Lu Manman stares at the screen, a knot tightening in her stomach. The previous day's failure with Li Ming still stings, a bitter reminder that money alone is a blunt instrument. She sits in what the original Mrs. Lu called her ‘study’, though it looks more like a museum of forgotten aspirations. Dust motes dance in the sunlight slicing through the tall, arched window, illuminating stacks of untouched books and a mahogany desk large enough to land a small plane.
She pulls up the children's educational records, a task she’d avoided. The numbers flash, a dizzying array of zeroes. Li Cuan’s tuition for the prestigious Blackwood Academy alone could fund a small country. Private tutors for Mandarin, advanced calculus, classical piano, fencing lessons – each line item demands an exorbitant sum. Li Ming, barely a toddler, has a dedicated ‘sensory play specialist’ whose hourly rate makes Manman’s eyes widen. Li Wei, even younger, has a personal etiquette coach and a fashion consultant.
“Ridiculous,” she mutters, the word a sharp exhale. The previous Lu Manman had clearly thought throwing money at a problem made it disappear. It hadn't bought affection. It hadn't bought connection. It had bought terrified silence and a broken toy robot.
Her finger traces the gleaming desktop. All this wealth, all these resources, yet the children are still set on paths to ruin. The system had explicitly told her that 'inefficient emotional expenditure' yields no points. She sees it now, starkly, in these absurd invoices. A child doesn't need a diamond-encrusted abacus to learn math. They need a parent.
She scrolls further, looking for anything that might hint at a different strategy, something beyond the sheer, unthinking profligacy. The accounts are meticulously detailed for the children’s expenses, almost aggressively so, as if to prove how much was spent. Yet, beneath the surface of this opulent waste, an unsettling sense of hollowness persists. The sheer volume of spending feels like a shield, designed to hide something.
---
Lu Manman shifts her focus from the children's specific ledgers to the original Mrs. Lu's overall bank statements. She needs to understand the full financial landscape. The sheer scale of the family's assets is staggering, an endless ocean of digits. She navigates through accounts, her corporate instincts kicking in, searching for anomalies, for anything that doesn't fit the pattern of ostentatious wealth management.
Most transactions are what she expects: luxury goods, high-end travel, maintenance for the mansion, staff salaries. Then, she finds them. A series of withdrawals, large and recurring, stand out like jagged rocks in a calm sea. They are not tied to any obvious household expense. Not a new designer wardrobe, not a charity gala donation, not even a speculative investment in some obscure art piece.
Each withdrawal is a substantial sum, typically occurring on the same day of the month. The recipient is listed vaguely as ‘Private Transfer’ or ‘Cash Withdrawal – Unspecified Purpose’. Her brow furrows. This is not how someone with unlimited funds, or even just immense wealth, typically operates. There is a discreet account, hidden several layers deep within the larger family trust, that acts as a conduit. Money flows out of it, disappearing into an untraceable digital ether.
She tries to follow the breadcrumbs, but the trail goes cold every time. Shell companies, anonymous digital wallets, offshore accounts that vanish as quickly as they appear. It's sophisticated, almost professional, far beyond the casual negligence she initially attributed to the original Lu Manman. This isn’t someone carelessly throwing money away. This is someone deliberately hiding where the money goes, and why. A cold dread begins to trickle into her veins. This is not just about a negligent mother. This is about something far darker.
---
Driven by a sudden, intense suspicion, Lu Manman begins to cross-reference the dates of these mysterious withdrawals. She opens a separate window on her tablet, pulling up a digital archive of household incident reports, a meticulous record Old Wang had kept throughout the years. The previous Mrs. Lu rarely bothered with them, but they are gold now.
The first hidden transfer date blinks at her: October 14th. She scrolls through the incident log for that month. October 17th: “Master Li Cuan sustained minor injuries during an unexplained fall on the academy grounds. Incident report filed, no disciplinary action taken.” Manman’s breath catches. An unexplained fall? Li Cuan, the future ruthless CEO, was already incredibly sharp and resilient even as a child. A simple fall seems… convenient.
She checks the next withdrawal date. March 3rd. March 5th: “Young Master Li Ming experienced sudden, severe respiratory distress. Hospitalised overnight. Cause undetermined.” A baby, rushed to the hospital, no cause found. It's a chill that runs down her spine. The two-day gap between the transfer and the incident. Too close to be random.
Then, July 21st. July 23rd: “Miss Li Wei's reputation suffered due to false rumours spread online regarding her participation in a prestigious children’s talent show. Parents expressed concerns, but the matter was quickly suppressed.” A socialite’s reputation, tarnished even as a child, only to be hastily covered up. The pieces click together with a sickening crunch. These aren't just coincidences. This isn't just bad luck. It feels orchestrated.
The original Lu Manman wasn’t merely negligent. She was involved. Involved in something that consistently brought misfortune to her own children, and then, inexplicably, she made large, untraceable payments shortly before or after these incidents. The picture forming in Lu Manman’s mind is far more disturbing than a simple neglectful socialite. It’s a shadow she hadn’t anticipated, a deeper conspiracy lurking beneath the surface of the novel's predetermined plot.
---
Lu Manman closes the laptop, the screen reflecting her taut face. She needs answers. There is only one person in this house who might know something, who has been here long enough to witness it all. She presses the intercom button on her desk. “Old Wang. Please come to the study.”
Minutes later, the butler appears, his back ramrod straight, his eyes still holding that familiar, deep-seated fear whenever he is in her presence. He stands respectfully, hands clasped behind his back. “Yes, Mrs. Lu?”
She gestures to the empty chair opposite her, a sharp, uncharacteristic movement. He hesitates, then slowly takes the seat, perched on its edge as if ready to flee. Lu Manman slides her tablet across the desk, open to the page displaying the mysterious transactions. “Old Wang,” she says, her voice low, “can you explain these recurring withdrawals? They’re not listed under any household budget, nor any of the children’s expenses.”
Old Wang’s gaze flickers to the screen, and she sees the subtle tremor in his hands, the quick dart of his eyes away from hers. A thin sheen of sweat appears on his forehead. “Ah, Mrs. Lu… those are… those are matters of your personal discretion. I am merely the household manager. It is not my place to inquire into such… private affairs.” His voice is a thin reedy whisper, barely audible.
“These aren’t ‘private affairs’ when they involve significant sums leaving family accounts with no clear destination,” Lu Manman presses, her corporate training kicking in. “I see no record of what these funds were used for. Do you have any insight?” She fixes him with a stare, trying to pierce through his practiced deference. He knows something. His terror is too profound to be mere ignorance.
“No, Mrs. Lu. I… I do not recall the details,” he stammered, his gaze glued to the expensive rug beneath his feet. “Such matters were handled by your… personal accountant. I simply executed the instructions given.” He looks up, his eyes wide and pleading. “I assure you, everything was done according to proper procedure.” It’s a deflection, a clear attempt to shut down the conversation. She sees the fear, the genuine terror, of a man who knows too much and is desperate to protect himself. He offers nothing, but his silence speaks volumes. He is a terrified witness.
---
Old Wang retreats, leaving the study door to click shut behind him with a soft thud. The silence that follows is heavy, charged with the butler’s unspoken dread. Lu Manman leans back in her chair, a new kind of resolve hardening her features. It wasn't just negligence. It was something actively harmful, something insidious, tied to the very misfortunes the children were destined to face.
The original Mrs. Lu wasn't just a bad mother. She was a pawn, or perhaps a perpetrator, in a larger game. Lu Manman clutches the tablet, its cool metal a stark contrast to the burning suspicion in her gut. She had thought the enemy was merely the 'original plot' and her own emotional detachment. Now, a more tangible, more immediate threat emerges from the shadows of this opulent mansion.
She rises, moving to the window, gazing out at the meticulously manicured gardens, the towering hedges that seem to wall off this world from the outside. The pristine beauty now feels like a facade, a thin veil over something rotten. Her fear of failure, her core wound, shifts its focus. It's not just about saving her children from their fates; it's about uncovering the truth behind those fates. She is no longer just playing a system; she is hunting a ghost.
A faint, almost imperceptible tremor runs through the mansion, a deep, resonant hum that vibrates through the very soles of her feet. It lasts only a second, a fleeting disturbance in the grand, silent house. Then, from the very walls themselves, a distant, chilling whisper seems to echo, swirling around her, a voice she does not recognise, ancient and cold: “The threads are tightening, little pawn.”