Chapter 8  

He Yang found a clean set of clothes from the wardrobe and handed them to He Cheng, telling him to go wash up in the bathroom. He was pale and weak, his steps unsteady, so she left the door slightly ajar—just wide enough for a hand to fit through—in case he stumbled inside.  

“He Cheng, are you okay?”  

“Yeah.” The water stopped, and the boy’s voice was hoarse.  

“Do you have any medicine at home?”  

“I do. It’s in…”  

He Cheng suddenly paused.  

“Where is it?”  

“I’ll get it myself. I’ll be done soon.”  

“Oh.”  

He Yang didn’t think much of it. Leaning against the wall, she towel-dried her hair and glanced at He Cheng’s bedroom. A suffocating sensation washed over her like a tide.  

The bedroom was spacious, with nothing unusual—just normal furnishings—yet she felt an inexplicable heaviness. From the ceiling to the walls, it was like an airtight container, silently draining away air and vitality.  

*How does he even live in here?*  

She averted her gaze and looked at the slightly open bathroom door.  

Then she froze.  

The bathroom door was frosted glass!  

He Cheng’s silhouette was faintly visible.  

His slender, straight shoulders, his narrow waist, his long limbs…  

Aside from the finer details, she could practically see… *everything*!  

He Yang’s face burned crimson. She turned around, her back to the bathroom. The thought that He Cheng might have been staring motionlessly at her outline for who knows how long—though maybe he hadn’t, since he was feverish and probably out of it—made her feel like her whole body was on fire.  

He Cheng stepped out, a wave of steam rolling against her back.  

He Yang hunched over, pretending to focus on drying her hair.  

He Cheng’s body had always been frail, and the fever left his mind hazy.  

He was used to the frequent aches—it was nothing new.  

But today felt different. While showering, images of He Yang kept surfacing in his mind. Unlike usual, where she appeared clothed, this time she was a phantom with curves so tangible they blurred the line between fantasy and reality. A satisfied chuckle escaped his throat, his dark eyes burning with unrestrained hunger…  

Then he heard something.  

He Yang’s voice.  

*How was that possible?*  

For a moment, He Cheng was dazed. His fever-addled brain had temporarily shut down, erasing all recent memories.  

Hearing her voice, he thought it was another hallucination.  

Another damned, *wonderful* hallucination.  

He answered her instinctively, but just as things were about to spiral beyond control, his rationality returned. More than the thrill of He Yang actually being in his room, the fear of her discovering his hidden obsessions took over.  

The safe held mementos of her—things he had collected from everywhere.  

But how could a small safe ever contain the depth of his devotion?  

Every corner of his vast bedroom—under the pillow, inside the nightstand, tucked in the wardrobe—held traces of “He Yang.” Her photos, her portraits, covered every surface. Even in the ash-covered corners, her name might be scrawled.  

The love overflowing from his heart was as fierce as a tidal wave, as all-consuming as endless night…  

How could he—how *dare* he—let He Yang find out?

He Cheng’s face was pale, with an unnatural flush around his eyes and cheeks. His hair, soaked with water droplets, lay dark and glossy against his head. Hunched slightly, he stood behind He Yang, his murky gaze fixed on the delicate curve of her fair neck. He swallowed hard, unable to tear his eyes away, simply standing there in silence.

He Yang keenly sensed the scorching stare at her back—as if it sought to envelop her entirely, searing her inch by inch with its intensity. It felt dangerous, almost maddening. The thought startled her. Remembering that He Cheng was still feverish, she recalled how he had stood motionless at the door earlier and now seemed rooted behind her, silent and unnerving.

Turning around, she saw He Cheng frowning, clearly in discomfort.

“Go take your medicine,” she said.

He Cheng nodded and shuffled unsteadily to the bed, carefully pulling open a small gap in the covers to retrieve the first-aid kit. He looked as though he might collapse at any moment.

He Yang couldn’t just let this go. If he was being reckless, did that mean she had to follow suit? He seemed seriously ill, and his health had never been robust to begin with.

“I’ll get you water,” she said before stepping out.

It was her first time in He Cheng’s home, and she didn’t know where to boil water—not that she planned to. Instead, she knocked on Jiang Xuehui’s door.

Jiang Xuehui was still awake, dressed in a nightgown, her expression displeased.

“He Cheng has a fever, and it looks bad,” He Yang said.

It was ten at night.

Ever since He Cheng had brought a strange girl home, Jiang Xuehui had been restless. She wanted to linger outside and observe, but He Cheng had ordered her to leave, and she didn’t dare disobey. Tossing and turning, her mind swirled with thoughts of how He Cheng had treated that girl, fueling her growing resentment.

Jiang Xuehui came from humble circumstances—her parents had passed away early, leaving only a somewhat close aunt. That aunt worked as a maid for the He family and occasionally called on Jiang Xuehui for help, paying generously. Over time, Jiang Xuehui began to see an opportunity.

With only a vocational diploma, finding work in the big city of A was tough. That year, the He family happened to be hiring—someone gentle, patient, and good with children, which aligned with her training. With her aunt’s connections, she became the young master’s caretaker.

Her main duty was looking after the He family’s youngest son.

Jiang Xuehui knew of this boy—a reclusive child who could spend entire days tucked away in corners. The He family’s villa in A was enormous but sparsely occupied, often with only He Cheng present. She enjoyed the peace, barely seeing him except when helping her aunt with meals.

He Cheng had been scrawny back then, a gaunt figure lurking in the shadows with eerie, unblinking eyes. It was unsettling. Most of the time, Jiang Xuehui avoided interacting with him—after all, no one would know how well she cared for the young master.

Later, He Cheng fell ill, clamoring to move to Yangkui. Jiang Xuehui followed to manage his daily needs. But she never imagined that in just one summer, the boy would shoot up like a sapling, transforming into a tall, striking young man whose handsome face was impossible to ignore.

With his striking looks, prestigious family, and the restless energy of adolescence, it was hard for Jiang Xuehui not to develop feelings.

In the Yangkui villa, apart from Uncle He, the driver, there was only her.

Uncle He was an old man who did nothing but drive, keeping to his own quarters and never venturing out.

This gave her plenty of time, but no matter how hard she tried, He Cheng wouldn’t even glance her way. He stayed locked in his second-floor bedroom all day, and no one knew what he was up to in there.  

Definitely sick. But the thought of He Cheng’s vast wealth kept Jiang Xuehui from giving up. Still, she didn’t dare challenge his boundaries—the second floor was strictly off-limits to outsiders, except during weekly cleanings when he supervised closely. She remembered all too clearly the incident when he was just ten years old—during one of his episodes, he had bitten the wrist of his caretaker so hard that blood had spilled everywhere.  

Jiang Xuehui bided her time.  

Perhaps after the college entrance exams, with no more academic pressure, she’d have all the time in the world. But she never expected He Cheng to bring a strange girl home.  

How could this be?!  

Jiang Xuehui crossed her arms, sizing up He Yang with a hostile glare. “Are you He Cheng’s classmate?”  

He Yang sensed the hostility but had no idea where it was coming from. She nodded in response.  

Hearing that they were just classmates, Jiang Xuehui relaxed and immediately regained her arrogance. “If you’re just a classmate, I suggest you curb your ambitions. I know girls your age love to daydream, but you should at least know your place. The He family isn’t some ordinary household. You might be relying on your classmate status to beg Young Master He to bring you here, but sneaking in late at night—have you no shame?”  

He Yang’s face darkened. This was utterly ridiculous!  

At work, He Yang had heard colleagues gossip about all sorts of scandals, and though she only listened occasionally, she could recognize trouble when she saw it. The more she looked at this woman, the more suspicious she seemed.  

Wasn’t *she* the one with ulterior motives?  

He Yang thought of He Cheng’s gentle, shy smile—it was hard to connect him with this woman. Even thinking about it felt like an insult.  

But she barely knew He Cheng and had no idea what his relationship with this woman was. Still, given how domineering she acted, there had to be *some* connection, right?  

A pang of disappointment settled in her chest.  

Suddenly, a loud *bang* came from upstairs.  

Just as He Yang was about to head up, Jiang Xuehui shot her a disdainful look, swayed her hips, and walked off.  

He Yang rolled her eyes. She didn’t want to get involved in this mess. The rain outside hadn’t stopped—it was pouring. Wearing He Cheng’s loungewear and with the underfloor heating keeping her warm, she decided to just sit on the sofa. She resolved to leave at dawn and never deal with He Cheng again!  

Fuming, she suddenly heard Jiang Xuehui’s scream from upstairs: “H-Help! Help!”  

He Yang sprang to her feet but hesitated, standing on tiptoe to peer toward the second floor. Of course, she couldn’t see anything. The screams quieted, but muffled sobbing could still be heard.  

Scratching her head, curiosity got the better of her, and she headed upstairs.  

At the second-floor landing, Jiang Xuehui lay sprawled on the ground, her shoulder half-exposed. Scattered around her were various medicine boxes, her face twisted in sheer terror.  

He Yang looked closer—Jiang Xuehui had a huge lump swelling on her forehead. Fighting back a smirk, she peeked into the bedroom—  

He Cheng stood there, his eyes dark as ink, fury swirling within them. His pale face was twisted with malice.  

The clean, white loungewear hung on his slender frame, but there was a terrifying strength beneath his quiet demeanor. His lips were pressed into a sharp, merciless line.  

“Who told you to come up here?”

Jiang Xuehui belatedly realized she had stirred up trouble. In the past, she wouldn’t have dared to barge into the room, but today, she had been provoked by the sudden appearance of He Yang. She thought, if He Yang could enter, why couldn’t she? After all, she had taken care of He Cheng for several years.  

She tugged at her half-undone clothes and stepped inside, but before she could get close, He Cheng noticed her.  

His eyes, initially hazy with an alluring mist, sharpened in an instant into blades—scorn, disgust, and fury surging forth…  

Jiang Xuehui sobbed, “Young Master, Miss He said you had a fever, so I came to check on you. I was worried about you…”  

He Cheng followed her pointing finger and looked over.  

At the doorway, a small head peeked in. The storm of emotions on his face abruptly stilled, as if an invisible hand had seized his throat.  

…He… He Yang?  

He Cheng blinked, then turned back to Jiang Xuehui. “I’m sorry, Sister Jiang. I was dizzy just now and didn’t realize it was you. Are you alright?”  

He swayed slightly and collapsed onto the bed. The corners of his eyes reddened as he pressed them, looking both aggrieved and remorseful.