I swear, the boardroom turned messy out of nowhere. It wasn't screaming, not quite, but the sharp tones, raised voices, and clipped interruptions made it feel just as tense. Like one of those chaebol-style dramas Ningyao had exposed me to, where the suits clash over "supply chains being cut off" and "market stability."
In dramas, this was the part where someone slams the table and yells. I almost braced for it.
…Okay, correction. The handsome heir was right there. Jinyu had just walked in, slipping into the head of the table like he owned the place—because, well, he did. His sleeves were rolled neatly to his forearms, the cut of his suit sharp enough to shame the crystal glassware on the table. Even his hair, a little too long at the front, couldn't soften the way the room froze the second he sat down.
Xu Jinyu, every bit the perfect male lead—except instead of staring soulfully at me across a rainy street, he was calmly dismantling someone's entire financial model in two sentences. The moment he picked up his pen, the room fell into absolute silence. The power he held wasn't loud—it was suffocating.
One of the staff came in with a polished silver tray, balancing porcelain cups so fine you could almost see the light through them. The steam curled upward, rich and sharp, like even the coffee had been curated. Beside it sat a cut-glass dish, heavy crystal, the kind that refracted light into a dozen tiny rainbows. Inside, neatly arranged, were glossy, still-wrapped coffee candies. It wasn't hospitality. It was artillery. Caffeine in every form, laid out like weapons before battle.
The smartboard flickered to life, projecting the presentation I'd cobbled together the night before with Rui Ming's guidance—and with a lot of quiet corrections from Jinyu's actual secretary.
"This," Jinyu began, his voice deep and maddeningly even, "isn't a temporary market fluctuation. Sanctions announced in France and the U.S. line up precisely with our dip in sales across the EU and North America."
He clicked the remote, and the next chart bloomed into red lines.
"Their measures target not just YSHT and Xuhuang but biotech imports across Shanghai. Which means this isn't about us alone—it's about suppressing the sector before it can threaten their monopolies."
My stomach twisted. Oh. So it wasn't just business gossip. This was humans fighting over who got to sell magic in a bottle.
I glanced down the table. Rui Ming was immaculate as ever, blazer pressed, eyeliner sharp enough to cut glass. Ningyao looked like she'd stepped straight off a Paris runway, pearl earrings swaying as if even this was just another performance. And then there was me, sitting in a pastel blazer that screamed cupcake-crashed-a-boardroom.
Some of the directors—Guanfeng, Yifan—looked visibly unsettled, trading wary glances. Others stared blankly at the charts as if willing them to rearrange into something less damning. And then there was Yixuan, calm as ever, untouched by the storm brewing around him.
A hand shot up from further down the table, one of the junior managers, too high, too fast.
"But—what if the Western investors decide to pull out?"
Another one jumped in before he could even finish. "Should we put a halt to the European campaign? Just delay launches until—"
Their panic was catching, voices layering over each other in a way that reminded me more of interns in a group chat than executives in a luxury boardroom. For a second, the room started to splinter.
And then Rui Ming leaned forward. Not hurried, not flustered—just leaning on the table like the calmest person alive, her tone dry and firm.
"If we play defense every time someone makes noise, we've already lost. Investors don't buy stability—they buy the story of stability. If you feed a rumor, it grows. If you ignore it, it dies."
The juniors immediately fell silent. It wasn't scolding; it was more like she'd pulled the air out of their panic with one sharp pinprick.
Rui Ming's words still hung in the air, heavy enough to keep everyone's mouths shut but light enough to invite thought. One or two of the juniors shifted in their chairs, embarrassed at how quickly they'd let fear run them in circles.
And then Ningyao spoke up.
"Exactly," she said, voice smooth as glass. "Silence isn't weakness—it's control. Think of it like a perfume launch. If you release too early, the notes muddle. If you release too late, the market moves on. Timing is everything."
Her words didn't carry the same cut as Rui Ming's, but they glided instead, elegant and deliberate. She leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other, her expression calm in a way that was almost infuriating. "We don't waste resources swatting at gnats. We prepare the room for when it matters."
Some of the older managers exchanged glances; they weren't used to hearing someone so young, so poised, reduce Western competitors to "gnats."
Rui Ming didn't correct her, didn't contradict her—just let the parallel stand, as if they had rehearsed it. In truth, they hadn't. It was simply how their strengths clicked: Rui Ming grounding the panic, Ningyao lifting the vision.
Even Xu Jinyu looked up from his notes for the first time, his gaze shifting between them with a faint flicker of approval before returning to the document in front of him.
The juniors, meanwhile, were now scribbling furiously in their notebooks, as if those two sentences had reset the entire temperature of the meeting.
The room had just steadied—barely—when Ningyao tilted her head, eyes glinting with the kind of quiet mischief that always meant trouble for someone.
"Of course," she added lightly, almost as if she were commenting on the weather, "this isn't exactly unprecedented. The French and Americans have never hidden their distaste for Chinese products. Sanctions are just the polite version of saying it."
A few pens froze mid-scribble. Heads turned.
She let the silence stretch, her words curling into the air like smoke. "And if you look at Yanchun's latest campaigns… the phrasing, the aesthetic cues—they feel remarkably Western, don't they? A little too polished for a startup."
It was subtle, a single stone dropped into the pond, but the ripples were immediate. One of the directors coughed into his fist, another frowned, and Guanfeng's jaw tightened as though he was doing the math in real time.
Rui Ming's expression didn't change, though her fingers tapped once against the table—an almost imperceptible beat of warning.
Jinyu finally set down his pen. His tone was even, but the weight in it drew every gaze back to him. "Speculation," he said. "Until proven otherwise, we stick to data. The second you build decisions on rumor, you've already given the other side power they don't deserve."
For a heartbeat, no one dared to speak.
Then, as if nothing had happened, Jinyu turned back to the smartboard and flipped to the next chart, his voice resuming its calm cadence about logistics and forecasts. But the air had shifted. Ningyao's suggestion hung there, unspoken yet stubborn, like the faint aftertaste of perfume you couldn't quite wash away.
I shifted in my seat, reaching for one of the glossy candies in the crystal dish. The wrapper crackled too loudly in the silence, and when I glanced up, Jinyu's eyes had flicked toward me for the briefest second. Not annoyed, not indulgent—just sharp, like he noticed everything. Which, of course, he did.
The meeting carried on, clinical and precise, but my mind was buzzing louder than the caffeine on my tongue. If Ningyao was even half-right, then Yanchun wasn't just an upstart brand. They were dressed in borrowed feathers—Western ones, no less. And the sanctions weren't just about trade. They were about killing a story before it spread. A story where Chinese science could beat them at their own game.
So when Jinyu finally set down his pen and said, "Meeting adjourned," something inside me lurched.
"Wait," I blurted before I could stop myself. All eyes turned to me. My pulse kicked into overdrive. I wanted to crawl under the table and disappear, but my mouth apparently didn't care. "If they're playing dirty in the shadows, then why don't we shine a light on them? Show the world exactly how these sanctions came to be."
Silence. Heavy, pressing.
"That's reckless," one of the directors muttered, tugging at his tie.
"Or," I shot back—though my voice trembled at the edges—"it's the only way to remind people whose side they're really on. Ordinary people hate seeing injustice. If we expose this, public opinion could turn against them. Against the whole machine they're running."
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Rui Ming lean back in her chair, unreadable, fingers drumming once against the armrest. Ningyao's lips curled into the faintest smirk, like she'd been waiting for me to light a match.
And Jinyu… Jinyu just looked at me. Not the polite flick he gave shareholders, not the bored glance he gave graphs. Really looked. His jaw was tight, but his gaze didn't move, as if he was turning my words over like a puzzle piece.
My cheeks burned. God, why did I always blurt things out? I tugged at the sleeve of my pastel blazer, the fabric suddenly too warm, and whispered, "Was… was my idea bad?" My hands twisted together in front of me, practically begging for mercy on their own.
He didn't answer right away. He just closed his folder with maddening calm, set his pen neatly on top, and finally spoke.
"You think in terms of people," he said. His tone was quiet, unreadable, but it settled like a stone in the silence. "Not projections. Not strategy. People."
I blinked, thrown off. "…Is that good?"
That was when he let the tiniest smirk slip, eyes flicking toward the empty crystal dish. "Depends. People—and coffee candy."
My face went hot. "I wasn't stress-eating! I was—"
"—bracing for war?" he supplied smoothly, that teasing edge threading through his calm again.
I made a noise somewhere between a huff and a squeak. "…You're impossible."
For the first time that entire meeting, the corners of his expression softened. Just barely. But enough to make my pulse stumble. "It's dangerous," he said, voice lower now. "But sometimes necessary."
And then, as if nothing had happened, he stacked his papers. The room felt steady again, but my thoughts were anything but.
Instead of leaving like the others, his gaze lingered on me. "Let's talk more about your idea," he said simply.
My brain short-circuited. Wait. What?
Before I could ask what he meant, he was already standing beside me, tall and maddeningly composed, one hand brushing against the back of my chair like it was the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it was the caffeine, or the fact that I'd just embarrassed myself in front of half the board, but when I stood, my fingers instinctively curled into his sleeve.
…And then refused to let go.
He didn't comment, didn't shake me off. Just let me cling as we stepped out into the corridor together. Which, of course, meant every passing employee saw it. The rustle of whispers bloomed instantly, sharp and quick as perfume notes in the air.
"Did you see that?"
"Isn't that the new assistant?"
"They looked… close."
My ears burned, but Jinyu didn't so much as blink. His stride was steady, like he'd expected this all along. Which only made me want to sink into the carpet.
By the time we reached his office, my pulse was rioting. He opened the door and stepped aside for me to enter first. Gentlemanly. Annoyingly calm.
He shut the door behind us with a soft click. The office was dimmer than the boardroom, all glass and quiet shadows, the kind of space that felt too private, too charged.
I turned to say something—anything—but froze when I caught the way he was watching me. Not the usual unreadable CEO stare. This one lingered. It pinned me to the spot.
"You've been looking at me like that for weeks," he said, voice low, almost amused. "Did you really think I wouldn't notice?"
Heat rushed to my face. "I—I wasn't—"
Before I could even finish the denial, his hand brushed against mine, deliberate. The next second, he closed the distance between us, and in one smooth motion he lifted me—like I weighed nothing—and set me down on the polished edge of his desk.
My breath caught. The table was cool under my palms, but his closeness made the air burn.
"Careful," he teased, leaning just enough that his words skimmed my skin. "Staring too long can be dangerous."
I swallowed hard, pulse tripping over itself. For once, I couldn't think of a single bold comeback.
And then his mouth found mine.
The kiss wasn't rushed, wasn't frantic—it was steady, unshakable, the kind of kiss that said you're not imagining this, I've wanted it too.
I don't remember if I pulled him closer first or if he did. All I knew was that I clung onto his shirt for dear life, heart pounding like it might give me away.
And the rest… the rest was history.
But, if I was being honest, the history part had actually started the night before.
Cut to me in the office at midnight, slouched in front of a half-dead laptop, Rui Ming perched on the arm of a chair, and Jinyu's real secretary looking like he regretted every life choice that had led him to babysitting me.
"Headers go here," he said, dry as paper, dragging my crooked text box back into place."Numbers need sources," Rui Ming added, flipping through my notes and striking out half of them with ruthless precision.And me? I was just blinking at the smartboard templates like they were coded in hieroglyphics.
It was messy, awkward, chaotic—but somehow by sunrise, the presentation actually looked… presentable.
So no, I wasn't some genius strategist in that boardroom. I was just the girl who'd stayed up too late with coffee candy in her pockets, being tag-teamed by two terrifyingly competent people, trying to prove I wasn't just an accessory to Xu Jinyu.