The Jade Pendant Mystery
Quinn Carter, falsely accused of theft and humiliated by his ex-wife's family, plays a romantic piece for Miss Luke, sparking a confrontation. During the altercation, Mr. Carter notices Quinn's jade pendant, which resembles one belonging to his son, hinting at a possible hidden connection between Quinn and the wealthy Carter family.Is Quinn Carter actually the long-lost heir to the Carter fortune?
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Divorced, but a Tycoon: When the Red Carpet Became a Battlefield of Unspoken Vows
There’s a particular kind of silence that falls when a man kneels—not in proposal, not in prayer, but in *reclamation*. On the red carpet of the Grand Celestial Gala, that silence stretched like taut wire between Lin Zeyu, Shen Yuxi, and the ghost of their marriage. Lin Zeyu, in his grey double-breasted suit, didn’t stumble. He didn’t flinch. He lowered himself with the grace of a man accustomed to commanding boardrooms, not begging on velvet. His target? A jade pendant, half-hidden beneath the pink ostrich feathers of Shen Yuxi’s gown—a gown she’d chosen deliberately, they’d later learn, because it was the same one she wore the night Lin Zeyu walked out of their penthouse, briefcase in hand, saying only, *‘The deal closes tomorrow. I’ll call you.’* He never did. Not until tonight. But let’s not mistake this for sentimentality. Divorced, but a Tycoon is not a romance—it’s a psychological thriller dressed in couture. Every stitch, every accessory, every micro-expression carries weight. Take Chen Rui’s brooch: a cascade of diamonds shaped like falling teardrops, centered with a single sapphire. Elegant. Expensive. And identical in design to the one Lin Zeyu wore on their wedding day—except Lin Zeyu’s had been a gift from Shen Yuxi’s father, engraved with *‘For the man who holds her heart.’* Chen Rui’s? Unmarked. Generic. A copy. A provocation. When Lin Zeyu rose, the pendant now resting in his palm like a verdict, Chen Rui didn’t reach for it. He touched his own chest, over the brooch, and smiled—a slow, deliberate tilt of the lips that said, *I know you see it. And I know you remember.* Shen Yuxi’s reaction was the true masterpiece. She didn’t gasp. Didn’t cry. She *studied* Lin Zeyu’s hands—the way his knuckles whitened as he held the pendant, the faint scar on his left thumb (from the time he tried to fix her broken necklace with pliers), the expensive watch that ticked louder than the orchestra in the background. Her eyes, sharp as cut glass, missed nothing. And when Director Fang stepped forward, his expression unreadable but his posture radiating authority, she didn’t look at him. She looked at Lin Zeyu’s *feet*. Specifically, at the scuff on the toe of his left shoe—the same scuff from the night he ran through the rain to return her forgotten passport. He’d never explained why he’d come back. Tonight, the pendant was his explanation. The real twist? The pendant wasn’t just sentimental. It was *functional*. Hidden within its hollow core was a micro-SD card—encrypted, password-protected, containing the original draft of the merger agreement between Lin Group and Li Holdings. The one that Shen Yuxi had refused to sign, citing ethical concerns about labor practices. Lin Zeyu had taken it, not to hide evidence, but to protect her. To give her time. To let her believe she’d won the moral high ground—while he absorbed the fallout, the boardroom mutiny, the media crucifixion. Divorced, but a Tycoon isn’t about wealth. It’s about sacrifice disguised as betrayal. And tonight, on that red carpet, Lin Zeyu wasn’t asking for forgiveness. He was offering her the truth—and the power to decide whether to use it. Watch how the supporting cast reacts. Li Meiling, Shen Yuxi’s friend, grips her arm—not to comfort, but to *restrain*. Her eyes dart to Chen Rui, then to the security cameras mounted near the ceiling. She knows something. She’s been feeding Shen Yuxi fragments of information for months, carefully curated, designed to keep her angry, distant, *safe*. Because if Shen Yuxi knew the full story—the offshore accounts Lin Zeyu set up in her name, the whistleblower fund he seeded anonymously, the fact that he’d quietly bought back the shares she’d forfeited in the divorce—she might forgive him. And forgiveness, in their world, is the most destabilizing force of all. Then there’s Lin Zehao. Silent. Observant. He doesn’t move toward the center of the drama. He stands near the champagne fountain, swirling a glass of vintage Dom Pérignon, his gaze fixed on the pendant. He’s the only one who knows Lin Zeyu rehearsed this moment. Not the kneeling—Lin Zeyu is too proud for that—but the *timing*. The exact second the spotlight hit Shen Yuxi’s gown, the precise angle that would catch the pendant’s glint, the way the music swelled just as Lin Zeyu’s fingers brushed the cord. This wasn’t spontaneity. It was choreography. A performance for an audience of one: Shen Yuxi. And the rest of them? Just extras in a scene written long ago, in the margins of a divorce decree no one ever read aloud. The climax isn’t loud. It’s quiet. Shen Yuxi takes a step forward. Not toward Lin Zeyu. Not toward Chen Rui. Toward the pendant. She doesn’t take it. Instead, she lifts her chin and says, voice carrying across the hushed hall: *‘You kept it. But you never sent the file.’* Lin Zeyu’s breath catches. Chen Rui’s smile vanishes. Director Fang’s jaw tightens. Because she’s right. He *did* keep the pendant. But he never uploaded the SD card. He’d been waiting—for her to ask. For her to prove she still cared enough to demand the truth. And now, with the entire elite of the city watching, she had. What happens next? The video cuts. But we know. We *feel* it. Shen Yuxi will take the pendant. Not because she forgives him. Not because she wants him back. But because she refuses to let anyone else—least of all Chen Rui, with his borrowed brooch and his convenient timing—control the narrative of her life. Divorced, but a Tycoon isn’t about reconciliation. It’s about agency. About a woman who, after being written off as the scorned ex-wife, walks onto the red carpet and reclaims not just a trinket, but her own story. And Lin Zeyu? He’ll stand beside her, not as husband, not as tycoon—but as the man who finally stopped hiding behind deals, and started showing up. Bare-handed. On his knees. With the truth, heavy as jade, in his palms.
Divorced, but a Tycoon: The Jade Pendant That Shattered the Red Carpet
Let’s talk about what *really* happened on that red carpet—not the glitter, not the designer gowns, but the quiet tremor that rippled through the crowd when Lin Zeyu dropped to his knees. Not in surrender. Not in apology. In *retrieval*. A jade pendant, pale as moonlight and threaded with black cord, slipped from the sleeve of Shen Yuxi’s feather-trimmed gown—just as she turned away from him, her silver sequins catching the chandeliers like scattered stars. The moment froze. Cameras clicked. Guests leaned forward. And Lin Zeyu, in his impeccably tailored grey three-piece suit, didn’t hesitate. He went down—not dramatically, not for show—but with the precision of someone who knows exactly where every object belongs in his world. Even if that object is now in the hands of another man. That other man? Chen Rui. Blue velvet tuxedo, diamond brooch pinned like a challenge over his black silk cravat, eyes wide not with shock but with dawning realization. Because he *recognized* the pendant. Not just its craftsmanship—the subtle floral engraving, the single amber bead at its base—but its history. It was gifted by Shen Yuxi’s late mother, worn only on the night of her engagement to Lin Zeyu, before the divorce papers were signed, before the public scandal, before the whispered rumors that Lin Zeyu had ‘abandoned’ her for a merger deal with the Li Group. Divorced, but a Tycoon isn’t just a title; it’s a paradox wrapped in silk and silence. Lin Zeyu didn’t walk away from power—he *restructured* it. And yet, here he was, kneeling on crimson pile, fingers brushing the same fabric that once draped the woman he still calls ‘my wife’ in private, even if the courts say otherwise. The tension wasn’t just between them. Watch Shen Yuxi’s expression shift—from icy detachment to startled concern, then to something far more dangerous: recognition. Her lips parted, not to speak, but to inhale. She knew what that pendant meant. It wasn’t just jewelry. It was a key. A key to the vault where their shared past was locked, labeled ‘Do Not Open Until You’re Ready.’ And Lin Zeyu, ever the strategist, had just picked the lock in front of fifty witnesses. His hands, steady despite the tremor in his jaw, untied the knot with practiced ease. No fumbling. No hesitation. This wasn’t improvisation. This was *planned*. The way he held the pendant afterward—palms up, as if offering it back to fate—wasn’t submission. It was a declaration: *I still carry what you left behind.* Then came the older man—Director Fang, the one in the navy suit and blue floral tie, whose eyebrows knitted like storm clouds gathering over a financial district. He didn’t shout. He didn’t intervene. He simply stepped forward, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed on Lin Zeyu’s hands. And in that silence, the real drama unfolded. Because Director Fang wasn’t just a guest. He was the executor of the prenuptial agreement. The man who’d overseen the asset division. The one who’d handed Shen Yuxi the deed to the coastal villa—and the pendant, by oversight, remained with Lin Zeyu. Or so everyone thought. But the pendant wasn’t listed. It was never *transferred*. Which meant, legally, it still belonged to *her*. And Lin Zeyu, holding it now, wasn’t returning it. He was *presenting* evidence. Evidence that the divorce wasn’t clean. That some things—sentimental, symbolic, irreplaceable—couldn’t be quantified in clauses or notarized in triplicate. Chen Rui’s reaction was masterful. At first, he looked amused—like a cat watching a mouse try to outsmart the trap. Then, as Lin Zeyu rose, the pendant dangling between his fingers, Chen Rui’s smile faltered. He touched his own lapel, where a similar brooch—though less ornate—had been pinned earlier. A coincidence? Or a signal? The camera lingered on his wristwatch: a Patek Philippe Calatrava, engraved with initials that matched Shen Yuxi’s childhood nickname. Suddenly, the narrative shifted. Was Chen Rui merely the charming suitor? Or was he the architect of this entire scene—having *known* the pendant would surface, having *encouraged* Shen Yuxi to wear that specific gown, with its loose sleeves and hidden pockets? Divorced, but a Tycoon thrives on misdirection. Every character here is playing chess while pretending to dance. And Shen Yuxi? She didn’t take the pendant. Not yet. She watched Lin Zeyu’s face—the slight tightening around his eyes, the way his thumb rubbed the edge of the jade, as if soothing a wound. She remembered the night he gave it to her: rain lashing the penthouse windows, him kneeling then too, not on carpet but on marble, whispering, *‘This is yours, even if I’m not.’* She’d laughed, thinking it poetic. Now, standing under the crystal chandelier of the Grand Celestial Hotel, surrounded by people who knew only headlines, she understood. He hadn’t given it to her. He’d *entrusted* it. And today, he was reclaiming that trust—not for himself, but to force her to choose. Again. The crowd murmured. A young woman in a blush-pink sequined dress—Li Meiling, Shen Yuxi’s closest friend—leaned in, whispering something that made Shen Yuxi’s shoulders stiffen. Meanwhile, Lin Zeyu’s brother, Lin Zehao, appeared at the edge of frame, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He’d been silent all evening. But his eyes kept flicking between the pendant, Chen Rui’s watch, and the security feed monitor visible in the background. Someone was recording. Someone always is. In worlds like this, privacy is the rarest commodity—and truth, the most volatile asset. What followed wasn’t confrontation. It was negotiation disguised as etiquette. Lin Zeyu offered the pendant, palm open. Chen Rui stepped forward, hand extended—not to take it, but to cover Lin Zeyu’s hand, gently. A gesture of respect. Or control. Shen Yuxi finally moved. Not toward either man. Toward the pendant itself. She reached out, not to seize, but to trace the curve of the jade with one fingertip. Her voice, when it came, was low, clear, and utterly devoid of theatrics: *‘You kept it all these years?’* Lin Zeyu didn’t answer. He just nodded. And in that silence, the entire room held its breath. Because they all knew—this wasn’t about a piece of stone. It was about whether love, once dissolved, could ever be reconstituted. Whether a tycoon who’d built an empire on calculated risk would gamble everything on a memory. Divorced, but a Tycoon doesn’t end with a signature. It ends with a choice. And tonight, on that red carpet soaked in ambition and old perfume, Shen Yuxi was about to make hers.