Chapter 66

Outside the floor-to-ceiling glass window, the sky had long since darkened.

Jin Yizhu didn’t know how long she had sat there, but every word on the medical record seemed to have been read by her already.

Her memory had always been good—exceptional in everyday matters, and even more so for important events, which left impressions so deep that she couldn’t forget them even if she tried.

The printed words filled her mind, turning into a hazy black fog that swirled around in her head.

Jin Yizhu put the medical record into her bag and stood in front of the ICU glass again, looking at her grandfather once more.

He Tianhe lay on the hospital bed just as he had when she first arrived, tubes inserted all over his body, breathing silently. The instruments beside the bed recorded his vital signs, with various curves rising and falling, clearly displaying his life.

But his life seemed nonexistent all the same.

If a person couldn’t speak, had no consciousness, and couldn’t think, did that person still exist?

Jin Yizhu couldn’t figure it out and didn’t dare think further. She just stood in front of the glass, scrutinizing every detail of her grandfather, until her fingers finally touched the glass, leaving a trace of icy chill.

The corridor was very long, and when it quieted down, she could still hear the clamor from outside.

It was truly laughable—the word “clamor” in a hospital felt like something out of a fairy tale.

“Grandpa, I’ll head out first. I’ll come see you again next time.”

Jin Yizhu said softly, stroking the old man’s forehead through the glass.

“I’ve hired a doctor for you. You’ll definitely get better.”

As soon as Jin Yizhu stepped out of the ward, all the gazes in the waiting room focused on her.

The air conditioning was on very cold, the lights a warm tone that spilled onto the relatives’ faces but failed to brighten their expressions much.

Some sat, some stood, others leaned against the wall, holding cups—the coffee inside long cold, yet no one drank.

Their eyes followed Jin Yizhu’s movements, as if watching her or gauging an uncertain wind direction.

A few huddled together, not speaking, just exchanging glances. The middle-aged man by the window furrowed his brow, then relaxed it, as if calculating something.

Jin Shenghua stood in the middle, unmoving and silent, surrounded by several young members of the Jin family. They weren’t old, but their expressions weren’t relaxed either—like they were watching a show or waiting for an answer.

Jin Shenghua’s gaze fell on Jin Yizhu, first observing, then speculating, as if searching for flaws in her eyes or weighing whether she already knew something.

Few people looked at their daughter this way. Just meeting his gaze made Jin Yizhu feel nauseous.

Not far away, Jin Yuancheng leaned against the side table, clothes impeccably straight, hands in his pockets, expression leisurely but eyes carrying blatant provocation.

Even this guy had been called in—they weren’t even pretending anymore.

Jin Yizhu sneered inwardly, recalling what He Wanruo had told her before.

Your dad only has this one nephew. If he doesn’t care, who will?

At the time, she hadn’t said anything.

She had just found it absurd. They only had her as a daughter too—where was the consideration for her? Thinking back now, it was laughably extreme.

Jin Yizhu ignored the group. In her view, things had turned out this way because of them.

She walked past the waiting room and sat directly on the sofa, looking at them leisurely:

“It’s so late. Doesn’t everyone want to go back and rest?”

Perhaps not expecting her to issue such a direct dismissal, everyone froze for a moment, involuntarily glancing at the clock on the wall.

Nine forty-three—not extremely late, but certainly not early.

“Yizhu, how can you speak like that?”

Jin Shenghua spoke up again, frowning, clearly displeased.

“Everyone’s here out of goodwill, willing to keep your grandpa company so late. Why say it like that?”

“Is that so?” Jin Yizhu smiled radiantly. “If he passes away, would everyone still be willing to keep Grandpa company?”

She lifted her chin toward the man standing on the outskirts of the crowd, as if it were none of his business.

Dressed in a suit, hair impeccably groomed, he shared no blood ties with anyone here, but clearly, much of the room’s attention was on him.

“Mr. Liu, the board has been watching for so long. What’s your opinion now?”

Pointed out by name, Mr. Liu couldn’t remain a bystander. He stood up, offering a polite but distant smile.

Mr. Liu: “The incident was sudden. We’re holding a reserved opinion for now and hope Miss Jin will keep in touch with us. It’s late today, so I’ll head back first.”

“We’ll email you if a board meeting is called later.”

His tone was humbly polite, hiding a touch of subtle arrogance.

He picked up his briefcase and vanished through the door in a hurry, as if he had never been there.

Once the board representative left, the waiting area erupted.

It quieted for only a moment before a subtle restlessness spread, like ripples from a stone dropped into a lake.

Someone muttered something low, only to be glared at by the person beside them. Others huddled closer, hands covering their mouths as they whispered opinions.

The first to speak fully was interrupted by someone behind.

Several couldn’t help turning to glance at the door, then shifted their gazes back to Jin Yizhu.

No one dared say it outright, but the air had already soured, as if the waiting room for visitors had turned into an impromptu conference room.

Jin Yizhu shrugged, looking at Jin Shenghua with a half-smile: “Dad, now that he’s gone, you can start talking.”

Jin Shenghua choked on her tone, seemingly at a loss for words for a moment, remaining silent for a long time.

He Wanruo sensed something was off and came over to pull at her, voice very soft: “Yizhu…”

“Mom,” Jin Yizhu glanced at her, feeling a pang of sadness. Many words stuck in her throat, but in the end, they became just one: “Mom.”

The wall clock ticked away, the sound not loud but abruptly reminding them that time was passing.

The fruit on the table remained untouched, half-pulled tissues shoved back haphazardly, a cup—whose water had only a sip left—abandoned with no one claiming it.

Jin Yizhu stood there without speaking, but the relatives seemed exposed.

They hadn’t asked about the condition or the doctors, just exchanging glances as if confirming whether anyone had heard any rumors.

Jin Yizhu saw it clearly. Some eyes hid anxiety, others didn’t bother, their expressions blatant—as if her earlier question wasn’t a probe but a signal.

Wait a bit longer, and they would speak up.

Moments later, Jin Shenghua’s voice was low and deep: “Yizhu, I called everyone here to discuss the equity allocation.”

“Allocate what?”

Jin Yizhu shot back immediately. She had guessed Jin Shenghua planned this, but she hadn’t expected him to be so hasty, so… overt.

“Dad!”

“Look, your grandpa is getting on in years, and his health isn’t good. We’re thinking, why not allocate the shares he holds first? That way, our voice on the board will carry more weight later.”

Jin Shenghua had waited far too long for this day.

Even if Jin Yizhu’s words were sharp and her tone cold like a warning, he couldn’t wait any longer.

“Lionheart Group is our family company, but there are too many people on the board now. It’s hard for us to get things done.”

Too many people on the Lionheart board?

The current Lionheart board centered around He Tianhe, with most others being his friends. Only a few minor shareholders had joined via business or acquisitions, and their influence wasn’t great.

Those with real say all lived in Mid-Levels.

What did Jin Shenghua want? To split He Tianhe’s shares now, take them into his own hands, and dole some out to the younger generation so they could join the table?

“It’s not come to that yet, has it?”

Jin Yizhu’s smile grew colder, her gaze like a knife as she sized up Jin Shenghua.

“Grandpa hasn’t lost his civil capacity yet—he’s just temporarily comatose—and you’re already scheming this far?”

Without the shares, who would care about his life or death?

Besides her and her mom, who would care about the treatment plan?

Jin Yizhu’s gaze shifted to He Wanruo.

He Wanruo actually avoided her eyes.

…So they had discussed it.

Fine then. After all, you two are the couple; everyone else is an outsider.

Jin Yizhu didn’t bother saying more, just nodded: “I’ve brought in an expert team. They’ll arrive tomorrow and consult right away.”

She stood from the sofa and pressed the elevator button, telling the scheming group:

“You can all leave now. I’ll keep watch here.”

“What are you saying? Why bring up civil capacity?”

Jin Shenghua, perhaps finally realizing his intentions were laid bare, hurried to cover for himself.

“Dad is just concerned about the company, nothing else. He’s worried it might affect Lionheart’s development.”

“Your filial piety is admirable. If you want to stay here, then stay. Everything’s available here anyway, and we’ll feel at ease knowing you’re here.”

He Wanruo also looked up, saying softly: “If you’re free tomorrow night, come home for dinner.”

“That depends on Grandpa’s condition.”

Jin Yizhu replied neither softly nor harshly, lowering her head:

“If things go smoothly, I’ll come.”

He Wanruo had lived with blinders on for so many years—could she really force her to open her eyes and see the truth of this world?

The bitter fruits sown from her evasion and pursuit of happiness had all fallen on her daughter. Jin Yizhu had no interest in bearing any more.

The four elevators cycled in turn, and within minutes, the waiting area was cleared out completely.

Jin Yizhu called the reception desk downstairs, instructing them to bar everyone except direct relatives from going up. If anyone insisted on visiting, they needed her approval first.

She didn’t want to see a crowd gathered by the bedside anymore, discussing how to carve up Lionheart.

It was… too disgusting.

Jin Yizhu flung herself onto the sofa, feeling dizzy and lightheaded.

Waves of nausea surged up. Only now did she remember she hadn’t eaten all day.

She had rushed to the airport that morning after getting the call.

She caught the first afternoon flight, which had meals, but with everything on her mind, she had no appetite and only nibbled a few nuts and a small vegetable salad.

Now it was past ten at night, and hunger had left her dizzy with low blood sugar symptoms.

The hospital had a cafeteria open twenty-four hours, serving light, nutritious meals that tasted decent. She had eaten them with her grandpa during his previous hospitalization.

Just one call, and it would be delivered upstairs.

The most convenient option.

But she didn’t want to eat.

Jin Yizhu tilted her head back, staring at the warm yellow ceiling lights.

The hospital was built midway up Mid-Levels, with no markets nearby—it was eerily quiet.

Aside from the on-duty doctor’s rustling pages, there were only the ticks of clocks and instruments.

Too quiet, quiet enough to be frightening.

Her stomach twisted in knots, producing a distorted pain.

Like a pair of empty hands clutching it, trying to draw her attention and pull her gaze from that dim yellow light.

…She really wanted beef offal stew.

A steaming hot bowl brimming with rich aroma, held in her hands—the warmth seeping through the bowl to heat her entire palms.

Even more, she wanted someone beside her, smiling as they asked if it was delicious, just like in the TV drama?

Once, someone had taken her through long, winding alleys just to find her a bowl of beef offal stew she had seen in a TV show.

Even though that person didn’t know the way and had to stop every few steps to check the map, they still kept walking with her.

In Hong Kong’s night winds of luxury and dissipation, that person’s smile seemed the only warm color.