The folder on Qin Yue's lap felt heavier than iron.
She sat at her small desk by the window, the city's evening lights blinking like patient stars beyond the glass. The document inside the folder was crisp, expensive, and suffocating: Personal Assistant Agreement — Qin Yue. The Feng Corporation seal gleamed at the top, every clause carved in precise legal language that left little room to breathe.
Once you sign, there's no going back.
Li Feng's voice echoed in her mind—calm, certain, dangerous.
She set the papers down, pressing her fingers to her temples. Always. Twenty-four hours if necessary. It sounded less like a job and more like a vow. A tether. A chain.
Her phone buzzed.
— Qing Feng: I'm outside your building. Come down?
Qin Yue blinked, surprised, then hurried for the door.
A minute later, she spotted Qing Feng waiting under the flickering streetlamp, bundled in a light jacket, clutching two steaming cups.
"Emergency milk tea," her friend declared, thrusting a cup into her hands. "Now tell me why you looked like a ghost on the phone."
Qin Yue laughed weakly and explained everything—the new contract, the exclusivity, the "always."
Qing Feng's eyes widened halfway through. "Twenty-four hours on call? That's… intense."
"It's more than intense. It's… him." Qin Yue stared at the rising steam. "He said, 'I don't want anyone else. I want you.'"
Qing Feng let out a soft whistle. "That's either the most romantic line I've ever heard… or the most terrifying."
Both, Qin Yue thought, and heat crept to her cheeks.
They found the low concrete step by the entrance and sat shoulder to shoulder, sipping in silence for a minute. The night smelled like rain, though the sky had not broken.
"What do you want?" Qing Feng asked finally, voice gentle.
"I want…" The words stuck. A stable job. A future I can stand on. To be seen, not owned. Her chest ached. "I want to keep my dignity. And I want to keep my job." A breath. "I want to be useful… to him. But not vanish into his shadow."
Qing Feng nudged her. "Then negotiate."
Qin Yue lifted her head. "Negotiate? With Li Feng?"
"Why not? You've talked back before and survived," Qing Feng teased. "Set your terms. Boundaries. If he only wants a puppet, he'll say no. But if he wants you, he'll listen."
Qin Yue's fingers tightened around the cup. Negotiate with a man who never heard the word "no"? It sounded like madness.
And yet—her heart steadied at the thought.
"Okay," she whispered. "I'll try."
"Atta girl." Qing Feng bumped their shoulders together. "And if he breathes fire, call me. I'll come with a bucket."
Qin Yue laughed, the first real laugh of the night.
---
The next morning dawned gray and low, clouds heavy as if the sky couldn't decide whether to break. She arrived at the top floor five minutes early, the contract folder hugged to her chest like a shield.
Inside his office, Li Feng stood by the window, jacket off, sleeves rolled to his forearms. The sight of him—unarmored but still dangerous—sent an immediate pulse through her. He turned when she entered; those sharp, familiar eyes skimmed her face and the folder in her hands.
"Have you decided?" he asked, voice even.
"I have questions." She placed the folder on his desk and met his gaze. "And requests."
His brow lifted—surprise flickering for a heartbeat. "Go on."
"Clause 3. On-call twenty-four hours—granted in emergencies only." She spoke carefully, aware that one misstep could shatter her courage. "Define 'emergency.' Business crisis, board directives, time-sensitive negotiations—that I understand. But no… casual convenience."
Something complicated moved in his eyes. "And if I simply want you here?"
Her heart jolted. She steadied it with a breath. "Then you'll ask. Not command."
Silence pooled between them. The air felt charged. Li Feng's gaze studied her like he might a chessboard, measuring, testing. Then, to her shock, he reached for a pen.
"Emergencies only," he repeated, drawing a clean line through a clause and writing in neat, decisive strokes. He looked up. "Next."
"Clause 7. Public decorum." She swallowed. "I won't be paraded."
"You think I would parade you?" The words were quiet, not offended—curious.
"At the banquet, you defended me," she said, and the memory threaded warmth through her chest. "But I don't want to become a rumor to be managed."
A beat. He nodded once. "Approved." The pen moved again. "Next."
"Clause 10. Compensation." Qin Yue surprised herself with the steadiness of her voice. "Increase travel allowance and housing stipend. If you expect 'always'—even within reason—then I need a base where I can rest and still be available."
The faintest curve ghosted his mouth—approval, maybe, or amusement. "Done."
The pen did its clinical magic. He slid the contract back to her, the ink still wet.
"Anything else?" he asked.
She hesitated, feeling foolish. "One more. Clause… unwritten." Her throat felt tight. "Whatever this is… I won't surrender my name inside it."
His head tilted. "Your name?"
"I am Qin Yue," she said, pulse roaring in her ears. "Not an accessory. Not a rumor. Not a replacement for someone you used to be close to—if there was someone." Her voice gentled. "If I stay by your side, it will be as myself."
For a long moment he said nothing. The seconds stretched, trembled. Outside, a gull cried somewhere above the city. Then his lashes lowered, just slightly, and something in his face softened—not much, but enough to feel like a door opening onto a darker room.
"There was someone," he said at last. "Long ago."
Her breath hitched. He rarely gave her anything that wasn't wrapped in steel.
"And you are not her," he added. "You couldn't be if you tried."
A thousand answers flickered across her tongue and vanished. He looked at the contract again, drew a line under the signature page, and wrote in a single, elegant sentence:
Parties affirm mutual respect and personal autonomy.
He capped the pen and placed it at the top of the page. "Sign."
Qin Yue stared at the clause—at her own reflection, faint in the glass of the desk. Mutual respect. Personal autonomy. Terms she hadn't dared hope would survive this room.
Her fingers steadied. She signed.
When she placed the pen down, the paper felt lighter. Something inside her did, too.
Li Feng slid the document into a leather folder and locked it in the drawer. Satisfaction didn't show on his face; it rarely did. But when his gaze returned to her, there was a gentler cold, if such a thing existed.
"You negotiated well," he said.
She managed a small smile. "I had good motivation."
"Which was?"
"To not disappear," she said. "And to stay."
His eyes held hers for a breath longer than propriety approved of. Then he turned away, the moment dismissed with efficient grace. "We're leaving in twenty minutes."
"We…?"
"Site visit. Two departments at West Harbor. You're taking notes and handling the time." He picked up his jacket, sliding one arm in. "From now on, Miss Qin, you will walk beside me—physically and professionally. If anyone has a problem, they can come to me."
Warmth surged so quickly she almost forgot to speak. "Yes, President Li."
A faint crease touched the corner of his mouth. "Li Feng," he corrected, the syllables softer than she had ever heard them. "When it's just us."
Her heartbeat misfired. "Li… Feng."
"Better." His eyes flickered, almost amused. "Bring an umbrella."
She blinked—then realized the clouds had thickened, the light gone pearly and thin. She grabbed her bag.
"Already packed," she said.
"Of course you have," he murmured, and led the way out.
---
The sky broke over West Harbor.
Rain spilled in silver threads over the construction site, where the new logistics hub was rising from a skeletal grid of steel. Under the concrete overhang, managers shuffled, hard hats collecting a shimmer of droplets, charts clutched like shields. The foreman greeted Li Feng with crisp efficiency and barely contained nerves; the presence of the CEO did that to people.
Qin Yue stuck close, her notebook already open. The smell of wet dust and metal filled the air. Workers moved like determined ants, and somewhere a crane bellowed.
Li Feng was a different creature on-site—stripped of the boardroom's polish, he walked the mud with clean, certain steps, unbothered by puddles. He didn't waste words. He asked three pointed questions and uncovered three problems no one had mentioned. Timelines were tightened by minutes; safety concerns put on immediate order. He was not just arrogant—he was effective, fierce as a blade and precise as a metronome.
And yet—when the foreman mentioned a worker who had slipped last week, Li Feng's questions changed. Quiet. Focused on the person. The man's wife. Insurance. Compensation. The firmness in his voice never softened, but his priorities did.
Qin Yue wrote that down, too, though it wasn't part of the report. It felt like a detail she wanted to keep for herself: he sees people even when he pretends not to.
By noon, the rain eased to a fine mist. They took shelter in the temporary office, a metal box with a humming heater. The foreman had sent for hot soups; steam curled from the lids.
Li Feng accepted a paper bowl without ceremony and gestured for Qin Yue to sit. She perched on the edge of a metal chair, still a little damp around the hem of her skirt, careful with the soup.
"You didn't bring lunch," he observed.
"I brought readiness," she said, then winced. "That came out wrong."
His eyes glinted. "It came out honest."
She stared at the thin broth and noodles. "I'll eat whatever you eat. Wherever you eat it."
"Dangerous thing to say," he replied, tone light for once. "I'm not used to sharing my table."
"You don't have to," she said, surprising herself. "Just… don't leave me outside in the rain while you do."
The heater's soft growl filled the pause. He looked at her then—not at the neat knot of her hair or the careful way she held the spoon, but at her, the person under those layers.
"I won't," he said.
Something in her braced heart unclenched.
They finished the soup in companionable quiet, the kind that felt like late night after a loud day. When they stepped back into the gray afternoon, it was misting again. Qin Yue lifted her umbrella; Li Feng stepped closer under it without asking. The circle of shelter was small, crowded. The umbrella handle brushed the back of his hand; electricity darted up her arm.
"Do you regret signing?" he asked suddenly.
She thought of ink, of boundaries, of the gentle scrap of his pen as he made room for her in language. "No."
"Good," he said, and for a fleeting second, she thought she saw relief.
---
They returned to headquarters just as the sky began clearing to a colder blue. Qin Yue barely had time to drop her bag before she was intercepted by a familiar voice.
"Miss Qin."
Han Jie.
The deputy manager's smile was as polite as a blade's reflection. "A moment?" He didn't wait for permission, steering her toward the corner of the corridor where the light fell a little dimmer. "I hear congratulations are in order. Personal assistant. Quite the leap."
Qin Yue set her shoulders. "Is there something you need, Mr. Han?"
"Oh, only to offer… caution." His eyes slid to the glass wall of Li Feng's office, empty now but bright as a stage. "Men like President Li burn hot and cold. Personal proximity has a… price."
"I negotiated," she said, surprised at the steel in her own voice. "I know the price I'm willing to pay."
"Do you?" His smile didn't move. "And what about the board? The shareholders? The ones who read their own stories into your presence? If they decide you're a liability, will your clauses save you?"
Fear flickered in her chest. She kept her face still. "I'll protect the company's image. That's in my job description, too."
"Very noble." He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Nobility is expensive. Be sure you can afford it."
He stepped back, the conversation neatly folded like a handkerchief. "Good afternoon, Miss Qin."
She watched him go, pulse loud in her ears. For a moment the walls seemed closer, the ceiling lower. Then her phone buzzed.
— Li Feng: My office.
The two words steadied her more than they should have.
When she entered, he was by the credenza, pouring water into a glass. He gestured for her to sit; she did.
"What did Han Jie want?" he asked.
She blinked. He saw? Of course he had.
"Nothing helpful," she said. "A warning about costs I've already counted."
He set the glass down and studied her, as if measuring the space between bravado and truth. "If anyone harasses you—no matter their title—you come to me."
"I can handle—"
"You come to me." He didn't raise his voice; he sharpened it.
Heat rose to her cheeks—embarrassment, gratitude, something perilously like joy. "Yes."
He exhaled, a thread of tension leaving his shoulders. "Good. Now—your first deliverable. Ten-minute brief on West Harbor. Three key risks. Two mitigation options each. And the second deliverable—"
"There's a second?" she blurted, then bit her tongue.
"—you'll accompany me tonight," he finished, unruffled. "Private dinner. Director Zhou and a representative from the port authority. Discreet, not formal. You'll listen, record, and speak only if I address you." A beat. "Wear something warm."
Warm. Not beautiful. Not impressive. Not a costume to be paraded.
Warm.
Qin Yue nodded, heart unspeakably light at the smallness of the care hidden in the word. "Yes, Li… President Li."
His mouth curved. "Practice makes perfect."
She rose to leave, then paused. "One more thing."
He waited.
"Thank you—for the clauses," she said. "For… seeing me."
A thousand answers seemed to pass behind his eyes. He chose none of them, only the one that wouldn't set the room on fire.
"Don't make me regret it," he said softly.
"I won't."
When she left, her reflection followed her down the glass corridor. She heard Han Jie's warning echo—and Qing Feng's laugh. She felt the weight of the contract and the lightness of the umbrella shared between two sets of shoulders. Fear and hope braided together in her chest.
She had signed a line.
Now she would write the rest.
---
That evening, the city glittered again, washed clean by rain. Qin Yue stood at the curb as a black car pulled up, her coat belted neatly, a simple wool scarf at her throat. When the back door opened, she slid in—and found Li Feng's gaze waiting, traveling once across her face, then away as if looking longer would be dangerous for them both.
"You're on the right," he said. "I'll handle introductions. You handle details."
"Understood."
The driver merged into traffic. Streetlights slipped over them in bars of gold. For a minute, the car held only the quiet shiver of the road.
Then Li Feng spoke, low enough that it felt like a secret.
"Qin Yue."
She turned. "Yes?"
His eyes stayed on the rain-slicked city. "If at any point tonight you feel… cornered, signal me."
"How?" she asked before she could stop herself.
He considered. "Ask me if I prefer black coffee or tea."
Her lips parted. "That's not very subtle."
"That's the point," he said, and the ghost of a smile touched his mouth. "I'll know you don't need finesse—you need an exit."
Warmth bloomed in her like a slow flame. "Coffee or tea," she repeated, the words tasting like safety.
He glanced at her then—really looked, a quiet, thorough look that made the car feel impossibly small.
"Neither," he said.
Her brow knit. "Neither?"
"I prefer you aware," he said, not unkindly. "And beside me."
Her heart stumbled over itself. She turned back to the window, hiding a smile she couldn't control.
Outside, the city flowed. Inside, a line had been signed and a promise had been made—the kind that didn't fit into contracts or clauses, but into the space two people chose to share under one umbrella while the rain closed in.
And for the first time since she'd stepped into his world, Qin Yue believed she could walk there without losing herself.
Not owned. Not paraded.
Seen.
—And, perhaps, already a little wanted.