Although Mo Shazhan and his team of officers had held a celebration banquet, the investigation never ceased. The poison in Chen Chaosheng's glass at the time of his suicide had been traced back to its source, though the identity of the purchaser remained unclear for now.
The feng shui master who had once revamped the mansion's fortunes had since fallen from grace. After all, his ties to the Sheng family were now public knowledge. Even without mentioning the other explosive scandals surrounding the Sheng family, the deaths of Sheng Wenchang and Qin Lizhu in the plane crash alone were enough to strip Master Gan of his former prestige.
When the police found him, he was pacing around a shabby apartment, theatrically clutching a compass.
It wasn’t until Uncle Li lost his patience and roared that the compass clattered to the floor, leaving Master Gan frozen in place.
During the subsequent interrogation, he quickly confessed. Everything had been arranged by Second Miss Sheng—he had merely been paid to follow orders.
More crucial, however, were Sheng Peishan’s medical records.
The wealthy family had erased traces of her treatment in Hong Kong, but immigration records were harder to falsify. After the major car accident, Second Miss Sheng had chartered a private flight abroad, returning quietly months later. When this timeline was compared with the property records under Li Fa’s name, the overlap was undeniable.
When the Serious Crimes Unit B team arrived at the Sheng residence again, Sheng Peishan was still seated by the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room, her long skirt pooling around her, her expression serene.
"Miss Sheng Peishan," Mo Zhenbang presented the search warrant. "We need to conduct another search of your residence."
"I won’t answer any questions until my lawyer arrives."
Even as she delivered this firm refusal, Second Miss Sheng’s voice remained gentle.
The servants whispered among themselves.
After the deaths of Old Master Sheng and the second wife, undercurrents of tension had surged through the household. The old man had been prescient—as if anticipating this turmoil, he had decreed that his will could only be read after the hundred-day mourning period. Now, that day was approaching, but the Sheng family was no longer what it once was.
Butler Cui and the other staff didn’t dare ask questions. They stood frozen in place, their faces etched with worry.
If even Second Miss Sheng was implicated, their well-paying jobs would likely be lost.
...
Uncle Li, Zhu Qing, and Hao Zai pushed open Sheng Peishan’s bedroom door.
After Chen Chaosheng’s "suicide out of guilt," the room had already been thoroughly searched.
But now, the police had uncovered something new.
There wasn’t a single trace of Chen Chaosheng’s presence left in the room. Rumors had painted Second Miss Sheng and her husband as inseparable, as close as conjoined twins. Yet after his death, all his clothes and personal belongings had been cleared out and discarded.
"What’s so surprising about that?" Hao Zai said. "After betrayal, it makes sense she’d want to erase any sign of him."
Aunt Liu was Second Miss Sheng’s personal maid.
In wealthy households, the most important rule was keeping one’s mouth shut. She kept her head bowed, fingers twisting the hem of her clothes.
"How much does the Sheng family pay you?" Uncle Li rapped his knuckles against the dressing table. "Including hush money?"
Aunt Liu’s lips trembled, hesitating before she finally spoke as if steeling herself.
"I only started working here after Second Miss’s accident."
She explained that securing this job hadn’t been easy.
Domestic staff in such households had to pass rigorous background checks, with their documents held as collateral. No familial or romantic ties were allowed among the staff—lest they conspire in secret.
"That was the rule set by the old master. Many wealthy families do the same—they don’t trust us."
"Back then, Second Miss would often smash things in fits of rage. The old master ordered us to remove all fragile items from her room."
"Mirrors, anything reflective—anything that could be taken down, was. Second Miss couldn’t bear to see her legs."
"Second Master-in-law would sit by her bedside, reading the newspaper to her for over an hour at a time... I heard the old master began trusting him after that, gradually letting him into the company."
Zhu Qing: "Did Sheng Peirong visit?"
"Of course."
As others had said, the two sisters were extremely close. Sheng Peirong had a calming presence—Second Miss Sheng would obediently finish her medicine whenever her elder sister was around.
"But as time passed, Eldest Miss Sheng visited less and less..." Aunt Liu said. "Later, I found out that the story about her living in Shek O was a lie. She was actually staying at the Canossa Hospital."
Though shrouded in gloom, Sheng Peishan eventually pulled herself together, step by step emerging from the shadows.
Years later, the family finally welcomed a joyous occasion—the birth of Sheng Fang.
"We signed confidentiality agreements. We weren’t allowed to speak of the young master’s existence."
"Since he was still small, it was easy to keep it quiet. The old master planned to host a grand banquet at The Peninsula when he was older, introducing him to society with a hundred tables."
"Second Miss told me it was because of what happened to her niece back then..."
At this, Aunt Liu grew indignant. "But what’s the use now? With everything that’s happened, paparazzi are practically shoving their telephoto lenses into the young master’s room!"
Yesterday, a paparazzo had been spotted near Sheng Fang’s nursery.
And today, his photo had already made the front page.
Aunt Liu handed the newspaper to the officers.
With a rustle, Uncle Li shook out the paper. The headline blared above a large, albeit blurry, paparazzi shot of the young master.
The sensationalist headline was accompanied by a family tree.
He raised an eyebrow. "They even included a relationship chart—more dramatic than a Cantonese soap opera."
"Hide the paper," Zhu Qing said. "Don’t let Sheng Fang see it."
"Too late..." Aunt Liu sighed. "This morning, I saw him carrying it back to his room."
...
A three-and-a-half-year-old should be coddled and cherished, but Sheng Fang’s world consisted only of the empty third-floor hallway, the silent backs of bodyguards, and the chatter of Marysa, the Filipino maid who often couldn’t understand him.
Perhaps the young master didn’t yet grasp the significance of the headlines. He didn’t cry or fuss—just clutched a crayon, doodling on the blurry photo.
With his chubby little hands, he drew a crooked knight’s sword on his left arm and a magical shield on his right, his eyes transformed into Ultraman’s, shooting laser beams.
"Pew pew pew..." Sheng Fang mimicked the sound effects under his breath, amusing himself.
These days, he often curled up by the bay window.
Admiring his artwork, he clamped the stubby crayon between his teeth and pressed the newspaper against the sealed glass, holding it up high.
Zhu Qing’s gaze followed the lonely little figure before suddenly catching the English annotation beneath the family tree.
The ring found on the deceased had been engraved with the initials—
CS.
The police had assumed it stood for Chen Chaosheng.
Chanchiuseng.
But in truth, Sheng Peishan’s English name was Cassandra.
Cassandra Sing.
...
No sooner had Sheng Peishan been taken to the station than Inspector Weng Zhaolin kicked open Mo Zhenbang’s office door.
When Mo Shazhan bypassed the chain of command to secure that emergency search warrant, everyone knew this moment was inevitable.
The young officers had no idea what went down in the office, but the deafening slam of a desk made the entire room hold their breath.
Outside, Uncle Li shook his head. "He’s staking his badge on this again."
It wasn’t the first time. Whenever Mo Shazhan dug his heels in, resignation was his bargaining chip.
As Inspector Weng Zhaolin stormed out, he spun back around, still seething—
"What, your wife and kids don’t need you home for dinner? Should I put you in for a bloody medal?"
The investigation pressed on relentlessly.
By 2 p.m., Hao Zai and Little Sun burst in, gasping for air, clutching a stack of documents.
"Those certificates… we traced them!" Hao Zai panted. "Professor Cheng funded He Jia’er’s education years ago!"
The air turned to ice.
If that notebook in Sheng Peirong’s hands a decade ago really came from He Jia’er… why?
For a moment, Zhu Qing could almost hear He Jia’er’s roommate murmuring in her memory.
"Speaking up for the voiceless…" she mused.
Back then, He Jia’er had been investigating the deaths of Sheng Peirong and Professor Cheng’s daughter.
Just then, Mo Shazhan’s pager buzzed.
He grabbed the receiver to call back, and the informant’s voice rasped through the line:
"That old business… it’s murky as hell."
"Sheng Peirong and Cheng Zhaoqian’s daughter… might not even be dead."
