the board convenes, they’ll strip us of every position we hold. No one will trust the name An Zhiguo’s again."

"You’ve committed the unforgivable," he said, enunciating each word with deliberate control. "Stealing confidential data from your own blood. Losing the bid wasn’t the crime. Getting caught was."

An Zhiguo’s words were harsh, the disappointment and the fury in his eyes were enough to burn An Yanming. But beneath that anger was something darker—not grief, not shame, but loss.

Loss of opportunity.

Loss of power.

"You think I’m angry because you embarrassed me?" His voice was low, controlled, but every syllable hit harder than it should. "No, Yanming. I’m angry because you ruined _everything."_

He stepped out from behind his desk, his shadow cutting long across the polished floor.

"Do you have any idea what this means?" he demanded. "I spent years building the groundwork—cultivating allies on the board, waiting for the right moment to seize control from your uncle. _Years."_

His gaze snapped toward his son, sharp and blistering. "And all it took was one stupid mistake—one careless act—for you to hand him the moral high ground on a sliver platter."

He let out a bitter laugh, short and cold. "Now Yancheng gets to play the hero—the righteous one who values ’integrity’ and ’family unity’ — while we look like vultures gnawing on our own kin. Do you understand how thoroughly you’ve lost us the upper hand?"

An Yanming’s hands fisted at his side. Of course he knew what he had done but still, he had never meant for it to happen.

"You couldn’t control your anger," An Zhiguo said evenly. "You couldn’t wait until the next day to find Song Qingwan? For someone who couldn’t even do something as simple as controlling your own emotions, no wonder you couldn’t upped An Yancheng."

Those words burned and cut him deeper than it should have. For someone who clamouring to prove himself, those words landed like a blade drawn across an old wound.

All the long hours, the boardroom observations—none of it mattered now. Because in the end, all anyone saw was that he’d failed.

The door opened softly.

Liu Yufang stepped into the room, a soft sigh escaping her. "You’ve said enough, I am sure Yanming knew that he was wrong."

Her voice wasn’t gentle—it was tired. The kind of exhaustion that came not from shock, but from inevitability.

An Zhiguo didn’t look at her. "Knowing he’s wrong doesn’t fix what’s already been ruined."

"The issue on hand is do we really have to go through with the marriage?" Liu Yufang folded her hands, it was evident that she wasn’t happy with Song Qingwan as her daughter-in-law.

"What could we have done?" An Zhiguo gave a humourless laugh. "Right there and then, if we didn’t go through the marriage, An Yancheng is going to turn Yanming to the police."

"He won’t—"

"Trust me," An Zhiguo cut her off. "He most definitely will. On what grounds do you think he can let us off after this fiasco?"

Liu Yufang bit her lips, unable to find a response. The word _fiasco_ hung in the air like a stain that couldn’t be removed.

She had spent her entire life building their image—every dinner hosted, every polite smile worn, every alliance maintained—and now, all of it was unraveling because of one foolish woman and her son’s recklessness.

In her mind, she felt that Song Qingwan should have taken the blame there and then, she should have stepped forward, cried a little, and claimed it was all her doing. That would have been the sensible thing—the _right_ thing.

If she had taken the fall, perhaps things would be different. They could have claimed it was nothing more than a foolish act of admiration—an infatuated girl trying to help the man she loved. Yet she had stood there—wide-eyed, trembling, useless—as though waiting for someone else to save her.

Liu Yufang’s lips pressed into a thin line. The more she thought about it, the more a quiet fury simmered beneath her carefully maintained calm.

That girl—Song Qingwan—had ruined everything and hadn’t even the decency to act with grace when confronted. She hadn’t fought back, hadn’t defended Yanming, hadn’t shown the slightest shred of intelligence.

And such a woman was going to be her daughter-in-law.

Her eyes shifted toward her son.

For a long moment, she just looked at him—really looked at him. The exhaustion in his posture, the dullness behind his eyes, the faint slump in his shoulders that was so unlike the proud, ambitious boy she’d once raised.

Something in her chest twisted. The anger that had been building all evening began to waver, thinned by something heavier—disappointment, maybe; pity, perhaps.

There was nothing more to say.

What words could possibly salvage this? Scolding him wouldn’t undo the damage. And for all her resentment, she could see the truth written across his face: he was already punishing himself far more thoroughly than either of them ever could.

"Forget it," she said quietly, turning to her husband—her voice was cool, resigned. "Let’s leave it. The board will be enough to deal with in the morning."

An Zhiguo gave a single nod, the tension in his jaw unrelenting. He didn’t look at his son again. "Make sure you don’t do anything stupid," he said curtly—his version of a parting blow.

Together, they turned toward the door.