Chapter 216
The Zhao patriarch rarely lowered himself to beg, but today, as he sat behind his polished mahogany desk, staring at the empty glass in his hand, he felt the sharp sting of desperation.
The sun was dipping behind the skyline, painting the room in a dull, dying gold. The empire he’d spent decades fortifying was unraveling thread by thread.
Lucien Feng’s name was on every headline.
Serena Lin’s takeover of Zhao Group was the biggest shock of the quarter.
And his son, the fool who had started it all, had become a walking scandal.
With a sharp exhale, Mr. Zhao set down the glass and reached for his phone. There was one card left to play.
Arabelle Weng.
She had promised support, whispered alliance in the dark weeks ago. Her words had dripped like honey: “If you can weaken the Fengs’ image, I’ll make sure the Zhaos are backed by the Wengs.”
He’d done what she’d asked.
The rumors about Meilin had spread exactly as planned.
Lucien’s name had been dragged through the mud. Serena’s trust had been shaken.
And yet, somehow, instead of the Fengs breaking, the Lin girl had tightened her hold, and the Zhao empire had shattered instead.
He dialed Arabelle’s number, jaw clenched.
It rang once. Twice.
Then, her voice, smooth, melodic, and laced with disdain.
“Mr. Zhao. How… unexpected.”
He ignored the tone. “Miss Weng,” he began stiffly, “we need to talk. About the arrangement you proposed. You said if we...”
“I remember what I said,” Arabelle interrupted, her voice cool and unhurried. “But what I didn’t say was that I make deals with failures.”
His brows furrowed. “Failures?”
“Yes,” she said lightly. “Your company’s in shambles. Your stock is plummeting. Your son is being accused of pushing a woman down the stairs and faking a pregnancy scandal. Tell me, Mr. Zhao…” Her voice lowered, mocking. “…what exactly would I be investing in? Pity?”
He gritted his teeth. “Watch your tone, Miss Weng. You asked me to spread that damn rumor about Meilin and Feng, and I did. It didn’t work, but I kept my end. You owe me...”
“I owe you nothing,” Arabelle cut in sharply, her amusement gone. “You overplayed your hand, Mr. Zhao. You involved amateurs, and now everyone knows Serena Lin owns half your empire. You didn’t ruin Lucien, you handed him a gift.”
He stood, fury boiling through him. “You little...”
“I’d be careful how you speak,” she drawled, the smirk audible through the line. “You’re drowning. The Weng Group doesn’t save sinking ships, we buy them for scrap.”
He fell silent. His pulse roared in his ears.
She continued, smooth as silk, cruel as ice. “If I were you, I’d tell your son to crawl back to Serena Lin. Maybe if he’s lucky, she’ll let you keep the Zhao name as a museum exhibit.”
The call ended with a soft click.
Mr. Zhao stood frozen, his hand still gripping the phone, the weight of her mockery settling deep in his bones.
His reflection stared back at him from the window, an old man who’d once believed he could outplay the new generation.
But Arabelle’s words echoed like a curse. “We buy them for scrap.”
He slammed the phone down with a growl, the sound splitting through the office.
For the first time in his career, he couldn’t think of a way out.
The empire was bleeding.
The sharks were circling.
And the woman he’d trusted to help him, was sharpening her knife for what little remained.
Arabelle Weng leaned back in her velvet chair, one manicured finger tracing the rim of her wine glass.
The call with Mr. Zhao had ended minutes ago, yet the sour taste of his desperation still clung to her mood.
“Pathetic old fool,” she muttered under her breath, lips curling in disgust. “He thought he could still play in a league he doesn’t even belong to.”
Her penthouse was bathed in the amber glow of late morning sunlight, spilling across the marble floor and glinting off her gold bangles. The silence was broken only by the distant hum of the city below and the soft shuffle of servants trying to move quietly, which only irritated her more.
She snapped her fingers. “You. The curtains, draw them. I can’t stand the glare.”
The maid nearest to her hurried forward, trembling as she obeyed.
Arabelle’s eyes, sharp, feline, and glacial, followed her every move. When the sunlight dimmed and the room fell into a soft, shadowy calm, she sighed and swirled her wine lazily.
“The Zhaos,” she said, almost to herself. “Once so proud, now begging like dogs. How amusing.”
She tilted her head, her glossy black hair cascading over one shoulder.
Her silk robe slipped slightly, revealing the glittering chain at her throat, a quiet reminder of her power. “They really thought I’d save them after that disaster of a scandal. The moment they let that little Lin girl into their boardroom, their fate was sealed.”
Another maid approached cautiously, carrying a silver tray with fresh fruit. “Miss Weng, would you like...”
Arabelle cut her off with a sharp wave. “I said I don’t want anything sweet this morning. Do you people listen, or do I need to start replacing staff again?”
The maid bowed quickly and backed away.
“Useless,” Arabelle muttered coldly, sipping her wine instead.
For a moment, her reflection caught her eye, poised, immaculate, untouchable. Yet behind her composed exterior, a flicker of irritation burned.
Lucien Feng’s name lingered in her mind like a thorn.
He was supposed to be finished.
Ruined.
She had promised the Zhaos a shared victory, only because it suited her. And yet somehow, the plan had backfired, leaving the Lins and Fengs standing taller than ever.
It wasn’t failure that angered her. It was disrespect.
“Lucien Feng…” she whispered, the name rolling off her tongue like venom. “You think you’ve won because of that little Lin girl? Because you bought Zhao’s company out from under them?”
Her eyes hardened, the wine glass clinking as she set it down.
“Enjoy your little triumph while it lasts,” she murmured. “When I decide to move, there won’t even be ashes left.”