lay cold.
And for the first time—
Lu Yuze did not reach for control.
Did not speak.
Did not command.
Because there was nothing left—
to control.
---
No one expected what he did next.
They expected a funeral. A burial. An ending. Black clothes and bowed heads, incense smoke curling toward a cold sky, words spoken over fresh earth.
Lu Yuze did none of it.
The house had already fallen into mourning—servants moving in hushed silence, curtains drawn against the daylight, meals left untouched—but he refused to let it settle into finality.
"She is not gone."
That was all he said.
Not loudly. Not emotionally. But with a certainty that left no room for argument, no space for the soft reassurances of those who had already accepted loss.
Within days, the lower east wing of the mansion was sealed off.
No servants allowed. No unnecessary entry. Only those he permitted—a handful of trusted staff, the medical team he retained, and himself.
The room was rebuilt.
