The sun dipped lower, gilding the sky in molten hues, and outside the towering glass walls of Rothenberg Industries, the world was preparing for something beautiful.
The courtyard had already transformed—ivory silks wrapped around iron columns, crystal chandeliers suspended in golden arches, fresh orchids lining the walkways in quiet bloom. Even the air felt scented with anticipation. All that remained was nightfall, and everything would begin.
Inside his office, Bai Qi sat still.
Not working. Not reading.
Just thinking.
His elbow rested against the polished arm of his chair, one hand curled at his chin while the other gently slid open the slim black velvet box beside him.
And there it was.
The ring.
Silver like frost, shaped like a whispering vow, the central stone catching the light with a fire only seen in dreams. It shimmered not just with its worth—but with intention, with hope, with the softness that Bai Qi never allowed the world to see.
He stared at it, a blush rising faintly to his cheeks. Tonight, he thought. Tonight, I'll give it to her.
The price didn't matter.
The brand didn't matter.
Even the celebration didn't matter.
What mattered was that Qing Yue would be his.
And he, hers.
His breath caught for a moment. Then—
A knock.
He blinked, startled out of his private moment, and cleared his throat. "Enter."
The door opened.
And in stepped someone he hadn't seen in almost a month.
Shu Yao.
His presence was quieter than the knock itself—like a wisp of wind that carried autumn with it. His once-short hair had grown, now trailing down his back like a pale waterfall, tied loosely with a black ribbon that swayed with every gentle step. His posture was straight, respectful. His eyes lowered.
"Good afternoon," Shu Yao said softly, placing a file on the edge of the desk. "The updated guest list, Sir."
Bai Qi blinked.
For a moment, something inside him stirred—not romantically, not knowingly—just… nostalgia. A small ache of a memory he couldn't name. Shu Yao looked different. Grown. Pale as porcelain and just as breakable-looking, and yet there was something strangely unbreakable about him too.
He hadn't seen him in weeks. Not since…
"Wait," Bai Qi said before Shu Yao could turn away. "Is Qing Yue here yet?"
Shu Yao paused.
He nodded slightly, though he didn't meet Bai Qi's eyes. "She said she's almost here. Just a few minutes."
Bai Qi's entire face lifted—smiling, too obviously, too fast.
"That's great. Just great," he said, laughing under his breath. "Why don't you sit a moment? You look like you've walked all the way here. It's been a while, hasn't it?"
He gestured casually to the guest chair across from him, the same one Shu Yao had once sat in, long ago.
But Shu Yao hesitated.
"No, thank you," he said softly, the words firm but kind. "I still have things to settle."
"Come on," Bai Qi said again, smiling. "Feel free to talk with me—"
But Shu Yao had already stepped back.
His hand reached for the doorknob. "Forgive me, Sir."
Before Bai Qi could protest, Shu Yao opened the door—gently, with both grace and grief—and stepped outside.
The door closed behind him with a whisper.
And in the quiet that followed, Bai Qi simply stared, unsure why the moment left behind such a strange, cold echo in his office.
Outside, just beyond the polished wood and silence, Shu Yao leaned his forehead against the door for one fragile second.
He closed his eyes.
His hands remained loose at his sides, but his heart—oh, his heart was clenched, aching with something that had no name. Not rage. Not jealousy. Just ache. The kind that doesn't shout. The kind that doesn't beg. The kind that simply… breaks.
He had seen the ring.
He had seen the blush.
And he had seen enough.
But still—he moved on. He always did. One step at a time.
Because that's what you do when the person you love is in love with someone else.
You smile in silence.
You bow politely.
And you leave before your tears become someone else's burden.
Behind the door, Bai Qi picked up the ring again—smiling, still caught in his golden dream.
Unaware.
Utterly unaware…
That someone's heart had just slipped through his fingers like dust.
The hall outside the executive office was quiet—too quiet, as if even the walls knew how to hold their breath.
Shu Yao stepped forward, spine straight, ribboned hair swaying softly with each measured footfall. His ankle had healed almost completely, but the quiet limp of heartbreak remained, disguised in poise. His eyes, once so open to the world, now gazed forward with the distance of someone who had learned not to reach.
He reached the lift.
Pressed the button.
The polished metal doors slid open with a whisper, and Shu Yao entered alone.
Or so he thought.
Just before the doors could close, a sudden thud of hurried footsteps echoed from down the corridor. A hand shot forward to stop the closing doors—and in a gust of movement, another figure rushed in.
He was panting softly, blazer half-buttoned, a lock of sun-gold hair falling across his brow. His eyes—green, sharp, feline—looked up, and then locked instantly onto Shu Yao.
"Geschafft... auf den letzten Moment," he muttered in German between breaths. (Made it… at the last moment.)
Shu Yao blinked, caught off-guard.
The stranger had entered without apology, without even a glance—just the soft arrogance of someone who had always been allowed everywhere. Shu Yao's brows lifted faintly in disapproval. He turned his head to the side, cool and curt—a small, deliberate act of resistance.
Then, the young man spoke again, this time aloud, still in Deutsch:
"Entschuldigen Sie, elegante Dame—wissen Sie, wo das Büro des Chefs ist?"
("Excuse me, elegant lady—do you know where the boss's office is?")
Shu Yao's spine straightened even further.
His lashes lowered.
His mouth twitched.
Elegant lady…
His head turned slowly—gracefully—until his chocolate eyes met the stranger's face.
And in flawless, silken German, he answered:
"Ganz oben. Wenn Sie aussteigen, gehen Sie nach links. Die große Tür gehört dem Chef."
("Top floor. When you get out, go left. The wide door belongs to the boss.")
The man blinked—stared—visibly stunned.
Not just by the words.
But by the voice.
Low. Polished. Unmistakably male.
Wait…
His gaze dropped—gathering details now, as if his eyes had failed him before. The curve of Shu Yao's throat. The quiet strength in his jawline. The posture—so elegant it deceived.
"Oh… mein Gott…" the stranger whispered, stepping forward instinctively. "Du bist ein—?"
He stopped himself, suddenly aware of the proximity.
But curiosity won over manners. He leaned in—close enough to breathe Shu Yao's air—and without shame, raised a hand to his chest as if comparing something… trying to confirm some cosmic error of beauty.
And that was enough.
Smack.
A sharp, practiced slap echoed through the steel walls of the lift—clean, loud, elegant.
The stranger stumbled back a step, stunned, his cheek now kissed with blooming red.
Shu Yao stood still, not a hair out of place. His ribbon fluttered softly down his spine like a silk verdict.
Then came the final blow—spoken in refined, icy German:
"Vielleicht sehen meine Lippen weich aus, aber das heißt nicht, dass du sie zählen darfst."
("Perhaps my lips look soft, but that doesn't mean you're allowed to count them.")
The stranger opened his mouth—closed it again. He pressed a hand to his cheek, laughing nervously now, embarrassment overtaking his arrogance.
The lift chimed. The doors opened.
Shu Yao stepped out without another word, robes of poise trailing behind him like a whisper that stung.
Behind him, the man stood still in the lift—eyes wide, mouth parted.
And he muttered, half to himself, half to the universe:
"…Was für ein Teufel in einem Tempel aus Rosen…"
(What kind of devil lives in a temple of roses…)
And the doors closed.
Shu Yao didn't even notice.
Not when the lift door whispered shut behind him.
Not when his shoes clicked softly against the marble floor.
Not when his name echoed faintly through the corridors in a voice asking, "Could you deliver this to the boss?"
He didn't notice the ribbon that had once bound his hair — fallen, abandoned on the lift floor like a dropped memory.
He had simply reached up, felt the absence, and sighed.
Then, without a word, he plucked a pencil from behind his ear — an old habit, a quiet act of resilience — and twisted his hair up again, securing it in a loose knot. Several strands fell around his cheeks like silk drapery, framing his features in accidental grace.
The assistant had already vanished.
And Shu Yao was left behind.
Alone.
Again.
With a soft breath, he gathered the file to his chest and began his steps toward the office — a long hallway stretching out like a slow unfolding of fate. Every footfall echoed, but he walked like mist — barely there, yet lingering.
He raised his knuckles to the door.
Before he could knock, a voice — cold, firm, and polished as crystal — called from within:
"Enter."
The door creaked open.
Shu Yao slipped inside, silent and small, only for his breath to catch the moment his gaze lifted.
The boss — tall, formidable, back turned — was speaking to someone in fluid German, voice composed but edged with businesslike steel.
And the someone…
Shu Yao's eyes widened.
It was him.
The same man from the lift. The rude one. The idiot.
The one who had blushed at him, called him a lady, leaned too close, and received a slap for his boldness.
He was here.
In the boss's office.
Speaking to his boss.
Shu Yao instinctively turned his head to the side, attempting to hide behind his own curtain of hair. He didn't know whether to run, vanish, or simply dissolve into the wallpaper.
"Where is the file?" the boss asked, his voice like frost across lakewater.
Shu Yao stepped forward—each step hesitant, as if afraid the ground might judge him. He placed the folder gently on the desk, careful not to make noise.
But the man… oh, the man was staring again.
This time harder.
As if Shu Yao were a portrait and he couldn't tell whether it was oil, dream, or illusion.
His lips parted slightly, and in soft, slightly reverent German, he murmured:
"Chinesische Menschen… sind wirklich so schön…"
(Chinese people… are truly this beautiful…)
Shu Yao flinched—not visibly, but inside, his nerves trembled. He glanced away again, pretending to focus on the polished floor.
The boss said a few more words—quick, clipped—in German. The man nodded, replying with ease, and then turned to Shu Yao with a different expression now.
Gentler.
More… sincere?
"Warten Sie, bitte."
("Wait, please.")
The words reached Shu Yao's ears like soft static. His heart tapped once, twice, too fast.
He didn't reply, but he did not move either.
The boss turned toward the window, taking a call. The stranger stepped forward slowly, one palm up in peace, and gently closed the office door with a click.
The silence between them was tense. Thick.
And then, he reached into the pocket of his coat.
Shu Yao took half a step back. Instinct.
The man didn't react—just drew out something small, something silk, something black.
The ribbon.
The very same ribbon that had fallen in the lift, now curled like a sleeping shadow in the stranger's palm.
His voice dropped low. Gentle. Apologetic.
"Es tut mir leid…"
("I am sorry…")
He extended the ribbon with two hands, as if offering penance.
Shu Yao stared at it — fingers trembling at his sides. He didn't move for several seconds, the air thick with awkwardness and something that almost felt like remorse.
Then slowly, delicately, like brushing against glass, Shu Yao reached forward and took the ribbon back.
His fingers brushed the man's for the briefest second.
A tremor shot through him.
But not from contact.
From being seen.
From being mistaken.
From being remembered.
With the ribbon once again in his palm, Shu Yao stepped back. His voice barely a breath:
"Danke…"
Then he turned, not trusting himself to speak again.
Behind him, the man whispered one more thing under his breath—too soft to be heard, too earnest to be forgotten.
And Shu Yao…
Walked out of the room, ribbon clenched in one hand, pencil still in his hair, beauty trailing behind him like the last note of a broken sonata.