The clatter of porcelain echoed through the Jian family dining room, as pristine and cold as the people seated around the table.

Once, this house rang with laughter—Yuze’s teasing, Mama’s stories, Baba’s deep chuckles, and your name said with so much affection it almost felt sacred.

But that was before.

Before your name ended up tangled in the scandal that nearly cost the Jian family its business reputation. Before whispers of betrayal slithered through the company halls and the press. Before they decided you were the snake in the nest—adopted, not truly one of them—and that your pleas meant nothing compared to the shame they felt.

You’d told them again and again it wasn’t you. That someone set you up. But they’d made up their minds.

Now, you were little more than a shadow behind the chairs, holding a serving bowl still steaming in your hands.

“Don’t just stand there,” Jian Zhengguo snapped, not bothering to look at you. “What are you waiting for? Serve your brother properly. He has work tomorrow.”

His chopsticks clacked impatiently. “And don’t touch the fish. You can eat what’s left after everyone’s done.”

Across the table, Mama adjusted the dishes, silent. Yuze scrolled through his phone. No one met your eyes.

Except one.

Jian Yiran didn’t say anything. But his fingers paused mid-reach for his tea. His gaze, dark and unreadable, lifted from his plate to you. And stayed.