Chapter 293: The Cord

Runze’s POV

The nursery is the only room in this house where I can work and watch her at the same time.

My study is out of the question now that she can crawl. Too many low shelves, too many things at her level that would take nothing to pull down. So I moved my laptop in here last week, set it on the low desk near the window, and rearranged my whole workflow around the play mat.

It isn’t a hardship.

I adjust the cuffs of my cream V-neck, leaning back against the wooden chair. It feels good to wear my tailored trousers again without feeling constricted. For months during the pregnancy, everything I wore had to be wide and loose, but my body has finally settled back to its usual frame.

On the screen, the project files for a new build are ready. I finish selecting the material grades, attach the product codes, and compose a quick message to Meng Tai so he can place the order with the supplier.

While the file loads, I lean back and look down at Siying.

She is sitting in the middle of the mat surrounded by more toys than any one child needs. Bears, blocks, plush rings, rubber keys, a soft ball she keeps ignoring in favor of everything else. When Bael and I were preparing this nursery, we bought everything we saw. Looking at the mat now, I think we may have slightly overdone it.

Siying abandons a red bear near her shoe and tries to pull herself upright. One small hand presses against the mat while the other reaches for a plush ring lying just beyond her fingers. She manages to lift her upper body an inch off the floor before dropping back onto her bottom. Apparently unbothered by the failure, she reaches for the ring again.

“You’re getting too ambitious,” I tell her with a small smile. “At least learn to stand properly before you start climbing everything in sight.”

She answers with a string of babbles that could mean anything, grabs the ring, and shoves one end straight into her mouth.

I send the email and close the window.

While the laptop display refreshes, my thoughts drift back to breakfast this morning.

I watched Grandmother come down the main staircase with her hand pressed firm against the rail. She used to come down with one hand trailing lightly over the wood, barely touching it for balance. This morning her fingers were wrapped tightly around the edge, her knuckles showing slightly as she took each step with deliberate care. Even later, at the table, after her tea was finished, she stayed seated longer than usual, her palms resting flat in her lap, her eyes fixed on a spot somewhere past the courtyard window.

She spoke in her usual firm tone when Mrs. Wen brought the breakfast tray, and she didn’t leave anything on her plate. But I noticed.

A small, unhappy sound comes from the mat.

Siying drops the ring, her hand coming up to rub at her mouth. Her face goes pink, her eyes growing watery as she presses her small fingers against her upper gum where another tooth has been working its way through for three days.

“Is it your teeth again?” I say, getting up from the chair.

She opens her mouth in a small cry and reaches up toward me. I drop to my knees on the mat to check her gums, but the soreness makes her fuss against my fingers, turning her head away with a miserable whine.

I check the small tray on the side of the low desk for the teething gel, but it isn’t there. I left it on the dresser in our bedroom after her morning bath.

Our room is down the hall. Twenty steps, maybe less.

“It’s all right, sweetheart,” I tell her softly, smoothing her fine hair away from her forehead. “Stay right there. I’ll be right back.”

She is sitting safely in the center of the mat with toys spread on every side. The desk is behind her. The black charger cord from my laptop runs along the back edge of the wood and down toward the wall outlet near the floor. She has never shown any interest in the cord.

I turn around and walk out.

Our bedroom door is open. I cross to the dresser, pick up the small tube from beside the mirror, and turn back around. The whole trip takes maybe thirty seconds.

I am halfway down the hall when I hear it.

A hard, flat crash.

And then immediately after, a sound that goes straight through me—Siying screaming, not the frustrated cry of a hungry baby or the tired wail before sleep, but something high and raw and terrified, the kind of sound she has never made before in her life.

“Siying!”

I don’t remember moving.

I am through the nursery door and on my knees on the mat, and I don’t know how I got there. The laptop is on the floor at the edge of the mat, face down, the screen black, the casing split open at one corner. The cord is still attached, pulled taut from the wall outlet where she must have yanked it to stand up.

Siying is sitting two inches from the broken machine.

Her arms are straight up, reaching for me, her whole small body shaking, her face soaked with tears, her mouth open in a desperate sob.

“Baba!” she screams, her breath hitching wildly. “Ba-ba!”

I pull her into my chest so fast that she startles, her cry breaking into a gasping hiccup. Her tiny hands immediately clutch at the neckline of my cream top, her face pressing hard into the curve of my neck while her entire frame trembles against me. I can feel her heart going too fast against my ribs, hammering like a frightened bird.

“I’m here,” I say, but my voice comes out entirely wrong, choked and thin. “I’m here, I’ve got you.”

My hands are shaking violently. I realize it when I press them against her back and I can’t make them stop. I press my face into her hair, breathing in the scent of her skin, feeling the warm weight of her body pressed against mine. The horror of what could have happened hits me all at once. My throat tightens past the point where I can hold anything back.

I cry without deciding to.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper into her hair, my voice cracking completely as tears spill over my eyelashes and run down my face. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left. I should have stayed right here. I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t understand what I’m saying. She just holds on, her little fingers hooked tightly into the fabric of my top as if she is terrified to let go.

A soft sound near the doorway. Mrs. Wen steps into the room, her slippers silent on the floor, and comes to kneel beside me on the mat. Her hand settles on my shoulder, firm and steadying.

“Young Master,” she says quietly, her voice calm. “Look at her.”

I can’t look up. I keep my face buried against Siying’s neck, holding her tight while my chest heaves.

“She is not hurt,” Mrs. Wen says again, her hand giving my shoulder a small squeeze. “Look at her, Young Master.”

I pull back just enough to see her. Siying’s face is wet and flushed, her eyes still glassy from crying, but her breathing is already finding its way back to something even. She looks up at me through her wet eyelashes, letting out a small, shuddering breath, and reaches up to pat my cheek with one small damp hand.

I press my face against her palm and close my eyes again, choking back another sob.

Behind us, I hear a maid come into the nursery quietly, followed by the soft sound of the broken laptop being gathered from the floor. I don’t turn around to look at it. The screen is shattered, the files are probably gone, and I cannot bring myself to care about any of it.

Mrs. Wen’s hand stays on my shoulder while the room settles into silence.

Siying’s breathing grows slow and heavy against my chest. The crying has worn her out completely, her little grip on the neckline of my top slowly loosening as she tips toward sleep. I shift her slightly higher, supporting her head with one hand while keeping my other arm wrapped securely around her back.

Every small movement of her small ribs against mine reminds me of how close it was. I trace the soft curve of her cheek with my thumb, verifying again that there isn’t a single scratch, but the cold knot in my stomach refuses to ease.

I stay exactly where I am on the floor, sitting on the edge of the mat in the quiet nursery, holding my sleeping daughter tight against my chest.

My hands are still shaking.