Chapter 215: The Things That Belong to Me

*Runze’s POV*

Bael’s phone call leaves a quiet stillness in the room.

I watch him set his phone face-down on the desk. His jaw is locked, his profile sharp, carrying that subtle irritation he refuses to name out loud.

Jin Hao really knows how to make an entrance. Or, in this case, a phone call.

I hide a small smile, keeping my face clear, and turn my attention back to the laptop screen.

There are more important things to deal with right now.

My inbox is still open.

Several proposals from firms and independent clients remain unread, but one specific email sitting near the top catches my eye again.

Jun Holdings.

I click it open.

The document is polished and precise. Their terms are generous, the resources they offer are substantial, the projected client base is impressive, and the name attached to the firm alone would make most young architects accept without hesitation.

A joint architecture studio.

Jun Holdings would provide the funding, the administrative support, and their established corporate network. I would handle the creative direction as the lead architect.

And Elliot would be involved as my partner.

I lean back in my chair, resting my hands lightly on the edge of the desk.

For a few seconds, I simply stare at the text.

It’s a solid offer. That is exactly why turning it down requires careful thought.

I scroll through the breakdown again, reading between the lines. The more details I process, the clearer the risks become.

If I accept this, the studio will never truly be mine. It will belong to Jun Holdings. My name might sit on the door, but their infrastructure will support the building.

And sooner or later, people will focus on the two names attached to the entity.

Jun Holdings.

Wuchen.

Two prominent families connected through a joint business venture.

It wouldn’t take long for the industry to turn it into something far broader than a simple design office. They would call it a strategic alliance, a political move, or a quiet merger of interests.

I let out a slow breath.

No. That isn’t what I want.

My eyes shift toward the window, where Ling Yue sits quietly in the armchair.

There is another issue to consider.

Elliot.

He hasn’t done anything inappropriate toward me since I met him. He hasn’t tried to interfere with my life, and I have no reason to doubt his professional intentions. But I know how he felt about me in the past.

That detail alone makes a partnership unnecessarily complicated.

I am not interested in building my career around avoidable complications.

I move the cursor, select the proposal, and archive it.

Decision made.

I don’t want Jun Holdings, I don’t want the Wuchen Group, I don’t want anyone’s legacy carrying me into the industry.

I want my own studio, my own clients, my own reputation.

If someone comes to me because of the Wuchen name, I can’t stop that.

I’m married to Bael. I’m part of this family. No matter how carefully I separate my work from theirs, people will know who I am.

But I don’t want to build my studio on that name.

I want them to walk through my doors because they’re curious about Runze... and stay because they believe in my work.

The Wuchen name may follow me wherever I go, but my career doesn’t have to belong to it.

A quiet sense of clarity settles over me.

That sounds much more like who I am.

I open a blank document and type a simple heading:

**Potential Studio Locations.**

Underneath, I list my initial requirements:

* Location and accessibility.

* Floor space.

* Natural lighting.

* Client meeting rooms.

* Design workspace and material storage.

* A dedicated model-making area.

I pause over that last item.

Definitely a proper model-making space. I refuse to set up an office where staff have to squeeze around a single table to build physical layouts.

I add another section:

**Budget.**

I stare at the word for a moment, my fingers resting on the keys.

Then I type:

**Independent funding.**

I stare at the words for a moment.

I have enough money. Technically, more than enough.

Bael gave me that account shortly after we married, and the entire billion yuan sitting inside it is legally mine, completely separate from Wuchen Group’s finances.

So funding isn’t the problem.

Across the desk, Bael shifts slightly in his chair.

I glance up.

He is back to reading his tablet, his face carefully impassive, though he is sitting close enough that his shoulder almost aligns with mine. He hasn’t asked what I am typing.

I look back at my screen.

Good. I don’t need to explain the details just yet.

Not because I am hiding my plans from him, but because I haven’t finished organizing them. When everything is clear, I will tell him.

On my own terms.

I open a commercial real estate browser and begin searching through available rental spaces across the city.

Most of the listings are wrong for what I need. Some are far too large, others are overpriced, and a few have layouts that make no sense for an architectural firm.

One has excellent windows but terrible access for visitors. Another sits in a prime location but barely offers enough square footage for a reception desk.

A third listing makes me stop as soon as the images load. The layout is awkward, and the interior styling is bizarre.

"Absolutely not," I murmur under my breath.

From beside me, Bael speaks quietly without looking up from his tablet.

"Bad?"

I glance at him. "Terrible."

He raises an eyebrow, his gaze shifting to me.

I tilt the screen slightly toward his side of the desk.

Bael studies the photograph for a few seconds, his brows drawing together.

"That does look terrible."

A sudden laugh escapes me. "See? You agree."

"I said the picture looks terrible," Bael corrects, his voice flat, though his eyes linger on my face. "That isn’t an agreement."

"It means your opinion matches mine."

Bael gives me a long look, lingering for a second before returning his attention to his tablet screen.

I smile, turning back to the keyboard.

That brief exchange settles the lingering tightness in the room.

Across from us, Ling Yue remains still in the armchair near the window, staring out toward the yard. He hasn’t spoken since the call ended, and I don’t press him to converse. He doesn’t need more questions today.

I return to sorting through commercial properties.

After thirty minutes of filtering, I find a space that makes me pause.

The building itself isn’t remarkable, and the location isn’t in the primary commercial district, but the floor plan is functional. One entire side features wide windows, providing consistent indirect light. There is sufficient space for several drafting stations, a separate room suitable for client presentations, and enough open area to set up a full model-building section.

I save the listing to my bookmarks.

Then I find another with a similar layout. And a third.

By the time I finish reviewing the options, I have six prospective locations saved.

Not bad for a first afternoon.

I sit back, leaning against the support cushion Bael brought over earlier, and stretch my arms carefully. My hand rests over my lower stomach, feeling the slight weight beneath the silk of my robe.

Tomorrow, Liang Feng returns to duty.

His injuries have healed for some time now, and I’ve given him the rest of his recovery period as a vacation. With him returning tomorrow, I can finally start inspecting the potential locations in person instead of relying on photographs and property listings.

Bael would probably offer to arrange everything if I asked, and there are more than enough estate guards to accompany me.

But that’s exactly what I’m trying to avoid.

If I let him manage every step of this process, we’ll fall straight back into the dynamic I’m trying to change.

I need to do this myself.

I add one final note to my list:

*Property inspections — tomorrow onward.*

I close the property portal.

A faint thread of nervousness touches my chest, quiet but present.

This isn’t just a concept anymore. I am actually starting the process. I am building something that will belong strictly to me—something without Bael’s name attached, something that won’t exist because I am married to a Wuchen, but because I am an architect.

The thought brings a steady, subtle warmth with it.

A quiet click sounds from the doorway.

All three of us turn toward the entrance as the study door opens.

Grandmother steps into the room with her usual effortless poise, carrying herself with an innate authority that fills the space without a word. Mrs. Wen follows closely behind, carrying a tray with a pot of tea and fresh cups.

Grandmother stops just inside, her gaze moving around the space.

She looks at Bael, sitting right at the edge of my desk with his tablet. She looks at me, sitting behind the open laptop. She looks over at Ling Yue, quiet in the armchair by the window.

Her eyes narrow slightly, taking in the scene.

"So," Grandmother says, her voice dry and measured. "This is where you all are."