CHAPTER 33: CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: MONOLOGUE IN THE DARK

In the quiet darkness of the room, An Yanming downed yet another glass of whiskey. The whiskey slid down his throat, leaving a slow, lingering burn in its wake. It was sharp and punishing, as though the sting could keep what was left of his sanity intact.

He hadn’t been careless enough to confront Song Qingwan without a lookout. But tonight—it was as though luck itself had turned its back on him.

Not to mention, he still had no idea how An Yancheng had managed to gain evidence of his shell company, he thought he’d wiped his tracks clean. Every transaction, every paper trail—gone. Or so he’d believed.

He laughed bitterly, rubbing his face. The sound that escaped him didn’t even resemble amusement—it was closer to disbelief.

His reflection on the darkened window looked almost like a stranger’s—haunted, hollow, and unfamiliar.

Growing up, he was always compared to An Yancheng. His father never said it outright, but the shadow of that comparison was everywhere—in every meeting, every lesson, every quiet look of disapproval.

No matter what he did, it was never enough. If Yancheng succeeded, that was excellence. If he matched the same results, it was expected. And if he fell short, even by an inch—it was a disappointment.

He had spent years trying to claw his way out of that shadow. Working twice as hard, speaking half as much, memorising every rule of the game until he could play it in his sleep. But in the end, no matter how much he tried, the reflection staring back at him was always Yancheng’s.

Maybe that was what his father saw too.

An Zhiguo’s rivalry with his brother had never truly ended; it had simply taken on a new form. Somewhere along the line, his father’s resentment had shifted—turned into a burden placed squarely on his shoulders.

If Yanming could surpass Yancheng, it would mean he had surpassed his brother.

If Yanming could rise, then perhaps An Zhiguo could finally say he had won.

And so, every expectation, every ounce of pressure, every silent failure—wasn’t just his own. It was a reflection of his father’s old wound.

Yanming let out a soft, bitter laugh. Right this moment, he had no idea what was he living for.

His life seemed to be a joke.

The glass trembled slightly in his hand as he poured himself another drink. The amber liquid caught the faint light, swirling like molten regret.

He stared at it for a long time, watching the way the liquid shifted—slow, deliberate, like time mocking him.

If someone had told him that everything would end like this, he would’ve laughed in their faces. He wasn’t supposed to fail. Not him. Not after everything he’d done, everything he’d sacrificed.

And yet, here he was—reduced to a scandal, a name spoken with disdain.

He pressed his thumb against the rim of the glass, as if the sting of the cold could somehow dull the ache clawing through his chest.

He had used Song Qingwan—of course he had.

He hadn’t the slightest affection for her; he had only seen the affection in her eyes and coupled with the fact that she was An Yancheng’s fiancée—she’d been the perfect pawn.

He’d wanted to take everything away from An Yancheng—his reputation, his engagement, everything.

It was about proving that he could win.

That he, the son of the second branch, could outplay the golden heir.

That he, An Zhiguo’s son, was not a shadow to be overlooked.

His fingers tightened around the glass. The bitterness of the whiskey lingered on his tongue, but it was nothing compared to the bitterness festering in his chest.

The resentment had always been there—rooted deep, passed down like an inheritance.

His father never said it outright, but Yanming knew. Everyone in the family knew. That all of this—the rivalry, the schemes, the quiet hunger for power—began long before him.

The moment their grandfather handed the company to his uncle, An Hongsheng instead of his father, the line was drawn.

That decision had shaped everything.

It was the day his father stopped being a brother and became an enemy.

The day ambition curdled into resentment.

The day loyalty died.

Yanming had grown up in that bitterness, breathed it, learned from it. And maybe that was why he couldn’t stop himself—why every decision, every calculation, had been about one thing only; proving that the world had been wrong to choose them instead of him.

The thought alone exhausted him.

He leaned back against the couch, the leather creaking softly under his weight. The room smelled of whiskey and silence—thick, heavy, unkind.

And then, without meaning to, his thoughts drifted—to her.

Sun Qiaolian.

The only part of his world that had ever felt untouched by the filth of his life—the resentment and the bitterness.

She didn’t belong in places like this—in families that measured affection by usefulness. She was light. Quiet, steady light. The kind that didn’t dazzle, but lingered long enough to make you forget what the dark felt like.

Her smile was pure and untainted—something that didn’t belong in his world. And maybe, on the rare nights when everything felt too heavy, he would find himself remembering that smile, letting it seep quietly back into the corners of his mind.

Back then, it had been simpler—school corridors, laughter over trivial things.

He had wanted to tell her once.

That she was the only thing that made him feel like himself—not heir, not the son, not a shadow cast by someone else’s success. just him.

But he never did.

Because he knew what kind of man he was. And worse, he knew what kind of man he was becoming.

The kind who used people as leverage.

The kind who lied to get ahead.

The kind who dragged others down just to climb one rung higher.

And she was none of that.

If he so much as reached for her, the rot that clung to him would spread to her too. She would no longer be the quiet, unspoiled part of his memory.

So he kept his distance, just watching from the side. It was easier that way. Safer.

And now, sitting here amid the wreckage of everything that he had built, he realised there was nothing in his life worth keeping.

Not the power.

Not the family name.

Not even the victory he had once dreamt of.

All that remained was the consequence of his choices—cold, inevitable, and quietly waiting for him at the end of an aisle.

He let out a dry laugh, though it sounded more like a breath than amusement.

Soon after, he would marry a woman he didn’t love, in a union born of ruin and compromise.

Perhaps that was fitting.

After all, every man inherited something from his father. An Zhiguo had passed down ambition, resentment, and the hunger to win at any cost.

And now, he would pass down the same kind of marriage—one without warmth, without sincerity.

The whiskey burned his throat again, the heat dulling into numbness.

Somewhere outside, dawn began to bleed through curtains, pale and indifferent.

He closed his eyes, the silence pressing in from all sides.

Soon, he would put on the suit, say the vows, and play the part expected of him.

Because that was what men like him did—they endured, even when there was nothing left to hold on to.