The next day, Xia Chan received a text: a package had arrived. She assumed Zhou Lan had used her account to buy fake antiques again, so she told the courier to take it upstairs and have Zhou Lan sign.
When she got home, a black skirt lay on the sofa, with several cardboard boxes stacked beside it. The logo startled her.
Zhou Lan emerged from the bedroom, leaning against the wall, one leg stretched out. “Is it good‑looking?”
Xia Chan glanced at the shallow black heels on her feet—likely sent with the skirt.
“Your feet are so fat, didn’t you break the shoes?”
Zhou Lan snorted, kicked them off, and sat heavily on the sofa. “Who gave you this?”
“Selling insurance.”
“Who sells insurance with that kind of net worth?”
“You complained last time that a Volvo was too cheap. You didn’t say that then.” Xia Chan lifted the skirt against her body.
Zhou Lan pressed harder. “Tell me the truth. Who are you really seeing? Someone from your company?”
Xia Chan tried on the shoes—they fit perfectly, soft leather, clearly expensive.
“What about you?” she asked. “Is the cheongsam still there?”
“Don’t even think about my cheongsam! They’re Yunjin, each worth more than three of your sets!”
Xia Chan blinked. “So expensive? That’s wasted—you can’t wear them anyway.”
Zhou Lan nearly fainted with rage.
Unbothered, Xia Chan repacked the dress, shoes, jewelry, and bag, then messaged He Huaisheng.
Zhou Lan craned her neck. “Ping An Insurance Wang Fugui…”
Xia Chan hid her phone and retreated to the bedroom.
Soon, Huaisheng replied: You can’t wear a cheongsam every time.
She was about to answer when another message came: Of course you look good in one, but at this occasion it would steal the limelight.
Xia Chan laughed. “Then you can’t ‘borrow’ my things every time. I can’t afford too much.”
This time I did borrow it. Don’t get it dirty. I’ll return it later.
She accepted calmly. It wasn’t the first time she’d borrowed, though never something this fine.
On July 8, Xinghui’s anniversary cocktail party began.
Xia Chan stayed close to He Qihua from the moment he stepped out of the car. After a call, he glanced at her. “The clothes are good.”
She smiled lightly. “If Mr. He praises them, then three thousand a day isn’t too expensive.”
“Go back and get financial reimbursement,” he said.
The banquet was lavish, far grander than any she’d attended before. But Xia Chan paid attention only to her duty, tightening her focus with every guest.
He Qihua played host, speaking with charm, finalizing deals between laughter and wine.
Later, he told Xia Chan to rest and went to the lounge. She chose a sofa where she could watch the door, alert.
“Why are you here alone?” Chen Aijia appeared, smiling.
They chatted briefly. Chen teased about her dress. Xia Chan deflected, claiming she’d borrowed it from PR.
After Chen left, Xia Chan sat distracted, staring at her phone’s WeChat screen, unsure what to send.
Footsteps startled her. She rose quickly. “Mr. He.”
“Let’s go,” He Qihua said, and she followed him back to the hall.
Later, Ju Heguang of Guanghe Real Estate arrived. Xia Chan whispered the name to He Qihua, who adjusted smoothly and greeted him.
Ju was evasive, playing Tai Chi with every answer. He Qihua hid his frustration, unwilling to reveal weakness. They parted with only a vague agreement.
By ten, the party ended. But the secretary’s office worked overtime, preparing a briefing for morning.
Near half past midnight, He Qihua demanded the report immediately, delivered to his villa in Yushan. The task fell to Xia Chan.
She printed the materials alone, the office silent. A thought stirred as she watched the papers slide out.
Driving through empty streets, she reached Yushan. The villa loomed, Chinese‑style, with a vast garden.
A man took the documents through the gate without opening it. Lights blazed inside. Curious, Xia Chan circled to the parking lot. Seven or eight luxury cars gleamed, including He Qihua’s Lincoln. She noted the plates, then fled at the sound of barking dogs.
Breathless, she messaged Huaisheng: Where?
Home.
Come out, I have something for you.
Sleep.
Anger flared. Don’t regret it if you don’t come out!
Finally, he relented. Where to meet?
She thought, then typed: Where else can we have a late‑night snack?
My place, he replied.
In the end, Xia Chan drove to the Golden Portuguese Garden, mindful of Huaisheng’s disability.
At the gate, he was already waiting. She stopped under his direction, handed him several bags, and kept only a slim data folder in her hand.
He steadied himself, entered the elevator, and glanced at her.
She wore a knotted T‑shirt and capri pants, a strip of skin showing at her waist.
Anticipating his unspoken question, she explained, “The skirt is too expensive. If I stain it, the dry‑cleaning fee would cost me a month’s salary.”
Inside, the apartment was stark—black, white, and gray. Xia Chan muttered inwardly: Live here long enough, and you’d freeze into ice.
But her first concern was food. “Where’s the supper?”
He reached for his phone. She stopped him. “Speak.”
He hesitated, then rasped, “…Didn’t make it.”
“Then make it.”
“…No.”
She sighed. “If this were an advertisement, you’d be guilty of false marketing. What’s in the fridge?”
Guided to the kitchen, she found it stocked. She cooked porridge, mixed flour with eggs and scallions, and spread batter into golden pancakes.
He watched from the doorway, surprised. She seemed the type who never touched spring water, yet here she was, cooking with ease.
She ate hungrily, two pancakes and a bowl of porridge. “The sausages are good. Where’d you buy them?”
“Aunt Shen made them.”
“Give me some?”
He nodded.
She pointed to the pancakes. “Do you think they’re good?”
He nodded again.
“Then if I start a business, will you invest?”
“…How much do you want?”
She laughed. “So you believe whatever I say?”
Afterward, she rested on the sofa, eyelids heavy. When she woke, a blanket covered her. Across from her, Huaisheng sat quietly, watching.
She checked the time. “Three o’clock.”
She handed him the data bag. “Tonight’s cocktail party information.”
He glanced, uninterested. She explained softly, “I thought you might use it.”
“…Thank you,” he said.
She copied down license plates she’d seen at He Qihua’s villa. “I don’t know if it’s useful, but here.”
He typed: You didn’t plan to help me at first. Why change your mind?
She blinked. Why indeed? She remembered junior high, defending a poor girl from bullies. Years later, that girl won a Stanford scholarship and thanked her. Xia Chan had never tolerated cruelty toward the weak.
But she couldn’t tell him that. His pride wouldn’t allow sympathy.
So she lied lightly: “Follow He Qihua, and I’ll serve him forever. Follow you, and when you succeed, I’ll be your right hand. Maybe you’ll give me shares, maybe I’ll never worry again.”
“…I may not succeed,” he murmured.
“No,” she said firmly. “You will.”
He typed: Have you thought about it? Leaking information is an economic crime.
She met his eyes. “So you must succeed.”
Silence stretched.
At last, she rose. “It’s late. I should go.” She pointed to the borrowed clothes and jewelry. “Don’t order too much next time.”
He caught her arm. “…Rest here.”
She froze.
“…No other meaning,” he added.
She hesitated, then showered. When she emerged, he sat at the bar with red wine. He poured her a glass. She accepted—wine was beauty, and sleep.
He lit a cigarette. She watched. “You didn’t go to the cocktail party tonight.”
“Mm.”
“If you’re in a bad mood, talk to me.”
He reached for his phone. She snatched it away. “Speak. Slowly. I’ll listen. I have patience.”
He Huaisheng paused, then began to speak—haltingly, with effort.
His words came slow, often mispronounced, but Xia Chan was patient. She listened, encouraged, and clarified when needed, until the tangled grievances between him and He Qihua unfolded clearly.
Years ago, his grandfather He Menghui had built Xinghui from nothing, earning his first fortune selling soap. From that humble beginning, he established Xinghui Soap Factory, gradually expanding into fast‑moving consumer goods. His father later transformed the factory into a company, broadened product lines, and pushed into furniture and clothing, building a complete industrial chain.
But when Huaisheng was fourteen, tragedy struck. His parents died in a car accident. His sister He Qin was only seven.
In the chaos, He Qihua—already on the board—seized the moment. He rallied support, became general manager, and through calculated moves secured nearly a third of the equity. He promised to step aside once Huaisheng came of age, but never did. Instead, he relegated Huaisheng to a southern branch, appeasing him with a hollow title. Today, He Qihua sits as chairman and general manager, the board firmly in his grip.
Though skilled, He Qihua was suspicious and reckless. Under his rule, Xinghui grew bloated—ten thousand employees, profits declining, market share eroding. His disastrous foray into electronics nearly toppled the company. Though recovery followed, Xinghui now survives on old capital, its advantages fading.
Xia Chan listened, stunned. The problems ran deeper than she imagined.
Huaisheng sipped his wine, voice low and cold. “It wasn’t an accident… the brakes were tampered.”
A chill ran through her. The glittering cocktail party she had just attended suddenly felt sinister.
“Afraid?” he asked.
She smiled faintly. “I’m not afraid of anything—except having no money.”
He looked at her.
“As long as you promise me one percent of Xinghui’s equity when it’s done.”
He hesitated, then said, “Okay.”
She grinned, held out her hand. “High‑five. A deal.”
He set down his glass, reached out—not to high‑five, but to pull her into his arms. His lips pressed to hers, fierce, consuming.
She struggled briefly, then gave in. His breath carried smoke, intoxicating, making her throat itch.
“I think I’ve become addicted to smoking again,” she murmured.
His breath was heavy against her ear. He kissed her again, deeper, his fingers tracing her collarbone, sliding beneath her shirt. Her mind buzzed. She caught his hand, but didn’t push him away.
The warm light softened his silhouette, his eyes clear yet burning.
She knew she shouldn’t continue. Yet once the defense line broke, everything followed naturally.
The night blurred into heat and shadow.
By dawn, she lay exhausted, unable to move. He carried her to bed, covered her, and held her close.
When she woke, it was already afternoon. Missed calls filled her phone. Zhou Lan scolded her; she brushed it off. Clean clothes waited at the foot of the bed.
She showered, dressed, and found Huaisheng in the study, working. She messaged: I’m leaving.
He rose, tried to kiss her. She stepped back. “I have to go.”
He stared, silent. She stiffened, expression flat.
Finally, he nodded.
She gathered her things, spoke in a businesslike tone: “I’ll contact you on WeChat if needed.”
He nodded again.
She left.
Weeks passed. She rarely saw him—he was often away managing southern affairs.
A month later, she entered a conference room early to prepare. Fu Ruyu arrived, formal and serious, materials in hand. Their eyes met briefly, then turned away.
Moments later, Huaisheng walked in.
Xia Chan straightened. “Consultant He, good morning.”
He nodded, his gaze brushing her face before moving on. He sat, and Ruyu began signing to him.
They spoke in a language only they understood.
Xia Chan watched, unsettled.
The participants arrived one after another. Xia Chan poured coffee for He Qihua, returned to her seat, and waited. He flipped through the documents casually. “Then let’s start.”
Fu Ruyu stepped forward, speaking clearly without even glancing at the papers. She outlined target customers, design concepts, profit expectations, and costs.
He Qihua listened, then asked, “Same question as before—what makes your product different from our existing series?”
Ruyu responded with precision. “Here are the market share and profit figures for YouthHouse over the past two years. As the PPT shows, profits and market share have declined quarter by quarter. At this rate, YouthHouse will be in loss within two years, meaning Xinghui will lose the youth market entirely.”
She pressed the remote. More data appeared. “On the left, average income and consumption levels of the 20–35 age group. On the right, YouthHouse pricing. Only a small fraction of young people can afford it.”
He Qihua raised his hand. “So—small profits, quick turnover?”
Ruyu’s tone was steady. “Xinghui’s products chase the high‑end route, but that contradicts the founder’s original vision of affordability.”
His gaze sharpened. “Are you questioning my business strategy?”
“No. Consultant He is questioning the unreasonable strategy. Mr. He Menghui, the founder, began by selling soap for three cents.”
The room fell silent. Xia Chan’s heart raced. The words were sharp, almost accusing him of forgetting his roots.
He Qihua laughed coldly. “Children drag out their parents when they can’t win a fight.” He straightened his collar, turned, and walked out. “Send the document to my office for signature.”
Throughout, Huaisheng’s face remained unreadable. Only when Qihua left did he lift his eyes briefly.
Ruyu handed the document to Xia Chan. “Please submit this to Mr. He for signature.”
Xia Chan nodded.
Back at the secretary’s office, she placed the file on Qihua’s desk. Just as she turned to leave, he entered.
She stepped aside quickly. “Mr. He.”
He sat, glanced at the document, then called out.
Xia Chan stopped.
He lifted his coffee cup. “What do you think?”
She hesitated. “Mr. He, I don’t know much about operations.”
“You don’t need to. Just tell me—what do you think?”
Was he asking about the plan, or about Huaisheng himself?
She thought carefully. “I think it’s unwise to cling to old concepts. A company is like a ship at sea—the wind and currents change constantly. It must adjust accordingly.”
He was silent for a long time. “There are always people who think what their ancestors left behind is best.” He waved her out.
Xia Chan closed her eyes briefly, then left.
The new project was quickly approved. Huaisheng spent more time in Chongcheng.
Xia Chan often saw him—in elevators, conference halls, parking lots. But they only exchanged nods. Half a month passed without a word.
She regretted it. The ease of joking with him was gone, replaced by awkward silence.
On WeChat, their chat ended that morning. At first, she reread it often. Later, she deleted him from her list entirely.
By late July, her birthday arrived.
She dined with Chen Aijia and Liu Baona. Chen’s hair was shorter, curled at the ends, adding charm. Baona was as lively as ever, complaining, “Sister Xia Chan, it’s miserable now. Mr. Cheng finds fault with the rooms constantly.”
Xia Chan teased, “Maybe he likes you, using excuses to see you.”
Baona shivered. “Childish.”
They laughed, chatted, and somehow the topic shifted to Huaisheng.
Baona said, “He stayed at our hotel recently… Sister Ruyu was with him.”
Xia Chan paused. “She’s his assistant. That’s not unusual.”
“But she went into his room and only came out in the morning…”
Xia Chan forced a smile. “Don’t gossip. Focus on your work.”
But her mind wandered.
After dinner, Chen and Baona went shopping. Xia Chan declined—she wanted to go home for cake.
In the parking lot, she checked her phone. A new WeChat: Happy birthday.
From Huaisheng.
She sighed, replied: Thank you.
Another message: Where?
Heguang Department Store, she typed.
Are you in the parking lot? The elevator’s at the fourth floor. Come down. Wait for me.
No chance to refuse.
Moments later, he strode to her car, opened the passenger door. Gifts from her friends sat on the seat. He glanced, moved them to the back.
“…You’re unreasonable!” she protested.
He didn’t hear. He sat, pulled out a small box, and handed it to her.
Diamond stud earrings.
“Birthday gift,” he said.
“It’s too expensive. I can’t repay you when your birthday comes.” She closed the box, tried to return it.
He tossed it into the pile of gifts.
She sighed. “Where are you going?”
“…Not home.” He straightened his collar, opened the door, and walked away.
She called after him, but he didn’t hear. He paused, looked back, nodded, and left.
Could he have come only to give her a gift?
Later, Baona messaged: “Sister Xia Chan! We just saw Mr. Cheng in the mall. Coincidence?”
Xia Chan laughed. So that was it—a tryst with Cheng Zijin, and he happened to see her.
At home, Zhou Lan was irritable but restrained—it was her birthday. They cut cake together.
Zhou Lan sighed. “Twenty‑seven already. If you don’t find someone rich soon, you’ll be old and ugly.”
“Yes, yes,” Xia Chan replied lightly.
Zhou Lan added, “I went to prison yesterday. He finally agreed to see me. He’s skin and bones now.”
Xia Chan’s tone was flat. “Do whatever you want. Don’t drag me in.”
Later, her phone buzzed. A message from Huaisheng: Come down.
She looked out the window. He stood at the iron gate in the night.
She hesitated, then told Zhou Lan, “I’m going to buy something.” She grabbed her keys and went out.
At the gate, she asked, “Why are you here?”
He didn’t answer. He pulled her close, pressed her against the wall, held her head, and kissed her hard.
Her breath caught. She inhaled deeply, and the thought of resisting vanished.
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