Chapter 202: Unread

*Runze’s POV*

The walk back to the house is a blur.

I don’t remember stepping down from the stone pavilion, nor do I remember navigating the curving garden paths. All I feel is the cold, sharp weight of my phone tucked tightly into my palm, and the steady, unobtrusive shadow of Ling Yue walking a half-step beside me.

Every few seconds, my thumb twitches against my phone, staring down at the dark, inactive screen.

We cross the stone terrace and slip back inside through the side doors.

As we step into the main foyer, Mrs. Wen emerges from the adjacent hallway carrying a basket of fresh hand towels. The moment her eyes land on my face, her warm expression falters, replaced by immediate concern.

"Back so soon, Young Master?" she asks, looking between the two of us. "Is everything alright?"

I force a small, practiced smile, letting one hand rest over the slight swell of my bump. "I’m fine, Mrs. Wen. Just... I think I’ll head up to the study for a bit."

Mrs. Wen scans my face, clearly picking up on the slight tension around my eyes, but she refrains from prying.

"Alright," she says softly, setting her basket on a nearby console table. "I’ll prepare a pot of tea and bring it up to you right away."

"Thank you, Mrs. Wen."

I turn toward the grand staircase, making my way up to the second floor. Ling Yue follows naturally behind me without asking for permission. He doesn’t say a word, but the intent is clear, he knows I shouldn’t be left alone right now.

When I push open the study door, the familiar scent of cedar and old paper greets me.

Everything sits exactly as I left it. My pencil case rests neatly on the edge of the drafting table beside the small velvet box containing my personal jade seal. In the center of the desk, my sketchbook lies flat next to my sleek black laptop.

The last time I was in here to work, I hadn’t even thought about opening the laptop. I had been so completely absorbed in drawing in the sketchbook Grandmother gave me, just relieved to finally pick up a pencil again after weeks of resting.

I walk over to the dark wood desk and pull out the leather armchair, easing myself down into the seat.

My hands hover above the polished lid of the computer. I hesitate, a sudden wave of apprehension making my fingers tremble slightly.

To the side, the door clicks open softly as Mrs. Wen enters with a tray. She sets a steaming teapot and two cups on the corner of the desk, giving my shoulder a gentle, reassuring pat before quietly taking her leave.

Ling Yue waits until the door clicks shut, then pulls a chair up nearby. He says nothing, simply keeping watch.

I press the power button.

The familiar startup chime echoes through the room.

My heart begins beating faster against my ribs. As the desktop background appears, I log into the email account I’d set up specifically for the DingShan competition—the address printed on my submission materials and presentation portfolio.

*Loading...*

*Loading...*

Then the inbox appears.

Unread messages flood the screen in a rapid cascade.

One.

Five.

Twelve.

Thirty-one.

Fifty-eight.

The counter stops climbing.

I freeze, my breath catching in my throat.

*Fifty-eight unread emails.*

"..."

My hand moves to the trackpad, and I begin to scroll. The list stretches down the screen, message after message bolded in crisp, unread text. My breathing slowly becomes uneven as the reality of the screen sinks in.

I scroll all the way down to the bottom of the list and click on the oldest thread, timestamped the evening of the presentation.

*"Congratulations on an exceptional presentation, Mr. Runze."*

I open another from a few days later.

*"We’d love to discuss a future collaboration on our upcoming commercial site."*

As I move up the list, the tone of the subject lines subtly shifts.

*"Invitation to join our summer architectural panel..."*

Then, a week later:

*"We hope you’ve recovered well from your accident..."*

And another:

*"Following up regarding our previous invitation for the summer architectural panel..."*

Until finally, one of the more recent entries:

*"Since we haven’t heard back, we assume your schedule is full, but we would still love to work with you in the future."*

None of the sender’s notes sound angry. None of them accuse me of unprofessionalism or arrogance. Most are patient, highly professional, and genuinely respectful. A few even express quiet concern for my health before bringing up project inquiries.

A tight, painful sensation settles deep in my chest.

"...They remembered," I whisper, the words barely carrying across the desk.

For weeks, I had convinced myself that no one cared. I thought one presentation wasn’t enough to build a reputation, that the architecture world had moved past me the second I was admitted to the hospital.

I was wrong.

My fingers tremble as I scroll further up, opening an email sent about two weeks ago from Elliot’s brother. It’s formal, precise, and contains a direct proposal to discuss establishing a joint architectural studio backed by Jun Holdings.

I read it once. Then twice. Then a third time, my eyes lingering on the date stamp in the top right corner.

Two weeks ago.

I quietly close the thread, resting my trembling fingertips against the edge of the desk.

Leaning back into the leather seat, I tilt my head back to stare blankly at the ceiling.

My thoughts race out of control.

I remember lying awake in the hospital room, staring up at the white ceiling tile and spiraling. Because the accident happened on the very same day as the presentation, I had convinced myself that the news of the crash had completely overshadowed everything else. I thought my work had been buried under headlines about the accident, and that people would only ever see me as a victim rather than an architect.

But they hadn’t forgotten the work at all.

They hadn’t reduced me to a tragic headline. Opportunity after opportunity had been sitting right here, waiting for a reply I didn’t even know I was missing.

The realization settles in my chest like lead. My throat goes dry, and for a long moment, I forget to exhale. It’s a strange, sickening contrast—knowing that the career I grieved for wasn’t dead, but realizing I was the one who abandoned it without ever meaning to.

"...What am I supposed to do now...?" I murmur into the silence.

Driven by a sudden, desperate urge to fix it, I double-click a recent inquiry and hit *Reply*.

The blank composition box pops up on the screen. The blue cursor blinks at me expectantly.

I place my hands on the keyboard and type: *I’m sorry...*

I stop. I hit backspace.

I start again: *Due to unforeseen...*

I delete it again.

Again. And again.

Nothing sounds right.

How do you explain disappearing for over a month to top-tier firms? How do you type, *"Sorry, I was in a coma and then my husband unlinked my work server"* without sounding completely unhinged? Would they even believe me, or would it just sound like a poorly constructed excuse for ignoring them?

My breath hitches, and I quietly close the draft, leaving the message unanswered.

Throughout the entire process, Ling Yue has stayed completely silent. He hasn’t interrupted once, he just watches me from his chair.

Eventually, his eyes drop to my right hand. My grip on the computer mouse is so intense that my knuckles have turned completely white.

Without saying a word, Ling Yue reaches across the corner of the desk.

His fingers gently loosen my rigid grip, moving my hand away from the mouse. He takes the untouched cup of warm tea Mrs. Wen left for me and carefully places it right into my palm.

"...Drink," he says softly.

That’s all he says.

I blink down at the warm porcelain, feeling the soothing heat seep into my chilled fingers.

"...Thank you," I whisper.

Ling Yue simply nods once, offering nothing more.

Silence fills the study again as I stare into the amber liquid, taking a small, slow sip.

After several minutes pass, I break the quiet.

"...I don’t think he meant to do this," I say, my voice low and fragile.

Ling Yue doesn’t answer.

"The doctor said I wasn’t allowed to work," I continue, trying to stitch the logic together out loud. "He probably... he probably just forgot."

The words sound impossibly weak. Even to my own ears, the excuse rings hollow against fifty-eight unread emails.

Silence stretches out once more. Ling Yue doesn’t agree, he doesn’t disagree. He simply sits beside me, offering no judgment.

I lower my head, staring at the tea in my hand.

"...It still hurts," I whisper.

Those are the only entirely honest words I’ve spoken since Elliot’s call.

Ling Yue quietly shifts his chair an inch closer. Not enough to invade my space, but just enough so that I no longer feel like I’m sitting in this large room alone.

I take a slow, deep breath, set the teacup back on the desk, and turn back to the monitor. The long list of opened and unaddressed emails stares back at me.

I take another slow breath and move the cursor back to the first message.

This time, instead of opening a direct reply, I open a blank word document on the side of the screen. If I’m going to answer everyone, I need to figure out what I actually want to say first.

Before my fingers can touch the keyboard again—

A sharp knock sounds outside the study door.