Xia Chan saw him walking toward her and instinctively stepped aside.
He Huaisheng bent over the projector, connected the VGA cable, and adjusted the parameters with practiced ease.
Xia Chan held her breath, standing quietly to the side, ears pricked for any sound from outside. The meeting had not yet begun; the corridor beyond was hushed.
Unable to resist, she stole a glance at him. He looked thinner than before, and when he leaned forward slightly, the sharp outline of his shoulder blades pressed against the fabric of his shirt.
A moment later, He Huaisheng released the mouse. Xia Chan turned back and saw the projection flicker to life.
She quickly whispered her thanks. He Huaisheng nodded faintly and returned to his seat.
Participants began filing in one after another. He Qihua was the last to arrive. Xia Chan hurried forward, pouring coffee into the cup before him.
He Qihua cleared his throat. “You don’t have to sit upright at today’s meeting. Just chat casually.”
The heads of product, marketing, and sales departments were present. Yet among them, He Huaisheng seemed out of place. His title—executive consultant—was widely regarded as a hollow appointment. Gossip often circled: “A deaf man, can he even hear if you ask?”
Still, He Qihua had granted him a product line to “toss around,” and today’s agenda included reviewing his plan.
Though the tone was casual, no one dared to be careless before He Qihua. Each reported their department’s operations as usual.
When the sales director began, He Qihua interrupted. “How is the series from the designer we hired in Australia?”
The director hesitated. “Roughly unsatisfactory. I’ll prepare a detailed report for you, Mr. He.”
“What do you call unsatisfactory?”
The director admitted, “…Just able to break even.”
He Qihua sipped his coffee, silent.
The director pressed on. “At the first quarter summary meeting, I plan to apply to withdraw the product.”
He Qihua gave no comment, only turned to the marketing director. “Yesterday after work, I saw our product’s light box advertisement. Why did it look worse than a college student’s project?”
The director began to explain, but He Qihua waved him off. “Save it for the quarterly meeting. Let’s discuss now—Mr. Xiao He’s plan.” He gestured toward Huaisheng.
Ding Yonggui stepped forward. “I’ll explain… on behalf of Mr. He.”
“Secretary Xia, more coffee.”
Ding Yonggui froze.
“Continue,” He Qihua said.
Xia Chan lowered her eyes, refilled his cup, and returned to her place.
“…This series targets young couples and ordinary families with average incomes. Since 2008, more than ten million couples register marriages annually in China, and the number grows each year. The potential of this group has not yet been fully tapped…”
“Director Zhao,” He Qihua cut in, “don’t we already have a product line for young people?”
The product manager answered quickly. “Yes, the secondary brand YouthHouse targets young consumers.”
He Qihua nodded, turning back to Ding Yonggui. “So what’s different about your plan?”
Ding faltered, glanced at Huaisheng, and shuffled through his papers. “This… mainly focuses on young couples.”
“Oh? Young couples aren’t young people anymore?”
Laughter rippled around the table.
Xia Chan clenched her pen, stabbing its tip into her notebook. She lifted her eyes toward Huaisheng. His face remained calm.
Unexpectedly, He Qihua’s gaze swept to her. “Secretary Xia, do you have any opinions?”
Her fingers curled. She steadied her breath. “Mr. He, I’m not qualified to speak.”
“It’s fine. I give you permission.”
Xia Chan forced herself not to look at Huaisheng. “Xinghui Home’s YouthHouse series is generally unaffordable for people like me. I don’t know Consultant He’s pricing, but if the products are high quality and low price, they could open the market among young people.”
He Qihua studied her. “So Secretary Xia is supportive?”
She hesitated. “No, I object. Xinghui has always positioned itself high‑end. Lowering prices would dilute the brand. If prices remain the same, the products overlap with existing ones—there’s no need.”
Silence fell. Then He Qihua asked the directors, “Do you agree?”
They nodded one by one.
He spread his hands toward Ding Yonggui, regret plain.
Ding’s face darkened.
He Qihua drained his cup. “That’s enough for today. Go back, study carefully. Don’t slap your thighs and call it thinking. Without clear positioning, data is meaningless.”
When he left, Xia Chan shut down the projector, gathered her things, and followed.
At the doorway, she glanced up. Huaisheng lifted his head at the same moment. Their eyes met briefly before she looked away.
In the elevator, her breathing steadied. She replayed the meeting in her mind. How strong must Huaisheng’s heart be, to endure such humiliation again and again?
Back in the secretary’s office, she opened her drawer, pulled out her phone, and found a new WeChat message.
He Huaisheng: Thank you.
She glanced around—everyone was busy. She typed back: “I sang the opposite tune with you. Thank me for what?”
He Huaisheng: It’s right to sing the opposite tune.
She thought, then replied: “…You deliberately made He Qihua disagree?”
He Huaisheng: At least not agree easily.
Relieved, she answered: “If you want to pass next time, you’ll need a new secretary.”
After a pause, his reply came: “Does Miss Xia have a suitable candidate?”
She hesitated, then sent a name.
He Huaisheng: Thank you.
Afterward, Xia Chan deleted him from her chat list.
Moments later, she searched his name again and messaged: “Do you have another backup account, private?”
His reply appeared: This is private.
Xia Chan stared at his avatar—blue sky, white clouds—and changed his note to: Ping An Insurance Wang Fugui.
Xia Chan was not looked at differently by He Qihua after her performance at the meeting. She continued to do what was expected of her on ordinary days.
After another month of steady diligence, she finally received a task with some spark of interest: coordinating with the public relations department to preside over a business cocktail party scheduled for early May.
The event itself was modest in scale, and the PR department did not treat it with much weight. They sent only a junior officer from the planning team to work alongside Xia Chan.
His name was Zhang Yu—twenty‑three years old, fresh out of university, tall at 1.8 meters, bluff in appearance but clearly inexperienced once he spoke. Xia Chan liked dealing with such straightforward people; they reminded her of Liu Baona, simple‑minded but genuine.
At first, Zhang Yu was cautious. Rumor had it that everyone in the secretary’s office carried themselves with aloof airs. Yet Xia Chan, though not one to smile easily, proved approachable. She had her own opinions but listened to others. Within half a day, Zhang Yu had adapted to her style, and together they finalized the plan.
They divided responsibilities: Zhang Yu would confirm the guest list and arrival times, while Xia Chan handled hotel bookings and detailed arrangements with staff. Naturally, the hotel of choice was Kaiser.
Xia Chan’s years at Kaiser meant she had acquaintances in the front hall and concierge, saving her much trouble.
By afternoon, the general outline was set. With time to spare, she went to visit Chen Aijia.
Chen now had her own office—small, but far better than the shared basement lounge she once endured. She welcomed Xia Chan warmly.
“What will you drink? I have white tea from Tianmu Lake.”
“Just plain water,” Xia Chan replied quickly. “Don’t let me near tea.” After five years under Liu Hongyi, even the sight of tea left her uneasy.
Chen laughed, handed her mineral water, and leaned back against the desk. “How are you doing?”
“It’s okay.”
“In He Qihua’s secretary’s office, do you get any benefits?”
Xia Chan smiled. “What benefits could there be? Mr. He is over fifty, and his daughter is nearly my age.”
“I didn’t mean Mr. He,” Chen teased.
“That’s even more impossible.”
Chen’s smile faded into seriousness. “Let me tell you something you wouldn’t expect.”
Xia Chan already guessed but kept her face calm. “What?”
“Ruyu is now working as an assistant to He Huaisheng.”
“Really?” Xia Chan feigned surprise. “How did they end up together?”
Chen shrugged.
Xia Chan was quiet for a moment. “Ruyu won’t suffer losses in front of He Huaisheng.”
“Not only that. No matter how cowardly he’s rumored to be, he looks good, has presence. Compared to Ruyu’s ex‑boyfriend, who actually hurt women, He Huaisheng is leagues better.”
Xia Chan unscrewed her water bottle, took a sip, and changed the subject. “Is Baona on duty?”
Chen called her in. Soon, Liu Baona rushed in, hugged Xia Chan, and burst into tears.
Xia Chan comforted her, asked about her situation, and when time grew short, Zhang Yu called again. She prepared to leave.
Baona clung to her. “Sister Xia Chan, when will you visit me again?”
“I’ll be at Kaiser for the cocktail party soon. Tomorrow I’ll come to draft the menu.”
“Then let me treat you to lunch tomorrow.”
Xia Chan thought, then agreed.
The next day, she returned to Kaiser, confirmed banquet dishes, and at noon dined with Baona at a tea restaurant nearby.
Baona leaned close, lowering her voice. “Sister Xia Chan, let me tell you something you’d never imagine.”
Xia Chan smiled. “What is it?”
“I’ve been working part‑time at a sign language training class. Guess who showed up a few weeks ago?”
“Who?”
“Sister Ruyu.”
“She’s learning sign language?”
Baona nodded. “Do you think she’s chasing after He Huaisheng?”
Xia Chan lowered her head to eat. “So what?”
“He Huaisheng once chased you.”
“Chased me, can’t chase anyone else?”
Baona sighed. “Sister Xia Chan, you should learn too.”
Xia Chan refused firmly.
“I’ll open the back door for you, no tuition.”
Xia Chan laughed. “Baona, don’t sound like you’re selling Amway.”
They chatted about Xinghui Group. Baona asked eagerly, “Do you have any unmarried young men of the right age there?”
“If I find one, I’ll save him for you. I can’t even solve my own lifelong matters.”
Baona smiled. “Sister Xia Chan, with your looks, you’re destined not to marry ordinary men.”
Xia Chan fell silent. But I can’t even keep ordinary ones.
By afternoon, she was busy confirming guest lists and concierge processes. At last, everything was ready.
Chen Aijia offered her a spa coupon. Xia Chan accepted and handed over some product vouchers in return.
Soon, the day of the cocktail party arrived. She and Zhang Yu arrived early, one guarding the door, the other the venue. Guests trickled in until seven o’clock—all except He Huaisheng.
She messaged him.
His reply came: On the way. Start first. Wait for me at the door.
She obeyed, leaving Zhang Yu to watch the hall.
Minutes later, Zhang Yu rushed down. “Sister Xia Chan!”
“I told you to stay at the venue. Why are you here?”
He panted. “A colleague just called—the famous Hong Kong photographer He Houzhao is coming. We need to arrange pickup…”
Xia Chan’s face hardened. “Why wasn’t I informed?”
“His assistant called yesterday. I was out, my colleague answered, but forgot to tell me…”
“What time did he land?”
“Six o’clock… It’s seven‑ten now.”
“Contact information?”
“I… forgot to ask.”
“Call your colleague!”
Zhang Yu tried, but failed.
Xia Chan exhaled sharply, messaged Huaisheng: Do you know He Houzhao?
No reply.
She pressed Zhang Yu: “Find me the contact now.”
Meanwhile, she searched the studio’s official site, dialed numbers, called acquaintances. Finally, Chen Rong gave her the contact.
Just as she prepared to dial, headlights swept the hotel entrance. A familiar car stopped.
She hurried forward. Huaisheng stepped out from the co‑pilot seat, opened the rear door.
A man with shoulder‑length hair, suit and leather shoes emerged—photographer He Houzhao.
From the other side, Fu Ruyu followed.
Xia Chan steadied herself, walked quickly to Houzhao, and bowed. “Mr. He, I apologize for my company’s poor hospitality.”
Houzhao laughed in broken Mandarin. “No, no. Very thoughtful. Mr. Xiao He personally picked me up—I feel honored.”
Xia Chan glanced at Huaisheng, then smiled. “Mr. He has come from afar. This is as it should be. The banquet has just begun—please, come with me.”
Zhang Yu hurried forward to take his seat. Xia Chan slowed her pace, settled beside He Huaisheng, and whispered her thanks.
He Huaisheng nodded faintly. Across the table, Fu Ruyu glanced at Xia Chan, her expression unreadable.
After the earlier tension, the banquet unfolded smoothly. The atmosphere was harmonious, and Xia Chan, reassured, instructed Zhang Yu to keep watch while she stepped out for air.
On the terrace, she had barely stood a minute when the glass door opened. Fu Ruyu emerged.
Since that dinner, this was the first time Xia Chan had been alone with her. Ruyu looked more haggard than before, yet carried a sharper, more capable air.
Xia Chan greeted her lightly. “Mr. He doesn’t need a translator?”
“Uncle Ding is in front of me.”
“Hmm.”
Ruyu walked closer. Both women wore professional attire, light makeup, and the same stylized smile that comes from long fatigue.
After a pause, Ruyu said, “Thank you for recommending me.”
“Mr. He needed an assistant, you needed a job. I only made the introduction.” Xia Chan glanced at her. “You should adapt well.”
Ruyu studied her. “Mr. He appreciates you very much. Why didn’t you choose to follow him, but instead stayed with He Qihua?”
Xia Chan was quiet, then smiled. “Because I don’t want to learn sign language.”
Ruyu didn’t believe it, but before she could press further, Xia Chan checked her phone. “I have to go in.”
Ruyu nodded.
After the cocktail party, Xia Chan and Zhang Yu saw the guests off. Exhaustion weighed on them both. She wanted to summarize the day’s mistakes, but Zhang Yu looked so dejected—like a drooping Samoyed—that she sent him home to rest, promising to discuss it tomorrow.
Alone in the empty hall, Xia Chan sat for a while, unwilling to move. She remembered the spa voucher Chen Aijia had given her, found it still valid, and decided to use it before heading home.
The leisure hall was quiet, far from the hotel’s bustle. She lay on the bed, relaxed under the masseuse’s hands, and soon drifted into sleep. When she woke, only a towel covered her back. She wrapped herself, drank some water, and, at the staff’s suggestion, tried the sauna.
Steam loosened her skin, stretched her pores, left her body light and comfortable.
Wrapped in a bathrobe, she went to the tea room to rest.
She scanned the menu of herbal teas, undecided. Then the bamboo curtain at the door stirred, and someone entered.
Their eyes met—unguarded, startled. Both quickly returned to composure. Compared to He Huaisheng’s Tang‑style home clothes, Xia Chan’s bathrobe felt embarrassingly casual.
Without phones at hand, they only nodded, a silent greeting.
Xia Chan ordered rose tea, sipping slowly. Through the drifting steam, she occasionally glanced at Huaisheng. He sat at ease, tea cup beside him, flipping through a magazine.
She thought: He is pleasing to the eye, but when he speaks, he’s clumsy. He isn’t mute—why doesn’t he talk more? With his lip‑reading, daily communication should be no obstacle.
Lost in thought, she scalded her tongue on the tea, nearly dropping the cup.
Huaisheng looked up.
Xia Chan quickly restrained her expression, embarrassed. She set down the cup and rose. “I’ll go back first.”
He nodded.
In the dressing room, she tied her damp hair, noting her rosy complexion in the mirror.
It was late, near dawn. She left the hotel, waiting for a taxi on the main road.
Headlights swept over. A Lexus stopped. The rear window lowered—Huaisheng gestured for her to get in.
At this hour, his car felt safer than a taxi. She looked around—no one nearby—and climbed in.
She greeted Ding Yonggui at the wheel. He replied blandly.
After a while, she messaged Huaisheng: How did you receive He Houzhao?
He Huaisheng: I’ve always been in contact. When I heard he was coming to Chong, I asked around.
Xia Chan: Thank you. You helped me again.
He Huaisheng: Thank you for raising your hand. Convenience for others is convenience for oneself.
She thought: Clear interests, no wasted effort. That’s good.
At the intersection, she asked to stop, thanked him, and got out.
The old town was dark, dilapidated. As she walked into the alley, footsteps followed. Her heart tightened.
It was Huaisheng.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
Her phone buzzed. He Huaisheng: I forgot to give you something.
He handed her a paper bag—the tea room’s packaging.
She thanked him.
He Huaisheng: I’ll send you in.
“It’s not far,” she said quickly.
He stood, expression flat.
Her phone buzzed again. He Huaisheng: Can I smoke?
“It’s up to you.”
The faint scent of smoke drifted. She felt nostalgic.
Streetlights glowed orange in the mist. Their footsteps overlapped.
She glanced at him—the spark of his cigarette lit his strong brows.
Her throat itched. She stopped.
He stopped too, looking down.
She messaged: Can you lend me a cigarette?
He took her phone, typed: No.
She replied: The addiction relapsed.
He took her phone again, held it, silent.
He caught the fragrance of her skin—sweet, fresh, damp with steam.
Suddenly, he pocketed her phone, pulled her waist, and drew her close.
Caught off guard, her breath faltered, her steps stumbled, and she fell into his arms.
His hand lifted her chin. He lowered his head—and kissed her.
Next
.jpeg)
.jpeg)
Comments
Post a Comment