Diping’s headache is uncontrollable, but not fatal. I watch him cry, groan, whimper—his body curled like a child’s, his fingers clawing at the sheets—and feel nothing but contempt. How did I end up married to such a coward?

  Xialai had the spine to kick in his own father’s ribs. But Diping? He’s always been the joke of the Red second generation—weak, pathetic, mocked behind closed doors. A man who inherited power but never earned fear.

  Still, his weakness serves me. Through him, I control not just the First Family, but the Party itself.

  But for a dictator, illness is vulnerability. And timing matters. This happened on a Friday. If he’s not back at work by Monday, whispers will begin. If it drags a week, the knives will come out.

  His dictatorship rests not just on his titles—Party Secretary, Chairman of the Central Military Commission, President of the State—but on arcane processes enshrined in Party Statutes and tradition.

  Almost nothing moves without his signature. A brigade cannot deploy. A company cannot enter Beijing. Even Qiuhan Wang, head of the Discipline Commission, needs Diping’s seal for every dismissal at the department, bureau, provincial, or ministerial level.

  He controls every lever of personnel and military power.

  But if he’s incapacitated, emergency protocols activate. Workarounds emerge. And once those mechanisms engage, others can act without him—decisions that erode his authority, or worse, remove him entirely.

  The doctors are baffled. CT scans, MRI—clean. Blood pressure elevated, but not enough for idiopathic intracranial hypertension. Blood work: normal. Lumbar puncture: no inflammation.

  Two camps have formed. One insists it's a toxin—unknown to medicine, undetectable except in trace amounts—capable of causing this agony. A reasonable theory, given the other three victims were poisoned. The other camp believes it's a primary headache disorder, muscular perhaps, manifesting now by cruel coincidence.

  It doesn’t matter who’s right. Neither knows how to cure him.

  Modern medicine, with all the resources of the nation at our disposal, cannot touch his pain. Their prescription: painkillers twice daily. Water. Sleep. Massage by trained nurses.

  I watch Ruoyu’s hands work his temples as he whimpers, eyes squeezed shut, breath shallow. Then Wenzhao appears at the door. Shajun has urgent news.

  Already?

  I knew Ruolin was good. I didn’t know she was this good.

  I meet Shajun in the reception room adjacent to the living quarters. His face is stone.

  “What’s there to be nervous about?” I ask, voice cool.

  “The attack came from one of the Ruby Five.”

  “Which one?” My tone sharpens. “Don’t make me guess.”

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  He hesitates. “I don’t know.” Then, quickly: “Ruolin wouldn’t tell me.”

  My eyes narrow. I understand instantly. “She’s scared.”

  He nods.

  Smart girl. Once she tells me everything, she becomes disposable. Without my protection, she won’t leave the Summer Palace breathing.

  She needs me to arrange something first. A public signal that she’s untouchable.

  The obvious move: place her in the 8341 Unit under Shajun. Make her a security officer for me or Diping. The message would be unmistakable. She’d be safe.

  But I hate the idea. Not for any practical reason—only because she's a woman. Smart. Beautiful. Calculating. I need her nowhere near my husband's orbit.

  Still, I want her close. She's a blade I might need. But when she's not in my hand, she must be sheathed. Protected, yet distant.

  I call Xiaohang.

  “Madam.” He answers immediately.

  “I need a position for Ruolin. High enough that no one dares touch her. Narrow enough that she can’t get clever with it.”

  “Nothing comes to mind immediately, Madam. May I call you back in a few minutes?”

  “Fine.” I hang up.

  I understand his hesitation. Appointed to the MPS only two years ago, catapulted from Fujian Public Security Director to Deputy Minister, he hasn't yet mastered the ministry's labyrinth.

  I glance at Shajun. He looks disappointed.

  “She knows too much about Summer Palace security,” he says, implying I should keep her here.

  “What? Can’t keep your eyes off a pretty face?” I sneer.

  “No. Not that.”

  “She’s not a canary to be caged.” I lean back. “Besides, you lack the wit to control her. She’s dangerous—too dangerous for you.” Just as I was too dangerous for Diping.

  He nods slowly. Understanding floods his expression only after the nod.

  Xiaohang calls back.

  “Madam, three options. Deputy Director of the Information and Publicity Bureau. Division Chief of the Anti-Infiltration and Anti-Sabotage Division in the First Bureau. Division Chief of the International Law Enforcement Cooperation Division in the Second Bureau.”

  I consider each.

  Deputy Director of Information and Publicity. She has the face and wits. But the title is too senior for her resume. Eliminated.

  The First Bureau—Political Security Protection Bureau—is the most powerful, most sensitive arm of the ministry. The Republic’s domestic secret police. Placing her there would signal absolute political trust from the highest leadership. But it demands complete loyalty to the Party. I won't gamble on a woman I've met once.

  "Is the International Law Enforcement Cooperation Division responsible for Operation Fox Hunt?"

  "Yes, Madam."

  "That division will become critical. You'll need someone sharp to run it."

  "Understood, Madam."

  "Only if she delivers on this investigation."

  "Of course."

  I hang up. Turn to Shajun.

  "Tell her. Then bring her to me."

  “Yes, Madam.” He bows slightly and walks out.

  When the room is empty, I make a call I haven’t made in years. Desperate situations demand desperate measures.

  Dr. Kennedy. United States. I did him favors when he lived in Fujian with his Chinese wife—favors he can never repay.

  The health of American presidents is public record. Transparency, they call it. Accountability. But the health of Red Party leadership? State secret. Not to protect from foreign enemies—from internal ones. Weakness invites challenges. Illness invites coups.

  I tell him it's for my father.

  "There's no cure for primary headache," he says flatly. "We can treat secondary causes—tumors, hemorrhages, infections, inflammation. But if it's intrinsic? We're blind."

  Silence stretches.

  “There is one thing,” he adds slowly. “Gene therapy. Experimental. But I’ve heard it can do remarkable things.” He pauses. “Actually, the best company working on it is in your country.”

  “Really?”

  “The Sanguine Institute. World leaders in CRISPR. Started in the US. Moved to the Red Republic two years ago.”

  I thank him. Hang up.

  Gene therapy. CRISPR. Rewriting the code of life itself.

  If medicine can’t save Diping, perhaps something beyond medicine can.

  Sanguine Institute. The name fits. Ruby Republic. Red Party.

  I walk into the bedroom. Diping writhes in pain—pathetic, yet indispensable.

  I built an empire on his weakness.

  Now I must save him to preserve it.

  Even if it means inviting foreigners into the heart of the Republic.

  Even if it means rewriting the code of power itself.