The buzzing of keyboards filled the office, a rhythm that Qin Yue had begun to find strangely comforting. It was steady, predictable, and so unlike the storm of emotions that often swirled inside her since working under Han Jin. Every day was a test—of patience, of strength, of how much pride she was willing to set aside just to prove herself.
But today, something felt… wrong.
Her screen flashed with the new project report she had spent sleepless nights preparing. It had taken her everything—pouring over spreadsheets, cross-checking details, running to different departments despite the mocking eyes and whispers. It wasn't perfect, but it was hers.
Yet now, as she clicked open the file sent from the main server, her heart froze.
The numbers didn't match. The tables were jumbled. Sections she had polished with meticulous care were filled with errors, glaring enough to humiliate her in front of any executive.
Her hands trembled. "What… is this?"
She scrolled frantically, her face draining of color. This wasn't her report. It looked like hers, yes—the formatting, the style—but someone had altered it. Deliberately.
The sound of heels clicking against marble made her stiffen. That icy, mocking tone followed like poison.
"Well, well… looks like someone isn't as competent as she pretends to be."
Lin Jia.
She stood near Qin Yue's desk, arms crossed, a smirk playing on her red lips. Today she wore a fitted black dress, elegant and sharp, like a blade drawn just to cut.
"I—I didn't make these mistakes," Qin Yue said quickly, her voice low but firm. "The report was fine last night. Someone tampered with it."
Lin Jia let out a laugh that drew nearby employees' attention. "Excuses? How predictable. Miss Qin, in business, results matter. No one cares for your stories."
The whispers started again, spreading like wildfire.
"Didn't I tell you she's only here because of President Han?"
"First the rumors, now mistakes? She's doomed."
"Even Lin Jia is pointing it out—there must be truth to it."
Qin Yue bit her lip, feeling the sting of their words, but forced herself to breathe. She had worked too hard to crumble now.
"I'll fix it," she said, more to herself than anyone else.
Lin Jia leaned closer, her perfume thick in the air, her words venomous. "Do try. But by the time you're done, President Han will already know. And we both know how little patience he has for incompetence."
With that, she turned, her heels clicking away like a victor leaving the battlefield.
---
By noon, Qin Yue was called into Han Jin's office.
The atmosphere inside was suffocating. He sat behind his desk, tall and sharp, his gaze cold enough to freeze the air. The ruined report lay open on the table between them.
"Explain," he said simply.
Qin Yue's throat tightened. His voice wasn't raised, but the weight of his authority pressed against her like chains.
"I… I didn't do this," she said carefully. "The report was fine when I submitted it. Someone tampered with it."
His eyes narrowed, scanning her trembling figure. "Do you realize what this report means? It's a multi-million-dollar deal. Errors like these could cost the company everything."
"I know!" Qin Yue burst out, unable to keep the desperation from her voice. "I worked all night. I checked every line. This isn't my mistake. Please, believe me."
For a moment, silence stretched between them. His expression remained unreadable, but his fingers tapped lightly on the desk—a sign she had learned meant he was thinking deeply.
Finally, he leaned back. "Then you're saying someone set you up?"
Qin Yue froze. Saying it aloud felt dangerous, but staying silent would only make her look guilty. She nodded slowly. "Yes."
The corner of his lips curved—not in amusement, but something darker. "Interesting."
Before Qin Yue could speak again, the office door opened. Lin Jia stepped in gracefully, holding a folder.
"Han," she said sweetly, "I thought you'd want the finalized report I checked myself. Don't worry, I fixed the mistakes Qin Yue overlooked."
Her eyes flicked to Qin Yue, a glint of triumph shining there.
Qin Yue's fists clenched. She did this.
Han Jin glanced at Lin Jia, then back at Qin Yue. The tension was unbearable. Was he going to believe Lin Jia's story? Was everything Qin Yue had fought for going to collapse in this single moment?
But then, his gaze sharpened. "Leave it." His voice was flat, commanding.
Lin Jia blinked. "But—"
"I said leave it."
Reluctantly, she placed the folder down and left, though not without shooting Qin Yue a smug look that said: You're finished.
When the door shut, Han Jin stood. He walked toward Qin Yue, each step heavy, predatory. She backed slightly, her heart pounding.
He stopped just before her, lowering his head until his eyes locked with hers. Cold, but burning.
"Do you think I can't tell the difference between your work and someone else's?" His voice was low, dangerous.
Qin Yue blinked. "Y-you mean…"
"This report isn't yours. It reeks of someone else's hand."
Relief flooded her chest so strongly she nearly cried. "So… you believe me?"
His lips curved into something unreadable, his gaze pinning her in place. "Don't misunderstand. I believe in results. And you… you're not someone who gives up. If you were, you wouldn't still be standing here."
Her heart skipped. She didn't know why those words felt like the closest thing to trust he had ever given her.
Still, his tone hardened. "Fix this. You have one night. Deliver the corrected report by tomorrow morning. Fail… and no one—not even I—can save you."
Qin Yue's breath caught. One night? To rebuild a report this huge? It felt impossible.
But she clenched her fists, determination burning. "I'll do it."
Han Jin's gaze lingered, sharp but almost… proud? He turned back to his desk. "Good. Then prove it."
---
That night, Qin Yue stayed at the office. The others left one by one, the lights dimming, until she was the only one left. Her eyes ached, her hands cramped, but she refused to stop. Every formula, every table, every line of text—she rebuilt it from scratch.
At one point, exhaustion overwhelmed her. She leaned back, eyes closing, the city lights blurring outside the window.
Why am I doing this? she thought. Why am I pushing so hard… for him?
The answer came softly inside her heart. Because I want to prove I'm more than just his contract. I want to prove I belong here.
---
Hours later, as dawn painted the sky, Qin Yue finally pressed "Save."
The door creaked open. She looked up in shock—Han Jin was there, his jacket draped over one arm, his gaze fixed on her.
"You're still here," he said, his tone unreadable.
"I finished it," she whispered, sliding the file across the desk. Her body trembled with fatigue.
He opened it, scanning quickly. His eyes softened—just slightly. "Not bad."
Relief surged through her, so strong her vision blurred.
Han Jin noticed. Without a word, he placed his jacket over her shoulders.
"Sleep," he ordered, his voice low, almost gentle. "You've earned it."
Qin Yue's lips parted, her heart thundering. For once, she didn't argue. She closed her eyes, letting the warmth of his jacket—and maybe, just maybe, the warmth of his trust—carry her into sleep.