Chapter 228: The News

*Runze’s POV*

We aren’t even halfway down the stairs when I hear the television downstairs.

The sound is faint from the landing, softened by the high ceilings and open space of the estate. Usually, I wouldn’t pay much attention to it. The television plays somewhere in the background most days, whether anyone is actively watching or not.

But something about the voice coming through the speakers makes us both slow down.

It isn’t the usual calm rhythm of a broadcast.

The presenter sounds urgent.

"...authorities have officially reopened the investigation into the death of former Wuchen Group executive vice president Wuchen Ming."

My feet stop moving mid-step.

Bael freezes right beside me on the staircase.

For a few seconds, neither of us says anything. The quiet between us turns heavy and cold.

I turn my head slightly toward the lower floor. "...What?"

Bael’s fingers tighten around mine.

Downstairs, the journalist’s voice continues over the broadcast line.

"According to an official statement released earlier this afternoon, authorities are no longer treating Wuchen Ming’s death as a suicide. New evidence discovered during a secondary forensic review has prompted investigators to reclassify the case as a suspected homicide."

My stomach plunges. I look at Bael immediately.

His expression has gone completely still.

His eyes remain fixed straight ahead, his jaw tightening so subtly that I almost miss it. It is the unreadable look of a man who isn’t surprised by the smoke... only measuring how fast the fire is spreading.

I squeeze his hand tightly. "Bael."

He doesn’t answer right away. I pull him gently down the remaining steps. "Let’s go."

He finally moves.

We descend the stairs together, neither of us speaking. The closer we get to the sitting room, the clearer the news host’s words become.

"...Wuchen Ming was discovered unresponsive inside his prison cell several weeks ago. Authorities initially ruled the death a suicide after finding no immediate evidence of forced entry or external interference. However, lead investigators now state the circumstances surrounding his death warrant further criminal examination."

A strange, icy chill creeps down my spine.

Several weeks ago.

My mind instantly flashes back to that morning.

The cold tea sitting untouched on the saucer. Grandmother staring silently out the window. Bael sitting on the sofa with dark shadows beneath his eyes, holding me against his chest so tightly I could barely breathe.

*Wuchen Ming Found Dead In Prison Cell. Authorities Rule Death a Suicide.*

That was what I had read on Bael’s phone screen. That was what the entire world had accepted.

Apparently, that isn’t the story anymore.

We step into the sitting room.

Grandmother is there. She is standing near her armchair, one hand resting heavily against the fabric backrest while her eyes remain glued to the television screen. Her usual quiet composure has hardened into something entirely unyielding—a rigid, sharp posture that commands the entire room without her uttering a single word.

She doesn’t turn around when our footsteps enter the room.

The newscaster continues on air.

"Sources close to the investigation have confirmed that investigators are examining the possibility that Wuchen Ming’s death was deliberately staged to simulate self-inflicted harm."

My fingers turn cold inside Bael’s grip.

"Staged..." I whisper, the word scraping out of my throat.

Bael’s thumb moves once across my knuckles.

The broadcast screen cuts from the studio set to archived prison footage, then to a stark photograph of Wuchen Ming.

His face fills the screen.

I stare at it. The man who had hated me. The man who had nearly taken our baby away from us before they even had a chance to breathe. Dead. And now, apparently, murdered.

Before I can fully process the knot in my chest, the presenter speaks again.

"Authorities have declined to name formal suspects at this stage. However, investigators are reportedly examining individuals who possessed both internal access and a powerful motive to ensure Wuchen Ming never regained control of the company."

The photograph disappears. A dark headline flashes across the lower third of the screen:

WUCHEN GROUP SUCCESSION DISPUTE UNDER SCRUTINY

My brows pull together in confusion. "Why are they bringing up the succession?"

Grandmother’s knuckles turn pale against the back of her chair.

The voice on screen continues with practiced gravity.

"Questions surrounding the former executive vice president’s death have renewed public interest in the strict succession structure of Wuchen Group. The legal will of the late chairman—"

My breath catches.

Bael’s hand clamps down firmly over mine.

"—contained specific binding conditions regarding the transfer of controlling equity within the enterprise. Under the terms of the succession clause, Chairman Wuchen Bael was required to have produced a legitimate heir before his thirtieth birthday. Failure to fulfill that condition would have resulted in controlling rights passing directly to his uncle, Wuchen Ming."

My eyes widen.

I knew about the will. I knew Ming stood to inherit everything if Bael failed to produce an heir. But hearing the intimate legal details dissected on national television feels sickeningly invasive.

The broadcaster doesn’t pause.

"Public records also confirm that Chairman Bael’s spouse, Li Runze, was previously involved in a severe traffic collision. Sources familiar with the medical facility confirmed at the time that his pregnancy was classified as high-risk following the incident."

My hand moves before I can stop it, pressing flat over my stomach.

A sudden shiver runs down my back. High-risk.

That classification was never made public. The hospital had strict confidentiality measures around my case. So how did the press get access to my medical records?

Bael’s eyes flick down to my hand, watching the way I cover my stomach, before snapping back to the television screen. The muscle along his cheek twitches.

"Although Li Runze’s condition stabilized," the news host continues smoothly, "the timing of the traffic incident and the subsequent death of Wuchen Ming have prompted authorities to review the internal timeline."

My heart begins hammering violently against my ribs. "No..."

"Investigators are reportedly examining whether Wuchen Ming was deliberately eliminated to ensure that control of Wuchen Group would remain with Chairman Bael, regardless of whether the succession condition was ultimately fulfilled."

I stare at the broadcast in absolute disbelief.

They are taking real pieces of our lives—my terrifying accident, my fragile recovery, Ming’s arrest, and his death—and twisting them into a seamless, monstrous narrative. A narrative where Bael had everything to lose, Ming had everything to gain, and I was the vulnerable pawn in between.

"While official charges have not been filed," the journalist concludes, "sources familiar with the developing probe have identified Chairman Wuchen Bael as a person of interest."

The room goes dead silent.

Even the audio from the television seems to fade into background static.

Person of interest.

The phrase echoes over and over inside my head.

My husband. A murder suspect.

For several seconds, my mind refuses to link the two together. Bael is cold, yes. He is ruthless, powerful, and unyielding when protecting what belongs to him. I have never been naive about the dark edges of his power.

But orchestrating a prison assassination? Ordering a hit on his own uncle just after I was discharged from the hospital?

I look back at Bael. He remains standing beside me, his long fingers wrapped steadily around mine. He looks completely composed.

The broadcast shifts segments. High-definition live footage of Wuchen Group headquarters fills the screen.

The main plaza outside the building is a wall of absolute chaos. Satellite vans line the street, while a dense sea of reporters, photojournalists, and camera operators presses violently against the private security barriers at the grand entrance.

"Reporters have gathered in massive numbers outside Wuchen Group headquarters," the field reporter shouts into his microphone, "where Chairman Wuchen Bael is expected to emerge shortly to address these shocking allegations."

My eyes narrow as I scan the live feed.

Expected?

I look at the wall clock in the sitting room, then back at the screen.

The broadcast only went live five minutes ago. Yet the press corps is already completely set up. Satellite trucks line the public curbs outside the main perimeter, telephoto lenses are mounted on tripods, and reporters are positioned along the plaza boundaries holding microphones bearing every major news logo in the country.

They didn’t rush to the scene after hearing the broadcast. They were already in place. Positioned around the complex. Waiting.

Something about the setup feels horribly wrong.

I turn toward Bael, and I realize he has recognized it at the exact same instant.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

His phone vibrates sharply inside his coat pocket.

Bael reaches down slowly, pulling the screen into view.

Shen Rui.

He answers without breaking his gaze from the television. "What’s the situation?"

I watch his face intently. He doesn’t interrupt or ask questions. But as he listens to his assistant’s voice, his grey eyes narrow into dangerous, thin slits.

Down on the screen, the camera zooms in on the building’s primary glass doors as security guards struggle to hold back the surging crowd, clearly expecting the Chairman to walk through them at any second.

Bael says nothing for several long moments.

Then, quietly: "I see."

I can’t hear Shen Rui’s reply, but Bael’s jaw tightens until the bone shows sharp beneath his skin.

Another heavy pause.

"...Understood."

He terminates the call and drops his arm to his side.

I step closer to him, my chest aching from how hard my heart is beating. "What did he say?"

Bael doesn’t answer right away. His gaze stays locked on the live media circus outside his office tower.

"They were waiting for me at the main entrance," Bael says softly.

A cold dread settles over me. "But... you weren’t there."

"I left an hour early," Bael replies, his voice dropping into a low, quiet register. "Through the private underground garage. To come home."

I stare at the television screen, the truth settling over us like lead.

The reporters hadn’t gathered because they saw the broadcast. They had already been waiting.

They had to have known. The timing of the broadcast had been deliberate... released precisely when Bael would normally be leaving the building.

Whoever planned this wanted him surrounded in broad daylight. They wanted the entire country to see him cornered by criminal accusations, trapped under a hundred flashing cameras without his legal team present.

He had missed the entire trap simply because he had chosen to leave early and come home to me.

I look back at my husband.

The headlines scrolling across the screen no longer feel like cheap corporate speculation or media drama. They feel like a coordinated strike prepared in advance, executed down to the second.

Someone didn’t just want to trigger an investigation. Someone wanted to crush Bael in front of the entire world.

My stomach twists into tight knots, but beneath the fear, a sudden, fierce clarity takes root inside me.

Someone is coming for my husband.