Against the Light

Against the Light

Genre: Urban Romance / Workplace Growth / Second Chance Romance

Synopsis: Seven years ago, Elara Vance pushed Ethan Cole away in the most decisive manner, all to protect his future. Seven years later, he is a tech mogul, while she has hit rock bottom due to family misfortune. A commercial acquisition brings them back together—he is the high-and-mighty acquiring CEO, and she is the struggling designer fighting to save her studio. He believes his revenge has finally begun, only to discover the secret she has kept for seven years...

Table of Contents

Volume One: Reunion and Scars

Chapter 1: Clash at the Auction

• Core Plot: Reunited after seven years, humiliation and declaration of war at an auction.

Chapter 2: Fireflies in the Ruins

• Core Plot: Confrontation at the studio, initial revelation of past secrets and inner turmoil.

Chapter 3: Genetic Code in the Rain

• Core Plot: Vigil at the hospital, the truth of the hereditary disease, and an embrace in the rain.

Chapter 4: The Ghost of the Father and the Port Storm

• Core Plot: Danger at the dock, the truth of the half-million, and a father-son confrontation.

Chapter 5: Rust and Bloody Dawn at the Warehouse

• Core Plot: Life-and-death struggle in the warehouse, a confession on the brink, and emergency rescue.

Volume Two: Secrets and Redemption

Chapter 6: Between Heartbeat and Tears

• Core Plot: Decision in the hospital room, news of pregnancy, and release from old letters.

Chapter 7: The Silent Scream on the Tape

• Core Plot: Parental grudges, two recordings reveal different truths.

Chapter 8: Undercurrents Before Dawn and the Mother's Sealed Album

• Core Plot: Commercial counterattack, open-source patents, and the mother's past.

Chapter 9: The Shadow of Sunshine Orphanage and Child No. 890317

• Core Plot: Sister's clue, the long-lost Nia emerges.

Chapter 10: Where the Light Shines Through, All Things Grow

• Core Plot: Search for family in Yunnan, sisters reunite, and family is whole.

Volume Three: New Life and Eternity

Final Chapter: Where the Light Shines Through, All Things Grow

• Core Plot: Eliza is born, successful proposal, father's return, the Vance family is complete.

Epilogue: Five Years Later

• Core Plot: Time flows, love continues, all things grow.

(Postscript)

Chapter 1: Clash at the Auction (Full Version)

The crystal chandelier in the auction hall was too bright, blindingly so.

Elara Vance clutched the frayed bidding paddle in her hand, her nails nearly digging into the soft wood of her palm. In the glass display case at the center of the stage, the necklace shimmered with a faint blue light against the velvet lining—the "Starry Sky" that Ethan Cole had personally placed around her neck under the century-old locust tree in the old district that summer when she was eighteen.

"Lot 37, handmade Starry Sky necklace, silver chain with a Mozambique sapphire pendant, starting bid three thousand yuan."

The auctioneer's voice came through the microphone, filled with professional enthusiasm.

A few bidding paddles were sparsely raised below the stage.

"Five thousand." "Seven thousand." "Eight thousand."

The bids were scattered, like the last cicadas of autumn. The necklace had no certificate, no brand, and even the craftsmanship was marked by the clumsiness unique to handmade items—she could still see the slight unevenness left when Ethan polished it back then. In this auction that celebrated luxury brands, it seemed completely out of place.

Elara looked down at the tip of her shoe. The edge of her beige flats was worn white, and the upper was stained with rainwater she'd stepped in yesterday on her way to the hospital. She should have changed her shoes, but there wasn't time—her mother's chemotherapy fees had been overdue for half a month, and the hospital had issued a final notice yesterday.

"Nine thousand once, nine thousand twice—"

"One hundred thousand."

A cold, clear male voice came from the second-floor private box. It wasn't loud, but it was like a stone dropped into still water, stirring up ripples across the room.

The entire hall gasped.

Elara snapped her head up, the spotlight sweeping across the glass box on the left side of the second floor. The light refracted dazzlingly on the glass, but she still saw him—the figure standing behind the glass, tall and straight as a pine, the outline of his profile sharp as a knife in the light and shadow.

Ethan Cole.

Seven years. Over two thousand five hundred days and nights.

She thought she would never see him again in this lifetime.

The man descended the spiral staircase slowly. His black suit was perfectly tailored to his broad shoulders and lean waist. The slender frame of the young man she once knew had been forged by time into the physique of a mature man, and every step he took carried an aura of commanding the entire room. The auction hall was so quiet that only the sound of his leather shoes tapping the marble floor could be heard—tap, tap, tap, like a countdown.

"This gentleman bids one hundred thousand. Are there any further bids?" The auctioneer's voice trembled.

Of course not. Who would spend one hundred thousand on an unknown necklace?

When the gavel fell, Elara's first instinct was to flee.

She grabbed the canvas bag beside her and turned to walk toward the side door, her steps quick, almost running. But just as her fingers were about to touch the doorknob, another hand, with distinct knuckles, pressed against the door panel first.

"Miss Vance."

Three words, piercing her eardrums like an ice pick.

Elara froze, feeling the warmth of his body behind her—too close, so close she could smell the cedar mixed with faint tobacco on him, completely different from the clean scent of soap on the young man in her memory.

"After all these years, you still like to run away."

Ethan turned to face her, blocking her path. His gaze was like a scalpel, scraping inch by inch over her face, her faded white shirt, and the hand tightly clutching the strap of her canvas bag. It finally settled on her wrist—where a pale white scar lay, like a faded Milky Way.

"Mr. Cole, you have the wrong person." Elara heard her own voice, dry as sandpaper rubbing.

"Wrong person?" Ethan chuckled softly, a laugh devoid of warmth. He suddenly reached out and gripped her wrist, his thumb pressing precisely on the old scar. "This scar, you got it when you shielded me from a beer bottle in your junior year. The wound was deep enough to see bone, and it took twelve stitches."

His thumb was warm, and the sensation of him rubbing the scar made Elara tremble all over.

"Later you told me that a scar was good, so that even if we drifted apart, you'd have this to recognize me by." Ethan's fingers tightened, almost crushing her wrist bone. "Elara, do you think I could be wrong?"

A staff member hurried over with a tray. The necklace shimmered faintly on the black velvet. Ethan released her, picking up the necklace with two fingers. The sapphire pendant spun in the light, as if a piece of the starry sky was truly sealed inside.

"Do you know why I bought it?" he asked, his voice a whisper.

Elara bit her tongue, the taste of rust spreading in her mouth. She didn't dare speak, afraid that the first sound out would be a sob.

Ethan looked at her pale face, her trembling eyelashes, and the fine cracks appearing in the mask of composure she desperately maintained. Then he let go of his fingers.

The necklace fell into the champagne glass on the nearby waiter's tray.

"Because something that's dirty," the glass made a crisp clinking sound, and champagne bubbles rushed up to envelop the pendant, "only belongs in the trash."

The liquid splashed out, wetting Elara's beige skirt hem and leaving a dark water stain. Suppressed laughter and whispers erupted around them. Those eyes were like needles, pricking her densely.

She crouched down, reaching out to retrieve the necklace from the glass. Just as her fingers touched the cold glass wall, a high-heeled shoe studded with rhinestones stepped on her hand—perfectly centered, right on the back of her hand.

"Oh, I'm so sorry." A sweet, delicate female voice came from above her head.

Elara looked up and saw a meticulously made-up influencer face—Serena, a recently viral live-streamer, and according to the tabloids, Ethan Cole's "new flame." She wore a sequined mini-dress, smiling innocently yet deliberately.

"I didn't see you there." Serena said, but pressed down harder with her foot.

Pain shot up from the back of Elara's hand; she could feel the sharpness of the heel. But she didn't pull her hand away, only looking up at Serena: "Had enough?"

Serena flinched, instinctively pulling her foot back.

Elara withdrew her hand. A red indentation was already left on the back of her hand, the edge broken and oozing blood. She stood up, pulled a crumpled tissue from her canvas bag to wipe it, and then offered Ethan a practiced smile: "Satisfied, Mr. Cole?"

The smile was too perfect, blindingly so.

Ethan stared at her, suddenly feeling a lump in his chest. Seven years. He had imagined this reunion countless times—imagining her down-and-out, imagining her regretful, imagining her crying and begging for his forgiveness. But he hadn't expected this: she was wearing faded clothes, her hand was bleeding, yet she smiled as if attending an irrelevant tea party.

"It's just the beginning." He heard his own cold voice.

He pulled out a handkerchief, slowly and meticulously wiping the hand that had just touched her, as if it had been contaminated. Then he tossed the handkerchief into a nearby trash can.

"Tomorrow morning at nine, Cole Tech will send someone to acquire your studio."

Elara's smile finally froze: "What?"

"'Firefly Studio,' the one in the South City old factory renovation district." Ethan turned, and Serena immediately clung to his arm. "It's already on Cole Tech's acquisition list for this quarter. The acquisition contract will be delivered to you tomorrow."

"You can't—"

"Or," Ethan tilted his head, his peripheral vision catching her instantly bloodless face, "you can beg me now. Beg me, just like you knelt in the rain seven years ago, begging me to let you go."

Elara's lips moved, but no sound came out.

Ethan waited for five seconds—he counted his heartbeats, five beats, which felt as long as five years. Then he put his arm around Serena and turned away, not looking at her again.

The crowd automatically parted, surrounding them as they left. The auction hall returned to its lively state, as if the farce just now was merely an intermission. Only Elara remained standing there, like a beggar who had stumbled into a luxurious banquet.

A waiter hesitated, walking over: "Miss, this..." He pointed to the necklace in the champagne glass.

"Pour it out," Elara said.

"But—"

"I said, pour it out."

Her voice was soft, but carried an undeniable finality. The waiter paused, then carried the glass toward the back.

Elara bent down to pick up the canvas bag that had fallen to the floor, patting off the dust. Her phone vibrated inside the bag. She pulled it out and saw a text message from the hospital:

[Ms. Vance, your mother's chemotherapy fees must be paid by noon tomorrow at the latest, or we will have to stop treatment. We ask for your understanding.]

The rain started at that moment.

At first, it was just a few drops hitting the glass dome of the auction hall, but soon it became a curtain of rain. By the time Elara walked out the main entrance, the downpour was torrential. She had no umbrella, and she didn't call a car—the last three thousand yuan in her account had just been paid to the auction house as commission, and she didn't even have money for a taxi now.

Her high heels stepped into the accumulated water, and the cold water instantly soaked her socks. She simply took off her shoes and walked barefoot in the rain.

The rain was so heavy that she could reasonably have a face full of water, and no one would be able to tell if it was rainwater or tears.

The low roar of a car engine came from behind. A black Bentley slowly pulled up beside her. The window rolled down, and Ethan Cole's face was half-lit, half-dark in the dim light inside the car.

"Get in."

The tone was commanding, exactly as it had been years ago.

Elara continued walking barefoot.

The Bentley followed alongside her, neither fast nor slow.

"I told you to get in." Ethan's voice was laced with anger.

Elara stopped, turning to face him. Rainwater dripped from her hair and chin; she was completely soaked, as if she had been pulled from a river.

"Mr. Cole," her voice was barely audible over the rain, "you can acquire the studio, but give me three months. There are seven employees in the studio, five of whom are disabled, and they need time to find new jobs."

Ethan stared at her, then suddenly pushed the car door open and stepped out.

The downpour instantly soaked his expensive suit. He walked closer, step by step, until only a fist's distance remained between them.

"Elara," he reached out and pinched her chin, forcing her to look up at him, "do you think you're negotiating with me?"

Her skin was cold, and rainwater ran down his fingers.

"I'm informing you," he said, word by word. "Nine o'clock tomorrow, either sign the acquisition contract, or I'll make sure the studio goes bankrupt within three days—you choose."

With that, he released her hand, turned, and got back into the car. The Bentley splashed up a sheet of water and drove into the depths of the rain curtain.

Elara stood rooted to the spot, watching the taillights disappear around the corner. Then she pulled out her phone from her canvas bag. The screen was blurred by the rain. She found a number labeled "Attorney Zhou" and dialed it.

"Attorney Zhou, it's me. About the old house my father left... Yes, I want to sell it as soon as possible."

After hanging up, she crouched down in the rain and finally burst into tears.

A hundred meters away, around the corner, the Bentley was quietly parked in the shadows. Ethan Cole watched the figure curled up in the rain through the car window, the cigarette in his hand burned down to the end, scalding his fingers unnoticed.

"Mr. Cole, back to the company or..." the driver asked cautiously.

"Follow her," Ethan said. "Wait until she gets home safely."

"Yes, sir."

The windshield wipers moved rhythmically, clearing away one sheet of rain after another. Ethan watched Elara stumble to her feet, walk barefoot into the subway entrance, and disappear into the dim light.

He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

Seven years.

Elara, where can you run to this time?

Chapter 2 Preview:

At exactly nine o'clock the next morning, Ethan Cole personally appeared at the dilapidated factory entrance of Firefly Studio. Elara Vance, who had been up all night, had prepared all the materials to resist the acquisition. When she opened the door and saw him, the sound of a wheelchair turning came from inside the studio—a young boy in a wheelchair poked his head out: "Sister Vance, who is this uncle?"

Ethan's gaze fell on the boy's empty pant leg, and he suddenly recalled a line from his investigation file: "Firefly Studio, seven employees, five are disabled."

He thought it would be a crushing act of revenge.

But he didn't expect his first step to land him in the light.

Chapter 2: Fireflies in the Ruins

Eight fifty in the morning, South City Old Industrial Zone.

The corrugated iron roof of the abandoned factory gleamed with rust in the morning light, and twenty-year-old slogans—"Safe Production, Quality First"—still clung to the walls. Yet, on the edge of this forgotten ruin, a three-story building stubbornly shone with light.

A hand-painted wooden sign hung by the entrance: Firefly Studio.

Elara Vance stood beneath the sign, clutching the financial statements she had organized overnight. The edges of the paper were crumpled from her grip, like the dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep.

"Sister Vance, you didn't sleep again?"

The sound of a wheelchair turning came from behind. Elara turned to see Caleb rolling out. The twenty-year-old boy sat in the wheelchair, his empty right pant leg neatly tied in a knot, but his smile was as clean as the sky after a rain shower.

"I slept a little," Elara forced a smile, stuffing the financial statements into her canvas bag. "Did you eat breakfast?"

"Yes, Sister Skylar made porridge." Caleb rolled closer, looking up at her. "You seem... especially nervous today."

Elara didn't speak, only looking toward the road. At exactly nine o'clock, a black Bentley appeared at the end of the dilapidated concrete road, like an elegant beast intruding into the wilderness.

The car stopped, and Ethan Cole stepped out.

He wore a charcoal gray suit today, its sharp tailoring starkly contrasting with the ruins. Sunlight fell on him, outlining a figure that was too perfect, yet failing to penetrate his deep, dark eyes.

Elara stepped forward, blocking the studio door: "Mr. Cole is punctual."

"I'm always on time." Ethan's gaze swept past her, falling on the interior of the studio.

Unexpectedly, it wasn't dilapidated inside.

The high-ceilinged factory space had been converted into an open studio. Sunlight streamed in from the old skylights high above. Design drafts, fabric color cards, and half-finished dolls were scattered on the wooden long table. Hand-drawn sketches were pinned to the walls—mostly animal-themed assistive devices: a panda-hug prosthetic for a child who lost an arm, a rabbit-shaped walker for a person with a leg disability...

Each sketch had a signature in the bottom right corner: Vance.

"Does Mr. Cole want to see the acquisition contract?" Elara's voice pulled his thoughts back.

Ethan withdrew his gaze, taking a folder from his assistant. "You've seen the terms. The acquisition price is eight hundred thousand, with additional compensation for employees—of course, they'll need to pass Cole Tech's assessment to be retained."

"Eight hundred thousand?" Caleb gasped. "Sister Vance, we spent that much just on the new materials..."

"Caleb." Elara interrupted him, gently waving her hand behind her back.

Ethan caught the movement and raised an eyebrow: "Does Miss Vance have an objection?"

"Yes." Elara pulled a neatly bound document from her canvas bag. "These are the studio's financial statements, patent certificates, and the government support projects we are currently undertaking for the past three years. Based on market valuation, the studio is worth at least three million."

Ethan took the document, not looking at it, only staring at her: "So?"

"So an acquisition price of eight hundred thousand is unreasonable." Elara met his gaze. "And the terms require employees to undergo an 'assessment'—Mr. Cole, some of my employees are hearing-impaired, some have limb disabilities, and some have autism. Is it fair to assess them using the standards for able-bodied people?"

"There is no fairness in business, only rules." Ethan closed the folder. "Sign, or go bankrupt. I made myself clear yesterday."

"What if I find an investor?"

The air suddenly went quiet.

Ethan looked as if he had heard a joke: "Who would invest in a studio located in ruins, sustained by government subsidies and charity donations?"

"I would."

The voice came from the depths of the studio.

A girl in work pants and a high ponytail rolled out a tool cart, piled with wood and metal parts. She was about twenty-five or twenty-six, with a row of studs in her left ear, but her right ear was bare—a delicate bone-conduction hearing aid was clipped there.

"Skylar." Elara frowned.

Skylar ignored her, walking straight up to Ethan, looking up at the man who was nearly thirty centimeters taller than her: "I'm Skylar, the studio's technical director. We've already secured letters of intent from three hospitals for the third-generation smart prosthetic we're developing, and the government innovation fund will be approved next month. If you acquire us for eight hundred thousand now, you're essentially getting a million-dollar project for free."

Ethan finally took a serious look at the studio before him.

His gaze swept over the professional yet childlike design drawings on the wall, and the half-finished products on the long table—it wasn't the struggle of a down-and-out designer, but the creation of a mature team.

"Even so," he said slowly, "how much money do you have left in your account? Enough to last until the fund is approved?"

Elara's face paled slightly.

Skylar sneered: "Mr. Cole, you've done your homework. Yes, we're almost out of money. Sister Vance even sold her necklace yesterday to raise money for her mother's medical expenses. But does that mean we have to sell our dreams short?"

"Skylar!" Elara snapped.

But it was too late.

Ethan's gaze immediately locked onto Elara: "Sold a necklace? The one from yesterday?"

Elara turned her face away: "It has nothing to do with the acquisition."

"I asked you, was it the one from yesterday?" His voice deepened, carrying an irresistible pressure.

"...Yes."

"Why?"

Elara took a deep breath, turning back to face him: "Because I needed the money. Is that answer satisfactory, Mr. Cole?"

Their eyes met, and the air crackled with static electricity. Seven years of time had created a chasm between them, yet in certain moments, Ethan vaguely saw the girl who had pushed him away in the heavy rain—just as stubbornly looking up, tears in her eyes, but refusing to let them fall.

"Mr. Cole!"

The assistant suddenly ran over, holding up his phone, his expression awkward: "Miss Serena called, asking if you wanted to join her for lunch..."

"Tell her I'm busy." Ethan cut him off, his gaze still fixed on Elara's face. "Miss Vance, let's talk privately."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"Regarding your mother's medical expenses," Ethan said, word by word, "we can talk."

Elara's eyes widened suddenly.

"How do you know—"

"Ten minutes." Ethan had already turned and walked toward the open space outside the factory. "Or I'll leave now, and let the bank come to seize this place tomorrow."

Elara froze. Skylar nudged her, whispering: "Go. For Aunt Eleanor, and for everyone."

The March wind blew through the ruins, kicking up dust. Ethan stood beneath a dead sycamore tree, his back so straight it was almost lonely.

Elara walked over, stopping two meters away from him: "What do you want to talk about, Mr. Cole?"

"Which hospital is your mother in?"

"It's none of your business."

"Elara." He turned around, some emotion churning and then suppressed in his eyes. "Seven years ago, did you leave because of your father?"

The question came too suddenly, like a knife accurately stabbing an old wound. Elara stumbled back a step, steadying herself by leaning on the rough tree trunk.

"Ethan Cole," she said his name for the first time, her voice trembling, "talk about the acquisition, don't bring up the past."

"I investigated." Ethan took a step closer. "Your father, George Vance, accumulated massive gambling debts seven years ago and was beaten, breaking one of his legs. In June of the same year—three months after we broke up—he committed suicide by jumping off a building."

Every word was like an ice shard, piercing Elara's heart.

She closed her eyes, hearing the sound of her blood rushing, hearing her father's roar on that rainy night seven years ago: "If you dare to be with that boy again, I'll go to his school and make a scene! I'll make sure he can't graduate! I'll make his whole family miserable!"

"You left me because he threatened to ruin my future, didn't you?" Ethan's voice was close to her ear.

Elara opened her eyes and laughed.

The smile was bitter and astringent, like overcooked medicine.

"What answer does Mr. Cole want to hear? Do you want me to say it was out of necessity? Do you want me to say I still love you?" She shook her head. "No, I just thought you were poor. You were a poor student living on scholarships and part-time jobs. How could you help my dad pay his debts? How could you support me?"

She paused, every word laced with venom: "I made you who you are today."

The slap came without warning.

No, not a slap—Ethan punched the tree trunk beside her ear. The dead tree shook, and bark fluttered down.

"Elara," his breath was hot on her forehead, "you really know how to stab a person in the heart."

Too close. So close she could see the bloodshot in his eyes, smell the suppressed rage on him, and feel the violent heaving of his chest.

She suddenly remembered the summer she was eighteen, the first time he kissed her, also trapping her against a tree. Back then, his heart beat so fast it felt like it would burst out, and he said: "Elara, I'm ruined for life. I'm completely yours."

And now, he said: "The acquisition price is raised to one point five million, all employees will be retained, and their benefits will be based on Cole Tech standards. This is the final offer."

Elara was stunned.

"Why?"

Ethan stepped back, adjusting his suit cuff, returning to the cold, aloof Mr. Cole: "Charity. Consider it my charitable donation."

"I don't need—"

"You do." He cut her off, his gaze sweeping toward the studio window—where Caleb and Skylar were anxiously peering out. "They need it too."

Elara followed his gaze. In the morning light, Caleb was teaching a newly arrived hearing-impaired girl sign language, and Skylar was gesturing to explain something while polishing a part. The clock on the wall pointed to nine-thirty; it was time to start the day's work.

Her persistence, her pride, shattered into pieces before reality.

"...The contract?" she heard herself ask.

Ethan pulled a pen from his inner pocket, quickly modified a few clauses on the original contract, signed his name, and handed it to her.

Elara took the pen, her hand trembling.

The moment the pen tip touched the paper, a gasp suddenly came from inside the factory, followed by the loud crash of something heavy falling.

"Caleb!" Skylar's scream cut through the air.

Elara dropped the pen and rushed inside. Ethan followed closely behind.

Inside the studio, a tall material rack had fallen to the floor, scattering fabric and wood everywhere. Caleb's wheelchair was pinned underneath. The boy's face was pale, but he was still trying to push away the wooden board pressing on his legs.

"Don't move!" Elara rushed over, helping Skylar lift the wooden board.

Ethan was faster. He lifted the heaviest metal frame with one hand, his arm muscles tensing, veins bulging. The moment the frame sprang away, he saw Caleb's empty pant leg, and the bloody abrasion on the boy's amputated right leg.

"Medicine..." Caleb weakly pointed to the workbench. "Painkillers..."

Elara found the pill bottle, poured out two pills, and fed them to him. The whole process was heartbreakingly familiar.

Ethan stood amidst the wreckage, watching Elara crouch by the wheelchair, carefully checking Caleb's injury; watching Skylar curse and clean up the mess; watching the other employees gather around—the hearing-impaired girl anxiously signing, an autistic boy crouching in the corner, repeatedly muttering, "The rack is broken, the rack is broken..."

This wasn't a studio.

It was a makeshift home.

"Mr. Cole," Elara's voice came, laced with exhaustion, "I can't sign the contract today. Please go back; we'll contact you after we've dealt with this."

Ethan didn't leave.

He took off his suit jacket, tossed it to his assistant, and rolled up his shirt sleeves: "How did the rack fall?"

Skylar was stunned: "Probably an old problem. The floor is uneven, and the rack leg was wobbly."

"Where are the tools?"

"Huh?"

"I said, where are the repair tools?"

Twenty minutes later, Ethan was crouched beside the crooked material rack, tightening a loose bolt with a wrench. His expensive shirt was stained with dust and oil, but his movements were so skilled he didn't look like an office CEO.

Skylar leaned close to Elara, nudging her with her elbow: "Hey, is he really the legendary Ethan Cole who devours people without spitting out the bones?"

Elara didn't answer.

She looked at Ethan's back, at the scar exposed on the back of his neck when he bent down—he got it in his sophomore year when he fought with thugs to protect her. It took eight stitches, and he said he'd keep it as a badge of honor for life.

"This needs reinforcement." Ethan stood up, pointing to the expansion screws on the wall. "Give me the electric drill."

Caleb handed it over, unable to resist asking: "Mr. Cole, did you used to do construction?"

"I worked construction in college." Ethan took the drill, pressed the switch, and amidst the roar, his voice came through faintly, "To earn money to buy my girlfriend a birthday present."

Elara's hand, which was picking up fabric, paused.

Skylar looked at her, then at Ethan, and suddenly said, "Oh."

At eleven o'clock, the rack was fixed, even more stable than before. Ethan washed his hands, put his suit back on, and returned to being the high-and-mighty Mr. Cole.

"We'll sign the contract another day," he told Elara, then looked at Caleb. "I reinforced the rack, but the real problem is the uneven floor. I'll have someone come tomorrow to re-lay the floor."

"No need—"

"It's a necessary repair before the acquisition," Ethan cut her off. "It'll be included in the cost."

He walked to the door, then stopped: "Elara."

She looked up.

"About your mother," he said, his back to her, his voice very soft, "I can help you contact better doctors."

"What's the condition?"

Ethan turned his head sideways, half his face bathed in sunlight, the other half hidden in shadow.

"This time, don't say 'it's none of your business.'"

The Bentley drove away from the ruins. In the rearview mirror, Elara's figure grew smaller and smaller, eventually becoming a blur.

The assistant cautiously spoke: "Mr. Cole, are you really going to acquire it for one point five million? The valuation says it's worth at most one million..."

"What it's worth is up to me."

Ethan leaned back in the rear seat and closed his eyes. The image that lingered in his mind was Elara crouching by Caleb's wheelchair—so gentle, so resilient, like a reed bent but refusing to break.

And the words she had said: "I made you who you are today."

How ridiculous.

She thought pushing him away was fulfilling him.

She didn't know that for the past seven years, he had lived like a dead man, and no amount of money could fill the hole in his heart. He hated her, hated her so much that he couldn't sleep, hated her so much that he had to find her and destroy her to find release.

But today, seeing her guarding those ruins, guarding those people abandoned by the world, he suddenly couldn't hate her anymore.

He just wanted to know—

How much had she endured alone on that rainy night all those years ago?

His phone vibrated. Serena sent a message: [Ethan, Michelin restaurant tonight, I made a reservation~]

Ethan glanced at it and didn't reply.

He opened another encrypted folder, which contained all the information from seven years ago—George Vance's gambling debt records, hospital diagnoses, and even his mother's medical records from the past seven years.

One piece of information was highlighted in a red box:

[Elara Vance, between the ages of 23 and 25, worked three jobs simultaneously: design studio during the day, convenience store at night, and freelance drawing in the early morning. She was hospitalized twice for stomach bleeding due to overwork. Hospital records attached...]

The date was exactly the second year after they broke up.

Ethan turned off the screen and looked at the fleeting street view outside the window.

Elara, you're a great actress.

So great that you fooled me for seven whole years.

Chapter 3 Preview:

That night, Ethan Cole didn't keep his date with Serena. Instead, he drove to the hospital where Elara Vance's mother was staying. He saw Elara at the entrance of the inpatient department—she was hunched over the payment window, checking the bills repeatedly, her profile looking painfully thin in the pale light.

Just as he was about to approach, a doctor walked up to Elara: "Miss Vance, we need to talk about your mother's genetic test results..."

Ethan's steps halted.

He suddenly realized that the secret Elara was keeping might be far heavier than he imagined.

Chapter 3: Genetic Code in the Rain

Eight o'clock in the evening, Municipal Hospital Inpatient Department.

The fluorescent lights in the corridor buzzed, casting a stark white glow. The smell of disinfectant was thick and pungent, mixed with the faint, lingering scent of decay unique to late-stage patients. Elara Vance was hunched over the payment window on the third floor, clutching the transfer slip for the down payment from selling her house—four hundred and fifty thousand, barely enough to cover her mother's targeted therapy for three months.

"Miss Vance, are you sure you want to pay the full amount at once?" The staff member behind the window looked at her over his glasses. "You could pay monthly..."

"All at once, please," Elara's voice was soft. "Thank you for your trouble."

She didn't dare pay monthly. She was afraid she wouldn't be able to raise the money next month, afraid the hospital would actually stop the medication, afraid the woman lying in the ICU, covered in tubes, wouldn't even retain her last shred of dignity.

After paying the fees, she didn't go to the ICU immediately. Instead, she turned into the stairwell and sat on the cold concrete steps. She pulled half a cold bun from her canvas bag—this was her dinner for the day. The bun was dry and hard, difficult to swallow. She washed it down little by little with plain water from her thermos.

The stairwell door suddenly opened.

Elara instinctively hid the bun behind her. She looked up and saw a young doctor in a white coat. It was her mother's attending physician, Dr. Allen, in his early thirties, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, his gaze always carrying a hint of pity.

"Miss Vance, I was looking for you." Dr. Allen sat down beside her, holding a manila folder. "Your mother's genetic test results are out."

Elara's hand trembled, nearly knocking over the thermos.

"What... is it?"

Dr. Allen pulled out the report, pointing to a sequence highlighted in red among the dense genetic map: "BRCA1 gene mutation, hereditary. In layman's terms, there is a high probability that this type of ovarian cancer your mother has will be passed on to the next generation of women."

The light in the stairwell flickered.

Elara stared at the red line, suddenly feeling the letters spin and distort, turning into diagnosis sheets, payment slips, and death notices.

"What is the probability of inheritance?" she heard herself ask, her voice sounding distant and ethereal.

"If you carry the same mutation, your lifetime risk of developing breast or ovarian cancer..." Dr. Allen paused. "Exceeds 70%."

Seventy.

A cold, hard number.

Elara remembered the night her mother was diagnosed, a night just like this one. The fifty-two-year-old woman lay on the examination bed, holding her hand and saying: "Elara, I'm not afraid to die, I'm afraid of dragging you down."

Now she knew her mother hadn't told the whole truth.

Her mother wasn't afraid of dying herself; she was afraid of passing the gene of death to her daughter.

"Do you want to get tested too?" Dr. Allen asked softly. "Early screening, early intervention. If a mutation is confirmed, you can undergo preventive surgery to minimize the risk."

Elara's fingers dug into her palm.

"How much is the test?"

"The full gene sequencing is eight thousand."

Eight thousand. To her now, that was the equivalent of a month's rent and utilities for Firefly Studio, half a year's rehabilitation therapy for Caleb, or four months of working without eating or drinking.

"I'll... think about it." She folded the report and put it back in the folder.

Dr. Allen looked like he wanted to say more, but finally just patted her shoulder: "Get some rest. You look terrible."

The sound of his footsteps faded, and the stairwell returned to silence.

Elara buried her face in her knees, her shoulders beginning to shake violently. There was no sound, just silent, heart-wrenching weeping. Seven years. She thought she had long learned not to cry in front of others, but at this moment, the accumulated fear finally broke the dam.

She was afraid of dying.

And even more afraid of what would happen to the children at the studio after she was gone? Caleb was only twenty, and losing his leg was already hard enough; Skylar's hearing aid needed replacing; the new autistic boy, Little Guang, had just started to speak...

And Ethan Cole.

She remembered his back when he fixed the rack this morning, the scar on the back of his neck, and his words: "This time, don't say 'it's none of your business.'"

How cruel.

He had easily torn a hole in the emotional wall she had painstakingly built. But she couldn't soften, couldn't waver, because she carried a ticking time bomb—that 70% cancer risk, hanging over her head like the Sword of Damocles.

How could she dare, how could she be worthy, to love anyone again?

In the corridor outside the stairwell, Ethan Cole leaned against the cold wall, his eyes closed.

He had heard everything.

From the sound of her chewing the cold bun, to every word Dr. Allen said, to her suppressed, broken sobs.

He was still holding a container of chicken soup he had packed from a five-star hotel—on the way, he had even prepared an excuse, saying it was "leftovers, a waste not to eat." But now, the thermos felt heavy as lead.

So that was it.

For the past seven years, she had carried not just her father's debt and her mother's illness, but also a generational scythe hanging in her genes.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. Serena's name flashed on the screen. Ethan ignored it and turned off his phone.

He turned, walked to the payment window, and found the staff member from earlier.

"Room 306, Eleanor Vance's account." He handed over his black card. "Deposit five hundred thousand."

The staff member's eyes widened: "Sir, what is your relationship with the patient?"

"Anonymous donation."

"Then we need a name for the record..."

"No need." Ethan paused. "Just write... Against the Light."

After handling this, he didn't go to find Elara. Instead, he walked straight to the doctor's office. Dr. Allen was writing patient notes and looked up, surprised: "You are?"

"Ethan Cole." He handed over his business card. "A friend of Ms. Eleanor Vance. I want to understand her condition and the information regarding hereditary genetic testing."

Dr. Allen glanced at the business card and gasped—CEO of Cole Tech, a name no one in the city didn't know.

"Mr. Cole, we have an obligation to keep patient medical information confidential—"

"I'm not here to pry into private matters," Ethan interrupted him. "I want to donate a set of the latest gene sequencing equipment to the hospital in the name of Cole Tech and establish a 'Hereditary Tumor Screening Fund.' Dr. Allen, are you interested in leading this project?"

The pen in Dr. Allen's hand clattered onto the desk.

"Wha-what are the conditions?"

"Ms. Eleanor Vance in Room 306, and her daughter Elara Vance, will receive the highest priority medical support." Ethan said, word by word. "Money is not an issue. I want the best specialists, the best treatment plan, and the best medication."

"Why?" Dr. Allen couldn't help but ask. "You and Miss Vance..."

Ethan looked out the window. In the small garden below the inpatient building, Elara was sitting on a long bench, hugging her knees and looking at the moon. Her slender figure was curled into a small ball under the streetlights, like a wisp of mist that could dissipate at any moment.

"Because she owes me," he said softly. "Until she repays me, I won't allow her to die."

Eleven o'clock at night, Elara Vance finally entered the ICU visiting area.

Through the glass, she saw her mother lying in the innermost bed. Her face was painfully thin, her hair had fallen out from chemotherapy, and she wore a knit cap. But even in her sleep, her mother's lips were slightly upturned—a lifelong habit of hers, to smile no matter how hard things were.

A nurse whispered: "Your mother was awake for a while today and asked if you were working late again."

Elara pressed her forehead against the cold glass.

"Mom," she said very softly, "I saw Ethan Cole today."

The glass reflected her blurred image.

"He's still so handsome, even better than before. When he was fixing the rack, I thought I was back in college... Do you remember when our water pipe burst, and he came to fix it, soaked to the bone, and then wiped down the kitchen for you?"

Tears streamed down, leaving streaks on the glass.

"He asked me if I broke up with him because of you. I didn't tell him the truth... I didn't dare. Mom, am I a coward?"

The monitor beeped rhythmically.

"Dr. Allen said your illness might be hereditary to me." Elara laughed, a laugh uglier than a cry. "I said I'd consider getting tested, but I won't actually do it. What good would it do to find out? I don't have the money for preventive surgery. Finding out would only add another layer of torment."

She raised her hand and drew a small heart on the glass.

"But if... if it really is hereditary, I accept it. It's just the kids at the studio I worry about. When I'm gone, can you look after them for me from heaven?"

The bell signaling the end of visiting hours rang.

Elara took one last look at her mother and turned to leave. When she walked out of the inpatient building, the night wind was cold. She pulled her thin coat tighter and walked toward the bus stop.

"Get in."

The black Bentley silently slid up beside her.

Elara froze, looking at Ethan Cole's face behind the rolled-down window. The streetlights cast flickering light and shadow on his face, making his expression unreadable.

"Mr. Cole, what are you doing here?"

"Passing by." Ethan pushed the car door open. "Where are you going? I'll take you."

"No need—"

"Elara." He cut her off, his voice carrying a hint of weary suppression. "Don't be stubborn with me at a time like this."

Elara stared at him for a few seconds, then suddenly laughed: "Ethan Cole, do you think I'm particularly pathetic right now? Family ruined, mother critically ill, and I might even have hereditary cancer—what a perfect tragic heroine."

She walked forward, and he slowly followed in the car.

"So you want to bestow charity upon me? Give me money, give me resources, watch me be eternally grateful, and satisfy your savior complex?" She spoke faster, her voice trembling. "I'm telling you, I don't need it. I didn't need it seven years ago, and I don't need it now!"

The screech of brakes.

Ethan got out of the car, caught up to her in a few steps, and grabbed her wrist: "Then what do you need? Do you need to hold on alone until you die?!"

Their eyes met, and both saw bloodshot in the other's eyes.

"Yes," Elara looked up, tears finally falling. "I need to hold on alone until I die. Because this is what I owe you, Ethan Cole. I owe you a bright future, and now I'm repaying it—using my misfortune to highlight your happiness. Are you satisfied?"

Ethan's hand was shaking.

He looked at her tear-streaked face, the despair in her eyes, and this woman he had loved and hated for seven years, swaying like a candle burning down to its end in the wind.

Then he did something he hadn't expected himself to do.

He pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly.

Elara was completely stiff, like a statue suddenly infused with life. His body heat radiated through his suit and shirt, his heartbeat thundered in her ear, and his arms squeezed her ribs painfully—yet, she felt, for the first time in seven years, that she was alive.

"Let go..."

"No." Ethan's voice was muffled in her hair. "Elara, listen to me. I don't need you to highlight my happiness, because since I met you, I haven't been truly happy."

His chin rested on the top of her head, and he spoke word by word, hammering them into her heart: "So you are not allowed to die. You must live, live to a ripe old age, and then slowly repay me with the rest of your life—repay me for the seven years you owe me, for every good morning and good night you owe me, for... all the future you owe me."

Elara's defenses completely collapsed.

She sobbed loudly in his arms, as if trying to cry out all the grievances, fears, and loneliness of the past seven years. The night wind carried her cries, scattering them across the empty street, into the hospital lights, and throughout this long and cruel spring night.

Ethan simply held her, gently patting her back, like comforting a lost child.

A long time later, the crying subsided. Elara pushed him away, wiping her face: "I'm sorry. I lost control."

"Get in the car." Ethan opened the car door. "I'll take you back."

This time, Elara didn't refuse.

The car drove toward the South City ruins. They didn't speak the entire way. It wasn't until the dilapidated small building of the studio came into view that Ethan spoke: "I'll have the lawyer redraft the acquisition contract tomorrow, adding a clause—Cole Tech will establish a special fund to cover all of your mother's medical expenses."

Elara turned sharply: "Why?"

"Business decision." Ethan looked straight ahead. "A designer who can create without worry can produce more valuable work."

"I don't believe you."

"Then consider it atonement," Ethan turned his head to look at her, "for that... hug just now."

The car stopped. Elara's hand was on the door handle, but she didn't get out immediately.

"Ethan Cole."

"Hmm?"

"If I really inherited that gene," her voice was very soft, "if I really will end up like my mother..."

"Then I'll go through chemotherapy with you, I'll watch you lose your hair, and I'll be there for your surgery," Ethan cut her off. "And when you're better, we'll argue, make up, argue again, and make up again—we'll argue until we're eighty, until everyone is sick of us."

Elara's tears welled up again.

"You're crazy."

"Yeah, I've been crazy for seven years." Ethan reached out, wiping the tears from the corner of her eye with his thumb. "What's one more lifetime?"

Elara fled the car, running into the studio. The iron gate closed behind her. She leaned against the door, listening to the Bentley's engine fade into the distance.

Skylar poked her head out from the second floor: "Sister Vance? Why are your eyes so swollen?"

"It's nothing." Elara took a deep breath. "Is Caleb asleep?"

"Just fell asleep. The rack falling scared him today; I had to soothe him for a long time." Skylar came downstairs, looking closely at her. "Wait, that cologne on you... it's not hospital disinfectant. It's men's cedar scent. Ethan Cole's?"

Elara didn't deny it.

Skylar's eyes widened: "Did you two... get back together?"

"No," Elara shook her head. "And it's impossible."

"Why?"

Elara walked up the creaking wooden stairs, stopping at the turn. Moonlight streamed in from a broken windowpane, casting a silver-white patch at her feet.

"Skylar," she said softly, "if you knew you might not live past forty, would you still dare to love someone?"

Skylar was stunned.

Elara had already walked into her room and closed the door.

The room was dark. She pulled a tin box from the back of her drawer, opened it, and found a thick stack of letters—all written to Ethan Cole over the past seven years, but never sent.

The date on the first letter was the first month after they broke up.

[Ethan, Dad's creditors came to the house today and smashed everything. Mom cried all night, but I didn't. I was thinking how lucky it was that you weren't here. How lucky I pushed you away.]

The last letter was written yesterday.

[I'm going to auction off that necklace today. If you see it, will you hate me? Hate me, it's better than forgetting me.]

Elara pulled out the last blank sheet of paper and wrote by the moonlight:

[You hugged me tonight. I almost gave in. But Ethan, I can't. Because I carry a ticking time bomb, and I don't know when it will explode, or who it will kill.]

[So, let it be this way. You continue to hate me, and I'll continue to hide from you. After the acquisition is complete, and after Mom... I will leave this city with the studio.]

[I'll repay what I owe you in this life in the next.]

She folded the letter, put it in the tin box, and locked it.

The latch clicked shut, like the sound of a heart breaking.

At this moment, the Bentley was parked on the road outside the ruins. Ethan Cole hadn't left. He sat in the car, watching the light turn on and then off in the second-floor window of the studio.

His phone screen lit up. It was an email he had just received—from the private investigator he had hired.

Attached was a bank transfer record from seven years ago: Elara Vance's father, George Vance, received a transfer of five hundred thousand a week before his suicide. The sender was Robert Cole.

Robert Cole. Ethan's father.

The body of the email contained only one sentence:

[Mr. Cole, it seems your father was also involved in the events of that year. Should I continue the investigation?]

Ethan turned off his phone and looked out at the deep, dark night.

The water was deeper than he had imagined.

The barrier between them was not just seven years of time, but also the dirty secrets buried by their fathers.

He suddenly remembered Elara's figure outside the ICU tonight.

So slender, so lonely, as if carrying the weight of the world.

Ethan restarted the car, but instead of going home, he drove toward the old villa district in West City—where his father, Robert Cole, had lived for thirty years.

Some questions, he needed answers to tonight.

Some debts, he needed to start settling tonight.

Chapter 4 Preview:

In the study of the Cole family mansion, Ethan Cole slammed the transfer record onto his father's desk. The usually imposing Robert Cole's face instantly changed, but he refused to reveal the truth. Just as the father and son confronted each other, Ethan received a call from the hospital—Elara's mother suffered sudden organ failure and was being rushed to the operating room.

Meanwhile, Elara Vance received a call at the studio from an unknown number: "Miss Vance, I have something to tell you about your father's death. Tomorrow at three in the afternoon, Warehouse No. 3 at the Old Port Dock. Come alone."

After the call ended, Elara looked out the window—the night was inky black, and a storm was coming.

Chapter 4: The Ghost of the Father and the Port Storm

The Cole family mansion was located on the hillside of West City, a three-story villa in the style of the Republic of China era, looking like a crouching beast in the night. Ethan Cole parked his car outside the wrought-iron gate at one o'clock in the morning.

Only the study light was still on in the entire house—Robert Cole had a habit of working late, a routine unbroken for thirty years.

The butler, Mr. Wilson, came to open the door, surprised to see Ethan: "Young Master? Why are you here at this hour..."

"Is my dad in the study?"

"He is, but the Master seems to be in a bad mood today. He threw a fit this afternoon—"

Ethan had already bypassed him, heading straight for the second floor.

The study door was slightly ajar, leaking a line of warm yellow light. When Ethan pushed the door open, Robert Cole was looking at documents through his reading glasses, a cup of long-cold tea beside him.

"Can't this wait until tomorrow?" Robert didn't look up, his tone carrying his usual authority.

Ethan didn't speak. He just walked to the mahogany desk and turned his phone screen toward his father—it showed the screenshot of the five hundred thousand transfer record.

Robert Cole's gaze froze the moment it touched the screen.

The antique clock in the study ticked, each sound echoing in the dead silence. After a long while, Robert took off his glasses and slowly leaned back in his chair: "Why are you investigating this?"

"That's what I should be asking you." Ethan stared into his father's eyes. "Seven years ago, why did you transfer five hundred thousand to Elara Vance's father, George Vance?"

Robert Cole's fingers tapped on the armrest of the chair—a habit he had when he was nervous.

"Business dealings."

"What kind of business dealings require a bankrupt gambler?"

"Ethan Cole!" Robert Cole slammed his hand on the desk and stood up abruptly. "I am your father, not a criminal you're interrogating!"

"Then explain it." Ethan stood his ground. "Explain why on June 3rd, 2016—a week before Elara and I broke up—your private account transferred five hundred thousand to George Vance. Explain why, three days after the transfer, George Vance forced Elara to break up with me. Explain why, a week later, George Vance committed suicide by jumping off a building!"

Every "why" was like a heavy hammer, turning Robert Cole's face pale.

The father and son confronted each other across the desk, the air thick with the smell of old secrets fermenting. The wind picked up outside the window, making the old window frames rattle, like someone crying.

"Some things are better left unknown." Robert Cole finally spoke, his voice suddenly sounding ten years older. "Ethan, let the Vance family matter end here. You have a career now, a future. Miss Serena is also in contact with you. Everything is on the right track—"

"Right track?" Ethan laughed, a bitter, desolate sound. "Dad, I've lived like a dead man for the past seven years. Why do you think I worked so hard? Why did I build the company this big? Because I didn't know how to live! I had to bury myself in work just to stop thinking about why Elara left me!"

His voice trembled: "Now you're telling me that all of this might be related to you?"

Robert Cole avoided his son's gaze, turning to look out at the pitch-black night.

"George Vance's debt back then wasn't just ordinary gambling debt," his voice was barely a whisper. "He got involved with something he shouldn't have, owing money to... Flynn."

Flynn

The back of the photo had George Vance's shaky handwriting:

[Mr. Cole, I entrust Elara to you. Don't tell her the truth. It's better for her to hate me than to hate you.]

Robert Cole's hand was shaking.

Outside the window, the rain began to pour down without warning.

At the same time, Firefly Studio.

Elara Vance woke up from a nightmare, drenched in cold sweat. In the dream, her mother waved to her behind the ICU glass, her lips moving, saying: "Elara, I'm tired."

She grabbed her phone to check the time—one twenty in the morning. There were over a dozen missed calls, all from the hospital.

Cardiac arrest.

Each ring of the dial tone when she called back felt like a slow torture. The moment the call connected, the nurse's words were like ice water poured over her head: "Miss Vance, your mother is in critical condition. Please come to the hospital immediately!"

Elara tumbled out of bed, hastily putting on clothes and rushing downstairs. The stairs were too dark. She missed a step and fell, a sharp pain shooting up her ankle.

"Sister Vance?!" Skylar was woken up, rushing out and turning on the light. "What happened to you—"

"Hospital... Mom..." Elara was incoherent, struggling to get up, but her ankle was too painful to bear weight.

Skylar immediately saw she had sprained it. Without a word, she crouched down: "Get on, I'll carry you!"

"No, your back injury—"

"Shut up, get on!"

Elara lay on Skylar's back. The girl, who was half a head shorter than her, gritted her teeth and carried her down the stairs step by step. Caleb heard the commotion and rolled out in his wheelchair. Seeing the situation, he immediately said: "I'll go to the corner and flag a car!"

It was impossible to find a taxi in the ruins district late at night. Caleb waved his phone flashlight in the downpour and finally flagged down a delivery van. The driver, seeing their distress, let them in without a word.

"To the Municipal Hospital, fast!" Skylar shouted.

The van sped through the downpour. The wipers were on maximum but couldn't clear the torrential rain. Elara held her phone, dialing Dr. Allen's number repeatedly, but it was constantly busy.

Fear was like a cold hand, clutching her heart.

Her phone suddenly rang. It was an unknown number.

Elara thought it was the hospital calling from a different line and immediately answered: "Hello? How is my mom—"

"Miss Vance." The voice on the other end was deep and male, with the sound of waves and a ship's horn in the background. "I have something to tell you about your father's death."

Elara froze: "Who are you?"

"Tomorrow at three in the afternoon, Warehouse No. 3 at the Old Port Dock. Come alone. Don't tell anyone." The man paused. "Including Ethan Cole."

"What are you—"

"Your father didn't commit suicide." The man hung up after saying this.

The dial tone buzzed in her ear, mixing with the sound of the storm outside the car window, making Elara's eardrums ache. Her father didn't commit suicide? Then what happened?

"Whose call was that?" Skylar asked.

"...Wrong number." Elara turned off her phone and looked out the window. The city in the rain curtain was distorted and deformed, like a nightmare she couldn't wake up from.

She suddenly remembered Ethan Cole's hug tonight.

Remembered him saying, "You are not allowed to die."

Remembered him saying he would stay with her until they were old.

Tears welled up without warning. She bit the back of her hand, stifling her sobs. She couldn't cry. Not now. Her mother was in critical condition, the studio still needed her. She couldn't collapse.

But she was so tired.

So tired she just wanted to close her eyes and never wake up again.

The corridor outside the hospital's emergency room was like a path to hell.

Ethan Cole arrived, soaked to the bone. He saw Elara Vance sitting on a plastic chair by the door—her ankle was badly swollen, and Skylar was applying an ice pack she had found somewhere. Caleb's wheelchair was parked nearby. The three of them looked like three rain-soaked fledglings, huddled together for warmth.

He walked over, his footsteps echoing in the empty corridor.

Elara looked up. The moment she saw him, the last of her composure shattered.

"How did you..."

"Dr. Allen called me," Ethan crouched down in front of her, taking the ice pack from Skylar and naturally applying it to her ankle. "He said your phone was unreachable."

His fingers were warm. Elara shivered when they touched her cold skin.

"Ethan Cole," her voice was hoarse, "if my mom..."

"There is no 'if'." He cut her off, looking up to meet her eyes. "I contacted the provincial oncology hospital's specialist team. They are on their way. Your mother will pull through."

"Why?" Elara's tears finally fell. "Why are you so good to me? We ended things long ago. I hurt you so badly back then—"

"Because I have the ability now," Ethan wiped her tears. "I couldn't protect you seven years ago. I can now. It's that simple."

Simple?

Not at all.

But at this moment, Elara didn't want to delve into it. She was too tired, so tired she just wanted to lean on a warm shoulder, even if only for a moment.

She rested her forehead on Ethan's shoulder, whispering: "Don't leave."

"I won't."

The emergency room light was still on. Time tormented everyone, second by second. Ethan had his assistant bring clean clothes and hot drinks, and then called an orthopedic doctor to treat Elara's ankle.

"A minor fracture. It needs a cast for stabilization," the doctor said.

"No cast," Elara insisted. "I can't work with a cast."

Ethan pressed her: "You'll wear the cast. I'll handle the studio."

"You—"

"Elara." He held her hand, his palm burning hot. "Can you try to rely on someone else once in a while?"

She looked at him, at the boy she had fiercely pushed away seven years ago, now grown into a man she could lean on. She saw the bloodshot in his eyes, his wet hair, and the way he disregarded everything for her.

Finally, she nodded.

Putting on the cast was painful, but Elara didn't make a sound. She just held Ethan's hand, her nails nearly digging into his flesh. He let her squeeze, gently patting her back with his other hand: "Cry if it hurts."

"No crying," she bit her lip. "If I cry, Mom will worry."

At four in the morning, the emergency room light finally went out.

Dr. Allen walked out, his mask pulled down to his chin, his face exhausted: "She's stable for now, but the situation is not optimistic. Multi-organ failure is a late-stage complication. We saved her this time, but next time..."

He didn't finish, but everyone understood.

Elara Vance sat in a wheelchair—her foot was in a cast, so she was using Caleb's spare wheelchair—and was wheeled into the ICU visiting area. Through the glass, she saw her mother with several new tubes attached. The monitor's curve was faintly fluctuating.

"Mom," she pressed against the glass, her voice a sigh, "hold on a little longer, okay? Wait for me... wait for me to take care of everything, and I'll bring you home."

She knew that what her mother wanted most wasn't a few more days in a cold hospital, but to go home, to see her daughter happy.

"Miss Vance." Dr. Allen walked over, handing her a slip of paper. "This is the latest treatment plan from the specialist team. It requires a family member's signature. Also, Mr. Cole has made arrangements. Your mother will be transferred to the best private hospital tomorrow morning, where she will have the most advanced equipment and care."

Elara looked at the name "Ethan Cole" on the paper, her vision blurred by tears.

"Thank you," she said to Dr. Allen, then looked at Ethan.

He stood not far away, his back to her, talking on the phone.

"...Yes, Dock No. 3, three in the afternoon tomorrow. I'll go myself."

Elara's heart sank sharply.

Dock No. 3. Three in the afternoon.

The unknown man on the phone had also set this time and place.

Ethan Cole, who are you going to meet?

Chapter 5 Preview:

In the storm-battered Dock No. 3, Elara Vance and Ethan Cole arrive for the meeting simultaneously. They face a life-and-death trap set by Dominic Flynn. In the warehouse struggle, Elara finally confesses the truth from seven years ago, and Ethan uncovers the feud between their fathers. In the bloody dawn, can they emerge Against the Light?

Chapter 5: Rust and Bloody Dawn at the Warehouse

Two thirty in the afternoon the next day, Old Port Dock No. 3.

The heavy rain had stopped, but the air was filled with the salty smell of seawater and the scent of rust. Elara Vance sat in her wheelchair, pushed by Skylar, arriving at Dock No. 3.

"Sister Vance, are you sure you want to come? Your ankle isn't healed, and this place looks suspicious," Skylar said anxiously.

Elara looked at the huge abandoned warehouse in front of her, its corrugated iron roof rattling in the sea breeze.

"I have to come," Elara said. "I need the truth about my dad's death."

She hadn't told Skylar about the unknown call, nor had she told her that Ethan Cole was also coming. She knew this was the final confrontation that had to happen between her and Ethan.

"Wait for me here." Elara stood up from the wheelchair, hopping on one foot, leaning on the wall as she made her way to the warehouse door.

"Sister Vance!" Skylar tried to stop her, but Elara had already pushed open the heavy iron door.

The warehouse was vast and dark, with light only filtering in through a few holes in the roof, like spotlights on a stage.

A man stood in the beam of light, his back to her.

"You came."

"Who are you?" Elara asked.

The man turned around, revealing a face crisscrossed with scars.

"My name is Scar." He grinned, showing two rows of yellow teeth. "An old friend of your dad's."

Elara's heart sank.

"Your father didn't commit suicide," Scar said. "He was forced to die."

"By whom?"

"Robert Cole," Scar spat out a smoke ring. "Ethan Cole's dad."

Elara recoiled sharply, a sharp pain shooting up her ankle. She nearly fell.

"Impossible!"

"Why impossible?" Scar sneered. "Seven years ago, your dad owed Flynn money, five hundred thousand. Flynn was going to chop off one of his hands. Your dad went to beg Robert Cole. Robert Cole gave him the money, but the condition was... that your dad force you to break up with Ethan Cole."

Elara's mind went blank.

"Why?"

"Because Robert Cole looked down on you," Scar said. "He thought your family background would drag his son down. His son had a brilliant future and couldn't be ruined by you."

"And then?" Elara's voice trembled.

"Then your dad did as he was told. He forced you to break up. He thought Robert Cole would let him go. But he didn't know that at the same time Robert Cole gave him the money, he also informed Flynn that your dad had some leverage against Flynn."

"So Flynn sent people to kill him?"

"No," Scar shook his head. "Your dad knew he wouldn't live long. He gave the leverage he had to me and asked me to pass it on to a man named Dominic Flynn. Then he jumped off the building. It wasn't suicide; it was... desperation."

"You're lying!" Elara shouted. "My dad was a gambler. He killed himself over debt. That's the truth!"

"The truth?" Scar pulled out a voice recorder from his pocket. "Listen to this, and then tell me what the truth is."

He pressed play.

A man's voice, George Vance's, came from the recording, laced with sobs: "Robert Cole, you broke your promise! You promised me that if I made Elara leave Ethan, you would let me go!"

Another authoritative voice sounded, Robert Cole's: "George Vance, do you think five hundred thousand can buy off everything? The thing you have is the real trouble. Only your death can protect your daughter."

Elara covered her mouth, tears silently streaming down.

"Your dad left a message for me before he died," Scar said. "He said: 'Tell Elara not to hate Ethan. He's a good kid.'"

"Why are you telling me all this?" Elara asked.

"Because Dominic Flynn wanted me to," Scar said. "He wants you to hate Ethan Cole, to hate the Cole family. He wants you to be his pawn for revenge."

"Who is Dominic Flynn?"

"Flynn's son," Scar said. "He wants to use you to destroy everything Ethan Cole has."

Just then, the warehouse door was pushed open again.

Ethan Cole, dressed in a black trench coat, stood in the doorway, like a statue.

"Dominic Flynn, you finally decided to show your face." Ethan said.

"Not Dominic Flynn," Scar sneered. "It's me."

"You're just a pawn," Ethan said. "Where is Dominic Flynn?"

"He wants me to tell you," Scar said, "that he wants you to watch the woman you love most be destroyed by your own father."

Scar suddenly pulled a knife from his waist and charged at Elara.

"Elara, run!" Ethan shouted, simultaneously pulling a gun from his trench coat—a police-issue handgun.

Elara was stunned.

Ethan Cole, how did he have a gun?

"Stop!" Ethan said to Scar. "Drop the knife, and I'll let you go."

"Too late!" Scar said. "Dominic Flynn said someone has to die today!"

The fight erupted instantly.

Ethan was agile, but Scar was battle-hardened. The two wrestled in the warehouse. Elara sat in the wheelchair, watching the two men fight desperately over her, over the grudges of their fathers.

"Ethan Cole, why do you have a gun?" Elara shouted.

"I'm an Army Reserve Officer!" Ethan said. "This is a self-defense weapon my father gave me!"

Scar slashed Ethan's arm with the knife. Blood instantly stained the trench coat.

"Ethan Cole!" Elara screamed.

Ethan endured the pain and kicked the knife out of Scar's hand. Scar lunged at Elara, trying to take her hostage.

"Stay away!" Elara grabbed a piece of wood nearby and swung it at Scar.

The wood hit Scar's head, momentarily stunning him.

Just then, Ethan lunged forward, punching Scar in the face. Scar fell to the ground. Ethan straddled him, punching him repeatedly.

"Tell me! Where is Dominic Flynn!"

"He... he wants you dead!" Scar said.

Ethan stopped, breathing heavily.

"Elara," he turned to her, "are you okay?"

Elara shook her head, tears streaming down her face uncontrollably.

"I'm sorry, Ethan Cole," she said. "Seven years ago, I didn't leave you because you were poor. My dad said that if I didn't leave you, he would go to your school and ruin your future. I was scared. I was afraid he would really destroy you."

Ethan was stunned.

"Why... why didn't you tell me?"

"How could I tell you?" Elara cried. "Tell you that my dad was a gambler, that he sold me out for five hundred thousand? Tell you that your dad forced my dad to die just so you could have a bright future?"

Ethan's heart felt like it was being squeezed by an invisible hand, the pain unbearable.

"So you'd rather have me hate you for seven years?"

"Hate me," Elara said. "Only by hating me could you live a better life."

Just then, Scar suddenly scrambled up, picked up the knife, and lunged at Ethan's back.

"Watch out!" Elara screamed.

Ethan turned, and the knife plunged into his abdomen.

Blood spurted out.

"Ethan Cole!" Elara shrieked.

Ethan fell to the ground. Scar tried to stab him again.

"Stop!"

The warehouse door was pushed open again. Dominic Flynn rushed in with a group of men.

"Scar, what are you doing!" Dominic Flynn shouted.

Scar froze.

"Mr. Flynn, I..."

"Get out!" Dominic Flynn said.

Scar dropped the knife and ran.

Dominic Flynn walked up to Ethan, looking at the wound on his abdomen, his face ashen.

"Ethan Cole, did you really think I didn't know you were coming?" Dominic Flynn said. "I just wanted you to see the consequences of what your father did."

"What do you want?" Ethan clutched his wound, his voice weak.

"I want 20% of Cole Tech," Dominic Flynn said. "And then, you leave Elara Vance."

"Impossible."

"Then watch her die," Dominic Flynn said. "Did you think I didn't know she has a hereditary disease? Did you think I didn't know her mother is in the ICU?"

Elara's heart completely froze.

"Dominic Flynn, let her go!" Ethan said.

"Let her go?" Dominic Flynn laughed. "Did your father let my mother go?"

Just then, police sirens sounded outside the warehouse.

"The police are here!" Dominic Flynn's men shouted.

Dominic Flynn's face changed. He turned and ran.

Elara pushed her wheelchair to Ethan, looking at the wound on his abdomen, tears streaming down her face.

"Ethan Cole, hold on!"

"Elara," Ethan grabbed her hand, his voice faint. "Don't cry. I'm fine."

The bloody dawn had finally arrived.

Chapter 6: Between Heartbeat and Tears

When Ethan Cole was rushed into the operating room, Elara Vance sat on the corridor bench, his blood still on her hands.

Skylar and Caleb arrived at the hospital. Seeing Elara's cast and the blood on her hands, they were terrified.

"Sister Vance, what happened?" Skylar asked.

Elara just shook her head, unable to speak.

The surgery lasted five hours.

When the operating room light finally went out, Dr. Allen walked out, saying tiredly: "The wound was deep, almost hitting an internal organ. But the surgery was successful. He's out of danger."

Elara's heart, which had been suspended, finally dropped. She slumped onto the chair.

"Miss Vance," Dr. Allen said, "there's something I must tell you."

"What is it?"

"You're pregnant."

Elara froze.

Pregnant?

Her and Ethan Cole's child?

"How far along?"

"Four weeks," Dr. Allen said. "Congratulations."

Elara felt no joy, only endless fear.

She had a hereditary disease. How could she have a child?

"Doctor, I... I can't keep this child," Elara said.

"Why?"

"I have a hereditary disease, the BRCA1 gene mutation, a 70% cancer risk," Elara said. "I can't let my child suffer this pain too."

Dr. Allen was silent.

"Miss Vance, please don't get agitated," Dr. Allen said. "You need to get a genetic test first to confirm if you carry the mutation. If you do, we'll discuss the next step."

Elara's mind was in turmoil.

She walked into the hospital room, looking at Ethan Cole lying pale in the bed. Tears welled up again.

She couldn't tell him.

If he knew she had a hereditary disease, he would definitely make her abort the child.

If he knew she was pregnant, he would definitely make her keep the child.

What should she do?

She walked to the window, looking at the rising sun outside. The bloody dawn had finally passed.

Chapter 7: The Silent Scream on the Tape

When Ethan Cole woke up, Elara Vance was asleep, slumped over his bedside.

He reached out and gently stroked her hair.

"Elara..."

Elara woke up. Seeing him awake, she cried out in surprise: "Ethan Cole!"

"I'm fine," Ethan smiled, a pale smile. "How's your foot?"

"It's nothing, a minor injury," Elara said. "How do you feel?"

"A little hungry."

Elara immediately went to buy him porridge.

Ethan was left alone in the room. He picked up his phone and called his assistant.

"Did you find out about Dominic Flynn?"

"Yes, Mr. Cole," the assistant said. "Dominic Flynn is Flynn's son. His mother was a female worker at the chemical plant who died due to the pollution accident. He always thought the Cole family killed his mother, which is why he set up this trap."

"What about my dad?"

"Mr. Cole, Robert Cole has turned himself in," the assistant said. "He handed over all the original documents of the chemical plant accident to the police."

Ethan was silent.

"One more thing, Mr. Cole," the assistant said. "We found two audio tapes in Dominic Flynn's warehouse."

"What tapes?"

"One was left by George Vance before his death. The content is the same as what Scar said, about Robert Cole forcing him to make Miss Vance leave you."

"And the other one?"

"The other one... is about Dominic Flynn's mother," the assistant said. "In the recording, Dominic Flynn's mother says she didn't die from complications during childbirth. She died from... Flynn's domestic violence."

Ethan's heart sank sharply.

He hung up the phone and looked out the window.

The truth was always more brutal than imagined.

Chapter 8: Undercurrents Before Dawn and the Mother's Sealed Album

Elara Vance finally took the genetic test.

The result came back: she did not carry the BRCA1 gene mutation.

She breathed a sigh of relief but fell into a new dilemma.

Should she tell Ethan Cole she was pregnant?

She walked into Ethan's room and saw him looking at a document.

"What document is that?" Elara asked.

"Cole Tech's open-source patent," Ethan said. "I've decided to make this patent freely available to all manufacturers of assistive devices for the disabled."

Elara was stunned.

"Why?"

"Because of Firefly Studio," Ethan said. "I saw your dream, and I don't want it to be tainted by money."

Elara's tears welled up again.

"Ethan Cole," she said, "I love you."

Ethan smiled, reaching out to hug her.

"I love you too, Elara."

Just then, Elara's phone rang. It was Skylar.

"Sister Vance, I found an old photo album," Skylar said. "It's from when your mom was young. There's a woman in it who looks exactly like your mom."

Elara's heart sank sharply.

Chapter 9: The Shadow of Sunshine Orphanage and Child No. 890317

Elara Vance and Skylar arrived at Sunshine Orphanage.

The orphanage director greeted them.

"You're looking for child No. 890317?" the director said. "Her name is Nia Flynn, and she's Dominic Flynn's sister."

Elara's heart sank sharply.

Nia Flynn, Dominic Flynn's sister.

"Where is she now?"

"She disappeared," the director said. "She vanished when she was fifteen."

Elara took out the photo album, pointing to the woman who looked exactly like her mother.

"Who is she?"

"She is Nia Flynn's mother, Eleanor Lin," the director said. "She is your mother's twin sister."

Elara was stunned.

Twin sister?

"After Nia disappeared, Dominic Flynn came looking for her," the director said. "He thought the Cole family killed his mother, which is why he set up this trap."

Elara's mind was in turmoil.

All the clues pointed in the same direction: Nia's disappearance at age fifteen might not have been an accident.

And what role did Dominic Flynn, her nominal brother, play?

The storm was brewing.

But this time, the sisters decided to face it together.

Final Chapter: Where the Light Shines Through, All Things Grow

The day Eliza Cole was born, the first snow of winter fell in Jiang City.

Snowflakes drifted down, gently covering the entire city. In the delivery room on the third floor of the Against the Light Home, Nia's cries went from urgent to hoarse, finally turning into the loud wail of a baby.

"It's a girl!" the midwife's voice was cheerful. "Six pounds two ounces, very healthy!"

Elara Vance held her sister's hand. Both were drenched in sweat, but their faces held the same radiant smile. Nia weakly lifted her head: "Let me see her..."

The tiny baby was placed on her mother's chest, her skin red, her eyes not fully open, but her mouth was already suckling, as if looking for food. Nia's tears immediately flowed.

"Eliza," she whispered the name they had chosen beforehand, "Mommy's baby..."

The snow light from outside streamed in, illuminating the mother and daughter, like a sacred painting.

Skylar excitedly texted everyone outside the delivery room: "She's born! Mother and daughter are safe!" Caleb sat in his wheelchair, clumsily operating his phone, sending out a dozen red packets in the studio group chat.

Ethan Cole stood outside the delivery room, his vision blurred by tears as he looked at Elara and the baby.

He took out a ring, knelt on one knee: "Elara, marry me."

Elara smiled, tears streaming down: "I do."

Five years later.

Eliza Cole is five years old, a lively and adorable little girl.

Elara Vance and Ethan Cole's wedding was held by the sea. Eleanor and Nia both attended.

The Against the Light Home is complete.

(The End)