The morning sun broke softly over Paris, gilding the rooftops with pale gold. The city stirred awake with the hum of traffic, the hiss of café espresso machines, and the distant laughter of early risers spilling into cobblestoned streets. Inside Le Bristol Paris, however, the world was silent and refined. The chandeliers still glowed faintly with their evening light, casting glimmers across marble floors polished so perfectly they reflected passing shadows.
Sean Xiao sat at the wide oak desk of his suite, his laptop open, several documents scattered in deliberate chaos. He had barely slept. The sharp collar of his shirt was still pressed, his cufflinks gleamed, but his eyes were ringed faintly in shadow. His pen moved briskly across the paper, notes and corrections filling the margins of a contract, but his mind was elsewhere.
Wang Jie.
The name pulsed in his thoughts like a heartbeat.
It had been years since his younger brother had refused to return from his Ivy League studies. At first Sean had dismissed it as stubborn youth, then as ambition. But the longer the silence stretched, the more he wondered if it wasn't distance that kept his brother away—it was him.
Sean pressed the pen harder until the nib tore the paper. He exhaled sharply and leaned back, pinching the bridge of his nose. His empire, his reputation, the endless string of investors and contracts—what did it matter if the only family left to him was drifting further away?
Knock. Knock.
He didn't look up. "Come in."
The door swung open, and Baobao entered, balancing a tray with two steaming cups of black coffee and a thick folder under his arm. He was dressed neatly, though his shirt was slightly rumpled, hair falling into his eyes from the night of restless sleep. He looked worlds different from the polished business elite Sean surrounded himself with, yet somehow more alive.
"Morning, Boss," Baobao greeted, his tone casual, almost teasing. "You look like hell."
Sean's sharp gaze lifted. "Neither did you sleep. Don't state the obvious."
Baobao smirked and set the tray on the desk with deliberate care. "True. But at least I don't have a billion-dollar meeting in three hours. You might want to try not looking like you wrestled with your laptop all night."
Sean ignored the jab, reaching for the folder. "Is the schedule finalized?"
Baobao slid it forward. "Meetings at the Grand Palais, investor luncheon at noon, contract review at three. I confirmed transport. And," he added, voice dropping lower, "your translator is arranged, though I swear you could use the time to practice your French. Bonjour, merci, croissant—it wouldn't kill you."
Sean glanced at him, deadpan. "You think this is a vacation?"
Baobao leaned back, folding his arms, grin widening. "To me? Yes. This is the closest I'll ever get to pretending I'm not just a poor secretary tagging along with a big shot."
Sean's expression didn't shift, but inside he was struck by the words—how easily Baobao dismissed himself, how easily he wore humility like a second skin.
Baobao tilted his head, studying him. Beneath the crisp suit and hard edges, Sean looked exhausted. There was a fragility there Baobao had glimpsed once or twice but never dared to name. Today it seemed heavier.
"Boss," Baobao said softly, almost hesitant, "whoever you're thinking about… maybe it's time to call them. Or at least admit you miss them."
Sean froze. His hand hovered above the coffee cup. For a fraction of a second, his mask slipped—the pain in his eyes was raw, startling, almost unbearable to look at. But it vanished just as quickly, replaced by his usual ice.
"You're a secretary, not a therapist," he said coolly. "Stick to your job."
Baobao didn't flinch. Instead, he leaned back with a small smile. "Maybe. But the best secretaries know when their boss needs more than just files."
Sean's jaw tightened. Damn it—why was this man able to read him so easily?
Before he could reply, the phone on the desk rang. Sean answered, his voice clipped. After a short exchange, he hung up.
"The concierge says the car is ready. We leave in thirty minutes. Go prepare."
Baobao stood, giving a mock salute. "Yes, sir. But don't forget—motorcycles are cheaper than therapy."
The door closed before Sean could throw the coffee cup.
---
The ride through Paris was quiet. The black car cut smoothly through the boulevards, past iron balconies heavy with flowers, past couples strolling hand-in-hand with croissants in paper bags. Paris gleamed outside the tinted glass, alive and careless, but inside the vehicle the air was thick with unspoken thoughts.
Sean sat rigid, folder in his lap, gaze fixed on the streets without really seeing them. His thoughts circled back—contracts, investors, Wang Jie. Always Wang Jie.
Baobao, across from him, rested his chin on his hand, eyes drifting to the window. Paris was beautiful, yes, but his thoughts were far from the city. He could see his Aunt Jin's smile in his mind, fragile yet radiant despite her illness. He could almost hear her laugh, soft and stubborn, the way she scolded him gently for being careless with his health.
When this trip is over, he vowed silently, the first thing I'll do is see her. Everything else can wait.
Sean noticed the faraway look but said nothing. Instead, silence stretched between them, until the car rolled to a halt before the Grand Palais, its glass dome glittering like a jewel beneath the morning sun.
---
Inside the Palais, the atmosphere shifted. Wealth and power vibrated in the air—investors in tailored suits, women in sleek dresses, translators whispering in corners, waiters gliding silently with trays of champagne even at this early hour.
Sean moved like he belonged there, every step measured, his presence commanding. Baobao trailed behind, not like a shadow but like someone observing, cataloguing, quietly guarding. His plain suit stood out among the luxury, but his sharp gaze made him impossible to dismiss.
At the long conference table, introductions began. Names were exchanged, contracts laid out, glasses filled.
Sean was flawless—his French accented but smooth, his arguments precise, his tone calm and steady. Investors leaned in, impressed. He was the man they expected: the powerhouse, the dealmaker, the unshakable mind.
But halfway through, tension sparked.
One of the French investors, a middle-aged man with a sharp mustache, leaned back with folded arms. "Monsieur Xiao, your proposal is ambitious. But perhaps too ambitious. You ask us to trust in projections that—how do you say—seem like castles in the air."
The table shifted. Whispers rippled. Sean's jaw tightened. He countered smoothly, presenting figures, references, guarantees. Still, the man smirked, unimpressed.
Baobao, seated slightly behind, watched closely. His boss was strong, but he could see it—the tiniest crack of irritation, the faintest stumble in Sean's otherwise flawless rhythm. The investor had found a weak point and pressed it, not for business but for dominance.
And Baobao hated it.
When the investor scoffed again, Baobao's voice cut across the table.
"Excuse me."
The room stilled. All eyes turned to the secretary.
Baobao leaned forward, his tone polite yet edged with quiet steel. "Monsieur, forgive me. But if you believe these figures are castles in the air, then perhaps you have not studied the foundations closely. The European market reports from last quarter—specifically the energy consumption models in your own region—align perfectly with Mr. Xiao's projections. If anything, his numbers are conservative."
The investor blinked, caught off guard. Baobao didn't stop.
"Of course, if you prefer to underestimate growth, you are free to. But others won't. And those who hesitate today," his smile curved faintly, "will pay twice as much tomorrow to catch up."
Silence. The weight of his words settled like a stone.
Sean's eyes flickered toward him—sharp, startled, almost… proud?
The investor's smirk faltered. Finally, he adjusted his tie, muttered something about reconsidering, and leaned back in reluctant silence.
The meeting resumed, but the atmosphere had shifted. Sean spoke again, smoother than before, his confidence sharpened by the unexpected reinforcement. And this time, no one dared to scoff.
---
Two hours later, as they stepped out into the sunlight, Sean finally turned to him.
"You—" he started, then stopped, exhaling sharply. "What the hell was that?"
Baobao shoved his hands in his pockets, expression casual. "That? That was me making sure my boss doesn't get played by a guy with a bad mustache."
Sean glared. "You overstepped."
Baobao's grin widened. "Maybe. But admit it—I saved your ass."
Sean looked away, jaw tightening. He hated it. He hated being cornered, hated being defended, hated needing anyone. But… he couldn't deny it. Baobao had been brilliant.
"Don't do it again," Sean muttered.
"Of course not, Boss," Baobao said lightly. "Unless, of course, you start losing again."
Sean cursed under his breath and strode toward the car. Baobao followed, laughter low in his throat.
For once, though, Sean didn't mind the sound.
---
That night, Paris glowed. Lights shimmered along the Seine, music floated from cafés, and laughter spilled into the streets. But in their separate hotels, neither man rested easily.
Sean stood by his window, staring at the Eiffel Tower in the distance, his phone heavy in his hand. His mother's number hovered on the screen. He wanted to press call. He wanted to hear her voice. But his thumb hovered and then dropped. Not tonight.
Baobao, in his smaller hotel room, lay awake again. His dreams were restless, filled with shadows of wealth chasing him, pulling him away from Aunt Jin's smile. He woke in a sweat, hand clutching the sheets.
Tomorrow, he swore again, I'll call her tomorrow. Just to hear her laugh.
Both men, in their different worlds, stared at the ceilings above them, unaware that their paths were drawing closer than either had planned.
And tomorrow, Paris would test them both again.