Against the Algorithm

Chapter 53: Keys to the Quiet

Sicheng reached for another roll.

Yue ducked.

Sheng, sipping his tea, simply smiled behind the rim of his cup and whispered to Lan, "She fits."

Lan's lips curved. "She always did."

And across the table, Yao, cheeks still warm, arms crossed, but lips twitching with the faintest smile, finally relaxed into the space where laughter lived. Because this was her world now. And it was hers. Chaotic. Teasing. Maddening. And safe.

The drive to the property was silent. Not tense, but reverent in the way only first steps into history can be. The kind of silence that didn't ask for conversation, only presence. Yao sat between Sicheng and Lan in the lead SUV, fingers curled loosely in the fabric of her coat, her gaze fixed on the city beyond the window. She didn't speak. She didn't need to. The silence was her voice right now—an expression of something she hadn't yet found the words for.

They were nearing the house her mother had left to her. A house she had never seen before. Not in photos. Not in person. Because Xu Roulan and Tong Liyan had moved to the States before Yao was ever born. The home they left behind had remained untouched in her memory—not because she had lost it, but because she had never known it.

Until now.

The gates parted with smooth precision as the SUV rolled into the long, tree-lined driveway. The property was understated in the way only old money could manage—elegant and quietly commanding. A private world tucked just far enough from the bustle of Shanghai to feel like something preserved in time.

Yao sat forward slightly as the house came into full view—white stone walls softened by ivy, tall windows framed in deep charcoal trim, and a front entrance with curved wood doors that felt less like an invitation and more like a challenge. She stepped out of the car first.

Sicheng followed her silently.

Yue and Sheng exited the second vehicle further back, but neither approached.

Lan came to stand on her other side, heels clicking softly on the stone path.

No one spoke as Yao stood there, unmoving, her eyes taking in the shape of a place that had belonged to her family... but never to her. "I've never been here before," she whispered.

Lan didn't nod. She didn't soften. She simply said, "It's still yours."

Yao exhaled slowly, as if she had to make room inside her body just to walk forward. Her boots moved one step, then another, until her hand came to rest lightly on the door handle. It opened beneath her fingers with a soft click. The air inside was clean, faintly floral, touched with the subtle scent of polished wood and fresh linen. Not abandoned. Not dusty. The estate had been kept ready, not lived in, but waiting. The entryway opened into a hallway of pale stone floors, high ceilings, and soft gold accents along the lighting fixtures. Art lined the walls—abstract and impressionistic, the kind that whispered taste over trend.

Yao took slow steps through the main corridor, her gaze catching on every little thing as if it might suddenly tell her something about the people who once belonged to this house.

Her people.

Her blood.

And yet, she felt like a visitor walking through the memory of a life she was never given the chance to live.

Sicheng didn't hover. He trailed her at a respectful distance, his hands in his coat pockets, eyes never leaving her figure as she turned into what appeared to be the main sitting room.