Transmigration; Married to My Ex-Fiancé's Uncle

Chapter 472: Chapter 472; Lin Shuyin

Then—

"No."

And it was the truth.

Not because everything had gone as planned. Not because the morning hadn’t been brutal.

But because everything that mattered—her mother, Qiao, the children, this house, this moment—had been secured.

She had not lost them.

That was enough.

Lu Yuze’s hand found hers in the soft dimness.

Not claiming. Not demanding.

Just there.

Steady.

Warm.

She didn’t pull away.

Down the hall—a child laughed softly in sleep, a small, muffled sound that might have been a dream. Another turned in bed, the mattress creaking faintly.

The house breathed around them.

Alive.

Whole.

And for the first time—

Shuyin did not feel like she was standing in the middle of something unfinished.

She was standing at the end of it.

And at the beginning of something else.

Her fingers tightened slightly around his.

He said nothing.

But he didn’t let go.

And in the quiet of that corridor, with the night settling soft and dark beyond the windows, that simple contact felt more like a promise than any words he could have spoken.

---

The next morning arrived heavy.

Not quiet like the day before, when dawn had slipped through silk curtains like a secret. Not warm, with the promise of new beginnings.

But weighed down by something inevitable—the kind of morning that seemed to press against the chest before you even opened your eyes.

The Lu family estate was draped in mourning.

White banners hung from the iron gates, their fabric swaying in a cold, restless wind. Black and white floral arrangements lined the entrance like a procession of ghosts, their petals already wilting at the edges. The air itself seemed thick, clogged with incense smoke and the cloying sweetness of lilies, with the low hum of suppressed grief and the sharper undertone of calculation.

The funeral wake of Lu Zeyan.

Guests had already begun arriving—business partners in dark suits, distant relatives murmuring behind cupped hands, social figures testing the temperature of the room before committing to alliances. Their voices were low, controlled, watchful, as though mourning had become another form of negotiation.

But beneath that surface—judgment simmered.

When the black car stopped at the entrance, attention shifted immediately.

The engine cut. The door opened. And people recognized the vehicle—the discreet luxury, the unmarked plates, the presence that preceded its owner.

They knew who would step out.

Ah Ling opened the door.

Lu Yuze stepped out first.

Impeccable. Cold. Untouchable. His charcoal suit absorbed the gray morning light, his expression carved from stone. He didn’t look left or right. He simply existed—and the world adjusted to him.

Then—

Shuyin followed.

Dressed in black, severe and elegant, the jade silk of yesterday replaced by mourning crepe. Her face was composed, unshaken, the same mask she had worn through prison corridors and boardroom betrayals.

For a split second—

the entire entrance fell silent.

Not respectful silence.

Shocked silence.

Because they stood together.

Not distantly. Not formally. Not as strangers attending the same funeral out of separate obligations.

But as something unmistakable. His shoulder aligned with hers. His hand had touched her back as she stepped out—brief, but deliberate. A claim.

Whispers broke out instantly, sharp as shattered glass.

"She came..."

"With him?"

"Wait... what does that mean?" frёewebnoѵēl.com

"That’s Lu Yuze..."

"And she’s—"

Realization spread like fire through dry timber. Fast. Ugly. Faces twisted—not with grief, but with the hungry pleasure of scandal unfolding.

Inside the hall, the atmosphere was worse.

The altar dominated the far wall—Lu Zeyan’s photograph framed in black, smiling a frozen, youthful smile that no longer belonged to the dead man. Incense smoke curled upward in thick, gray ribbons, stinging the eyes. Wreaths lined the walls, their white ribbons bearing names of families and companies, each one a small political calculation.

Mrs. Lu saw them first.

She had been seated near the altar, supported by her remaining sons, her face pale and ravaged by sleepless nights. But the moment her gaze landed on Shuyin, her grief-stricken expression twisted instantly—

not into sorrow.

Into fury. freewebnøvel.com

She stood up abruptly, her silk mourning dress rustling like a threat, her voice cutting through the hall’s subdued murmur.

"Lin Shuyin!"

The room froze again. All eyes turned—some in shock, some in anticipation, some in barely concealed delight at the drama.

Shuyin did not stop walking.

She approached calmly, her heels clicking against the marble with measured precision. Lu Yuze stayed beside her, unmoved, his expression giving nothing away.

"You dare come here?" Mrs. Lu’s voice trembled—not from weakness, but from rage barely held together, the kind that had been fermenting overnight, fed by grief and the need for someone to blame. "After everything you’ve done?"

Shuyin met her gaze. Her voice was even, controlled, carrying no heat.

"What I’ve done?"

Lu Cheng stepped forward, his face dark, shadows bruising the hollows beneath his eyes. He hadn’t slept either. But his anger was colder than his mother’s, more calculated.

"Don’t pretend," he said sharply. "Zeyan died because of everything that happened around you. The chaos. The investigations. The way you stirred up old wounds—"

Another voice joined—an elder with silver hair and a face that had witnessed too many funerals to be moved easily. "If you hadn’t come back—if you hadn’t stirred everything—would things have escalated like this?"

Murmurs followed. Agreement. Blame. Easy. Convenient. The room was hungry for a villain, and she had walked right into their midst.

Then someone said it outright—a distant cousin, emboldened by the crowd.

"You drove him to his death."

The words landed like a slap. Sharp. Ugly. Deliberate. A few people gasped, but more nodded. The narrative was writing itself in real time.

Mrs. Lu’s voice rose again, cracking with venom.

"And you—" She turned toward Lu Yuze, her grief now weaponized, her finger pointing like a blade. "You stand beside her? Don’t think we don’t understand what this looks like!"

Her eyes burned, red-rimmed and fever-bright.

"You’re happy, aren’t you? Both of you. You’ve been waiting for this. Waiting for him to be gone—waiting to take everything!"