Tuesday morning crept in quietly, far too fast for Shen Jiawen's liking. A thunderstorm had kept her tossing and turning all night, but it wasn't the rain that haunted her—it was him.
Lu Zeyan.
She had slept with a stranger and walked away like it had been a moment of madness. But now, that stranger had a name, a company, and a seat at the head of her most important client account.
The morning briefings buzzed in the open office, but Jiawen barely heard any of it. Instead, she kept replaying yesterday's elevator conversation in her mind.
"You knew."
"From the moment I walked in."
It had been clear. Undeniable. He remembered. But after that, he hadn't reached out. No text. No calls. No sly glances. In fact, when she arrived that morning, she found an email from his assistant requesting a meeting to "go over next steps" for the campaign.
Professional. Cold.
Exactly the kind of man he was.
But it still gnawed at her. Because even if he wasn't going to say anything more—she had. She had stood there, vulnerable, trying to take control of the story they'd accidentally started writing.
And he had let her walk away.
The office assigned for the Z-Tech partnership meetings was sleek, minimalist, and empty of anything that didn't scream money. Glass walls. Metal accents. No clutter. No warmth.
She arrived ten minutes early. Because being early meant not being caught off guard. She had already changed her outfit twice that morning, ultimately settling on something neutral—a navy blue blouse and pencil skirt, hair tied in a low bun.
She had a point to prove.
To herself, mostly.
He arrived on the dot, steps sharp, a laptop bag slung over one shoulder. He wore another perfectly tailored suit, this one dark grey with crisp white cuffs.
"Miss Shen," he greeted, tone polite. Not cold, but not familiar.
She matched it. "Mr. Lu."
They sat across from each other at the long table. A laptop screen, two notebooks, and a carafe of coffee sat between them.
Jiawen took a slow breath. Focus.
"I reviewed your notes on the data analytics strategy," she began. "I've prepared a revised roadmap that should better match Z-Tech's platform integration timeline."
She clicked open her presentation. Bullet points. Charts. Timeline projections. Facts.
Safe ground.
But every few minutes, she'd glance up and find his eyes on her—not just reading the slides, but watching her. Measuring. Like she was another variable he needed to understand.
She hated how her pulse jumped when their eyes met.
They spent two hours refining projections. He made sharp observations. She countered with precise metrics. It was productive. Almost easy.
Until the end.
He closed his laptop slowly. "You're good at this."
She blinked, caught off-guard by the compliment.
"Thank you."
His gaze didn't waver. "You don't need to be afraid of me."
Her breath caught. "I'm not."
He tilted his head slightly. "You were. Yesterday."
She straightened. "I was surprised. That's not the same as fear."
"Still, you ran."
Jiawen closed her folder deliberately, refusing to be cornered. "Because we agreed it was a one-night thing."
Lu Zeyan didn't flinch. "And yet, here we are."
"Here we are," she repeated, trying to keep her voice level, "in a business partnership. That's what this is."
He nodded slowly, thoughtfully. "Understood."
But there was something in his eyes. Like he was filing that line away, testing its truth.
She returned to her desk that afternoon with a pounding headache and a caffeine crash settling in her spine. Her phone buzzed the moment she sat down.
Unknown Number: Dinner. Tomorrow. To celebrate the deal.
She stared at the screen. He hadn't signed it, but she didn't need him to.
Her reply: Strictly professional?
His: You said it yourself. This is work now.
Wednesday evening, she found herself outside a high-end fusion restaurant in Xintiandi, cursing her own reflection in the restaurant window.
She hadn't wanted to overdress. But the sheer black blouse she'd worn felt dangerously close to a date choice. She blamed her closet for lacking neutral options.
When she was led to the private dining room, he was already there, reviewing something on his phone.
He stood when she entered. "Miss Shen."
"Mr. Lu."
They sat across from each other again, but this time it was soft lighting and polished cutlery instead of projectors and coffee.
He ordered a bottle of red wine without asking her preference.
Bold.
She sipped it cautiously when it arrived. Not too heavy. Smooth. Like everything about him.
"I wanted to thank you for your work," he said.
She raised a brow. "You already did."
"This is different. A more personal gesture."
Her stomach tensed. "Let's not blur lines, Mr. Lu."
He leaned back slightly. "You said no names, no attachments. But you gave me your name the moment you introduced yourself in that meeting."
"That was coincidence."
"You think so?"
She met his gaze head-on. "I think you're used to getting what you want."
"I am."
"Well, I'm not one of your acquisitions."
His smile was faint, but real. "Good. You'd be boring if you were."
She laughed, surprised. It slipped out before she could suppress it.
The conversation flowed more easily after that. They talked about nothing significant—books, food, travel. He was sharp, dry, and more introspective than she expected.
And when they stepped out into the street afterward, he walked her to a cab without touching her.
No invitation. No lingering glances.
Just a quiet, "Goodnight, Miss Shen."
And it unsettled her more than if he'd tried to kiss her.
Because it felt like a game.
And she was no longer sure who was winning.
End of Chapter Three.