Huang Xing looked at the man before him—shoulders trembling faintly, posture rigid and strained, that once-broad back now seeming eroded by the passage of time. He recalled their first meeting two years earlier, which had been nothing more than a fleeting encounter. He had arrived in this city as the representative of an international entertainment conglomerate, the force behind a string of projects that local companies could only dream of partnering on.

Yet Qiu DingJie had mistaken him for a newcomer. The man had stood in the brilliant glare of the lights, eyes arrogant, a smile playing on his lips that was half promise, half command, telling him that if he stayed by Qiu's side, every beautiful thing in the world would belong to him—so long as he knew how to behave. Huang Xing did not believe Qiu, but he was curious. He wanted to see just how far this man could go with that unshakable confidence that left no room for anyone else. Someone like that, if kept around a little longer, was bound to prove entertaining.

And entertaining he was. Huang Xing had stayed. At first it was merely a pastime; later it became a habit he could not shake. There had been moments when he thought perhaps he should keep this man by his side for life, because the way Qiu DingJie looked beneath him was truly intoxicating. The way Qiu said he liked him, said he adored him—those words had never felt false, and they made Huang Xing want to surrender himself completely.

But then the rumors surfaced about Qiu DingJie's childhood fiancée. Though they were vague, the man neither denied them nor offered any explanation. Huang Xing never asked, yet something inside him twisted painfully, as if something fragile had been crushed in a fist.

He wondered who that same man—with the low, husky voice that still called his name every night—would whisper those same words to in the future, in what position, beneath what light. Just thinking about it filled him with revulsion.

From that day on, he no longer allowed Qiu DingJie to touch him. Every contact grew distant, even their breathing heavy and strained.

Then he decided to leave.

Leaving was not about letting go. It was about erasing everything. It was about dragging that man down from the peak where he had once arrogantly trampled over others.

Qiu DingJie possessed a powerful domestic media empire—large, but insignificant in Huang Xing's eyes. At the international level, Huang Xing held controlling stakes and investment alliances capable of collapsing entire companies with a single decision to withdraw funds. He did not need to appear in person; a single document, a few planted stories, a handful of carefully steered reports—that was enough. And then the man who had once been so proud lost everything.

He had planned to reach out and save Qiu DingJie at his lowest point, at the very least to force the cancellation of that engagement, so the man would understand who was the only one willing to stand by him in his darkest hour.

But he had never expected the news that struck him like another death.

Qiu DingJie... had given birth. A baby boy. Living in hardship, drowning in debt, his health was shattered.

Huang Xing remained silent for a long time.

The timing of the conception—he had not been intimate with Qiu then, busy filming in another city and not returning home for an entire month. So whose child was it? There was only one possibility: while he was away, Qiu DingJie had slept with someone else at home. By the time he returned, the man might already have been carrying that bastard child, yet still shared his bed as if nothing had happened. And then came the fiancée rumors.

A thought slipped into his mind, cold as ice and sharp as a blade: so the man was capable of such betrayal. While he was busy, Qiu DingJie had found someone else and even had a child. A child born from infidelity.

Huang Xing let out a soft laugh—neither happy nor sad, only the bitter taste of something vile sliding down his throat.

Qiu DingJie deserved it.

To bear a child for someone else, only to be abandoned by that person, forced to scrape by day after day—that was the fitting end for a man who never knew how to cherish affection, who never understood what love truly meant.

After that long chain of thoughts, Huang Xing looked again at the man before him, at those trembling hands and the lowered head that looked almost like a plea. In that instant, a faint ache stirred in his chest. But then he reminded himself... this was exactly what he wanted—the rightful fate of a traitor.

Huang Xing moved without haste, yet without the slightest hesitation. His long, elegant fingers—praised so often on the silver screen—reached out slowly and touched the first button of Qiu DingJie's thin shirt. The white cotton fabric, still carrying the mingled scent of hospital and the cloying sweetness of milk, shifted lightly beneath his fingertips.

The first button came undone easily, a silent surrender, revealing a patch of flushed skin at the base of the throat that he had once loved to bury his face against.

Then the second button, the third, slipping open in time with Qiu DingJie's labored breathing, gradually exposing the masculine chest that still retained its firm, solid lines—except for the area around the nipples, which were now slightly raised, not overly prominent, yet unmistakable in reminding everyone of the change this body had undergone. The change of a man who had once ruled everything, now reduced to someone who spent his days hovering over a baby's crib, carrying the scent of milk.

A thin trail of milky white liquid slowly seeped from the tip of one nipple, rolling down the chest and leaving a glistening wet path like dew on a leaf after rain. Qiu DingJie felt the dampness spreading and his heart clenched in nameless shame—not because of his own body, but because this exposure was happening beneath the hands of the very person he had once controlled, now completely reversed. He wanted to cover himself, to curl inward, but his body seemed frozen; only his breathing came in ragged gasps, each one fighting to swallow back the rising tide of humiliation.

Huang Xing did not stop there. He leaned his tall frame over the back of the sofa, bending down so that his jet-black hair brushed across Qiu DingJie's shoulder like a chill wind. His lips touched the skin—warm, yet utterly without tenderness—then closed around the nipple and sucked gently, drawing out a thin stream of milk.

Qiu DingJie startled violently at the bite, his body reacting on pure instinct to the sudden contact. His heart slammed wildly, blood rushing to his face in a burning flush. He immediately shoved Huang Xing away, trembling hands landing on Huang Xing's shoulders. The push was not strong, but enough to create distance. He whipped his head around, eyes wide with horror and confusion, staring fixedly at Huang Xing's indifferent face. Because Huang Xing stood behind the sofa while he remained seated, the awkward angle left him helpless except to twist his torso, both hands gripping the armrest as if afraid he would topple backward if he let go.

Huang Xing was pushed back half a step, yet showed neither anger nor surprise. Though shoved away so quickly, the faint sweet taste of breast milk still lingered on his tongue—unpleasant, even faintly nauseating. This was not the first time he had taken that spot between his teeth, but before there had never been milk, never the presence of that bastard child forcing this body to produce it.

He frowned, thick brows arching slightly to form the familiar crease Qiu DingJie had seen hundreds of times in the past—only now it carried unmistakable mockery. His voice rang out, calm yet sharp as a thin blade: "You've already given birth. Why are you acting like some young maiden? It's not as if I've never sucked there before."

The words hung in the air, not loud, yet piercing through the last layer of Qiu DingJie's defences. He felt stripped bare in public, every memory of their past nights of passion flooding back—only now twisted, corrupted into something ugly and humiliating.

Huang Xing continued, voice still even, neither rising nor falling, each word like a needle pricking flesh: "Or do you want to go back on your word?"

The question was not a genuine inquiry, but a reminder, a warning about the agreement Qiu DingJie had accepted under the rain outside his eldest uncle's gate, when he had no other path left.

Qiu DingJie lifted his head to look at him, eyes clouded with unshed tears, then turned to glance at the baby sleeping peacefully in the bassinet beside the sofa. The tiny chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, that rosy little face the only reminder of why he had to endure all of this.

In the end, he could only grit his teeth and accept it. His jaw clenched so tightly it ached, the muscles twitching, and he sat motionless—no longer pushing, no longer resisting—allowing Huang Xing to step closer once more. Huang Xing's body pressed against him from behind again, cool hands returning to his chest.

This time the touch was light, deliberate, a probing caress full of intent that coaxed even more milk to seep out, soaking Huang Xing's fingertips. Qiu DingJie felt every stroke as a heavy insult, like blades slicing deep into his flesh and into the pride that had once seemed untouchable. Yet he could only accept it, swallowing his tears, because he knew that if he resisted, everything—the child, this temporary shelter, the faint spark of hope—would vanish like sea foam.

And every touch from Huang Xing dragged his thoughts helplessly back to the past.

Qiu DingJie pressed his lips together tightly, the thin line of them paling from the force of his bite as he fought to suppress the trembling that spread from his chest throughout his body. Before, everything had happened in the heat of passion; when they made love, those touches had been part of affection, part of the possessiveness with which he had wanted to wrap himself around Huang Xing.

But now he was lactating—the milk meant for the fragile infant in the bassinet, a stark reminder of his own fragility after a painful delivery. How could it be the same?

Moreover, Huang Xing hated him, clearly and more deeply than ever. Every touch was not born of love, but of contempt, of punishment. How cruel, he thought, and his heart twisted as if squeezed by an invisible hand. The pain was not merely physical, but from the depths of his soul, where the last remnants of his dignity were shattering into pieces. Qiu DingJie realized then that he no longer controlled anything—not even his own body had the right to resist.