Cursed by Ancient Love, Redeemed by Modern Hearts

The morning sun sliced through the tinted windows of Zhang Industries, painting golden streaks over the polished mahogany desk.

Zhang Wei hated mornings.

Not because he was tired—he rarely allowed himself the luxury of exhaustion—but because mornings meant facing the aftermath of the previous night.

His suit jacket was still slung over the chair from when he'd returned at dawn, reeking faintly of cologne and high-end liquor. He didn't drink, but that hadn't stopped last night's investors from trying to shove glass after glass into his hands.

Wei scoffed, leaning back in his chair.

"Come on, just one drink, Zhang! Don't be so stiff."

"Wei, you're a beast in business but no fun at all."

"We have to celebrate—what kind of host turns down a toast?"

Pathetic.

He had mastered the art of dodging their nonsense with a well-placed smirk and a raise of an untouched glass, but the club photographers had not been as easily avoided.

His temples pulsed slightly at the memory of flashbulbs going off, the smell of smoke, the heat of bodies pressed too close.

He'd have to deal with that.

His fingers drummed against the desk as he made a mental note. Contact the photographers. Pay them to withhold the images, or— no, he wouldn't throw money at something that could be solved with a simple request.

Some things weren't about money. Some things were about power.

The soft knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

Feng entered with a steaming cup of coffee and a folder tucked under his arm.

"Rough night?" his assistant asked dryly, setting the coffee down.

Wei raised an eyebrow. "Would've been worse if I actually drank." He took a slow sip. "Tell me you have something more interesting than last night's idiots."

Feng placed the folder in front of him. "Liang family report. Everything you asked for."

Wei flipped it open, scanning the pages with the sharp gaze of a predator evaluating prey. Liang Xinyi. CEO of Liang Steel Industries. Heiress to one of the most powerful business empires in the country. Ruthless, efficient, notoriously difficult to manipulate.

His eyes flicked to her photo—a professional shot from a business magazine.

Dark eyes, sharp and assessing. A woman used to winning.

Interesting.

He turned the page.

Then—he stopped.

His fingers hovered over the next document, his smirk fading.

The words "Factory Incident – Unexplained Worker Collapse" stared back at him.

Feng, as if sensing his reaction, took a measured breath. "The Liangs had a worker collapse under strange circumstances two days ago."

Wei's grip on the paper tightened.

"You're telling me they had a factory incident… at the same time as ours?"

Feng nodded. "That's correct."

Silence filled the office, stretching like a taut wire.

Wei's mind churned. This was not coincidence.

"Was it publicized?" he asked, voice sharp.

"Not initially. Their HR tried to contain it, but the worker's family went to the press. It's starting to pick up traction."

Wei exhaled slowly, tapping his fingers against the folder.

The Liang family. The curse. The rumors.

It was too much, too fast.

Feng cleared his throat. "There's… something else."

Wei looked up, watching as Feng placed a separate document on the desk.

"What's this?" Wei asked, flipping it open.

"A report from one of my contacts—unofficial. The worker's family didn't say much to the press, but privately, the brother mentioned something."

Wei skimmed the notes.

Then, he froze.

Shadows.

The worker claimed he had seen shadows before collapsing.

Wei's fingers stilled on the page.

"A hallucination?" he asked, keeping his tone even.

"Likely. The doctors explained it away as pre-syncope vision distortion—the brain misfiring before a person faints."

Wei didn't reply.

He couldn't.

Because he had heard this before.

His father, sick and delirious, whispering about shadows watching him.

He shut the folder with a quiet snap. "Send someone to monitor the media coverage. I want to know if this incident escalates."

Feng nodded.

Wei took another sip of coffee, gaze drifting to Liang Xinyi's name on the report.

If the Liangs were involved in this mess, it meant only one thing.

Their paths were going to cross soon.

And Zhang Wei never entered a game unless he intended to win.

...

The Next Move

As soon as Feng left, Wei reached for his phone.

He pressed a number, and within two rings, a voice answered. "Mr. Zhang?"

"Qian," Wei said, voice smooth. "I have two tasks for you."

His second secretary, Qian, was the type of man who handled problems quietly—one of the few people Wei trusted to deal with sensitive matters.

"First," Wei continued, leaning back into his chair, "find out which photographers were at last night's event. Contact them directly. I don't care if you pay them, threaten them, or reason with them—I don't want those pictures published."

Qian hummed in understanding. "Understood. And the second?"

Wei glanced at the folder still open on his desk.

"The factory incident," he said coolly. "Get me the latest full report. I want to know exactly what happened—not just what was leaked to the press."

He hesitated for a brief moment before adding, "And arrange a meeting. With the worker who collapsed—and his family."

This time, Qian paused. "…In person?"

Wei's lips curved slightly. "Yes. I want to see them for myself."

Some things couldn't be understood from reports.

And if there was something hidden beneath this mess, Zhang Wei intended to find it himself.