CHAPTER 15
Time moves with the cadence of a Swiss watch: precise, inevitable. It's been a month since Ling started working for me. Thirty days in which I've watched her with the patience of a hunter who feels no rush to catch his prey.
At first, she seemed stiff, uneasy in my presence. Every time she stepped into my office, her back would tense with the slightest jolt, as if my words were commands carved in stone. But little by little, I've noticed the change: she's learned how to move in my world, to respond with more ease, even if her posture still betrays a hint of resistance. I know she's in that in-between space, the blurred terrain where she hasn't yet decided whether to see me as just another boss—or as the man who, sooner or later, will become the center of her universe.
She doesn't know it yet, but she will.
I rest my elbows on the desk and interlace my fingers as I stare at the computer screen. Lu Wen has handed me her performance reports. As expected, Ling is efficient, precise in her tasks, meticulous with every document that crosses her desk. But what interests me most isn't her work at Tian Enterprises, it's what happens outside of it.
Eight hours a day aren't enough to accustom her to my presence. I need her to see me in every possible light, to have my image etched into her subconscious until it becomes an unshakable certainty.
I've begun increasing the frequency of our interactions. At first, they were just occasional meetings; then I gave her more responsibilities, small tasks that force her to run into me in the hallways, to ride with me to important meetings, to share silences that are becoming more natural.
She thinks it all happens by chance, but nothing in my life happens by chance. Every move has been calculated with the precision of a strategist who leaves no room for error. Ling has been lucky since she arrived in Canton—a kind of luck that, if she were more observant, would start to seem suspicious.
Her apartment is better than she ever imagined: located in a prime area, with every comfort she could want, and the rent is absurdly low for the level of luxury it offers. When she mentioned in the office that the hot water wasn't working properly, the technicians arrived in less than ten minutes to fix it.
She doesn't ask why, doesn't question how it's possible that whenever she needs a cab, one is already waiting at the door. She doesn't notice that, if it rains, there's always an umbrella available at reception, just in time. Everything is designed to make her life in Canton perfect: no worries, no inconveniences, an existence tailored to fit her.
And all thanks to me, though she doesn't know it yet.
Every night, when she returns home, Bo is waiting at the window. That cat is the luckiest creature on earth. He's the only one who gets to touch her whenever he pleases, the only one who sleeps in her bed without being invited. I've seen the security footage from the building's entrance: Ling talks to him as if he were human, strokes him with the same tenderness she'll one day use to trace the lines on my face.
I lean back in my chair and exhale slowly.
For years, no thought had ever managed to unsettle me. But now, the image of her holding that animal, allowing him a closeness I still don't have, stirs a sensation I've never felt before.
The only thing that soothes me is knowing that the cat is her only companion. There's no one else. No friends. No suitors. No meddling ex-boyfriends hanging around. She's alone—and I plan to fill that void.
Businessmen follow a basic rule: never get attached. Not to projects, not to partnerships, not to people. But Ling isn't a passing whim. She isn't just another name. She's the one.
The month she's spent at my company has been, for me, a month of self-restraint. Just having her near, watching her in silence, tracking her every move—that's been enough. But patience has a limit, and mine is running out.
I want more. And I will have it.
I've started including her in more meetings. Every decision, every major contract, every key discussion… I want her there. Not because I need her, but because I want her to see what I am, what I control, the world she now belongs to. She thinks it's because of her talent. And she's not wrong—but she's not entirely right either.
I want her presence in my company to become so essential that, when she stops to think about it, she won't remember what her life was like before Tian Enterprises. Because once someone grows used to a life of power and exclusivity, they can never go back.
In my residence, time passes with an unusual stillness. I'm sitting in my study, a glass of whisky in hand, reviewing reports on the computer screen. They're meaningless documents, figures I memorized days ago.
My mind is elsewhere. Fixed to a specific address. A few blocks from here.
Lu Wen has sent me a report on her day. Ling worked without issue, had lunch at the company cafeteria, and returned to her apartment without any detours. By now, she's most likely petting her cat, reading a book, or preparing the tea she always drinks before bed.
I've lost count of how many times I've imagined her at that moment: hair down, expression peaceful, believing she's alone.
But she isn't. She never will be.
I glance at one of the monitors beside me. A black-and-white video shows the entrance to her building. It's a security camera, part of the building's general system. This isn't an invasion of her privacy. I'm not spying on her.
I'm protecting her—from everything. Even from herself.
I smile, running a finger along the rim of the glass. The month of truce is over. Ling doesn't know it yet, but she's entering the second phase of my strategy.
Until now, she's only grown used to the idea that I'm part of her environment, that she sees me every day, that her life has changed. But soon, that closeness will become more intense.
I'll make it impossible for her to ignore me, and when she finally realizes there's no way out… it'll already be too late.
Because by then, she will be completely mine.
CHAPTER 16
The elevator rises slowly, as if struggling to push its way through the building's floors. I rest my head against the padded wall and exhale heavily, trying to ease the weight of exhaustion that's been clinging to me for hours.
It's been a month since I started working at Tian Enterprises—long enough to understand that every day is a test of endurance. The pace allows no breaks, no space for distraction, and although I've managed to adapt, there are days when fatigue clings to my body like a second skin—impossible to shed.
The elevator doors slide open softly and I walk down the dimly lit hallway. Just being at home brings me comfort, even if that relief only lasts a few seconds. I slip the key into the lock, and a familiar sound greets me from the other side.
"I'm home, Bo," I murmur, pushing the door open with some effort before a ball of grey fur darts nimbly between my legs.
As always, my cat welcomes me with a sharp meow, leaps onto the sofa, and watches me with those round, shiny eyes that demand immediate attention.
"Don't exaggerate," I say, absentmindedly stroking his back. "You haven't been alone that long."
He replies with a theatrical huff before curling up with an air of superiority. Despite my exhaustion, I can't help but smile.
I head into the kitchen, pour myself a glass of water, and savor the cool liquid as my body begins, slowly, to loosen up—though that relief is brief.
A sharp sound in the hallway makes me turn my head. I frown and walk toward the door, driven by a mix of curiosity and unease. Ever since I moved in, the apartment across from mine has been empty.
As I crack the door open, a shiver runs down my spine. Stacked boxes by the entrance to the unit across the hall mean that has changed. Before I can process it, a deep, calm voice breaks the silence:
"Good evening, neighbor."
Time seems to slow. I lift my gaze with a strange feeling in my stomach—a mix of disbelief and unease—and there he is: Mr. Han, standing at the door of the apartment next to mine, wearing an expression that's impossible to read. The air catches in my lungs.
It can't be.
He's wearing a dark shirt, the top buttons undone, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His stance is relaxed, but there's something in his gaze that makes the hallway feel narrower, as if the space were contracting around him. I blink several times, trying to make sense of what I'm seeing. Him? Here?
"You…?" My lips part, but the question dissolves before it fully forms.
Mr. Han tilts his head with that same composed air he always carries, as if every moment were written into some invisible script.
"Surprised?"
My thoughts pile up, searching for a logic that doesn't come. My boss—the man who carries authority like a decree—is now my neighbor.
"I'm moving in," he adds in a tone as firm as it is final, leaving no room for questions.
The words repeat themselves in my mind. Moving in?To this building? I press my lips together discreetly, trying not to let the agitation under my skin show. I don't need to ask—he already has a response ready.
"My assistant found this apartment as a temporary arrangement," he explains with the same ease he might use to announce a routine meeting. "It seems my residence has been invaded by termites. Rather inconvenient, as you can imagine."
The explanation is so ridiculous that, for a moment, I wonder if he actually expects me to believe it. Termites? A man with access to the most exclusive properties in the city ends up here… because of termites. I make an effort not to react.
"What a… coincidence," I manage to say, trying to sound neutral, though my voice carries an unmistakable tension.
The corner of his mouth lifts in a barely-there smile, a smirk that never quite takes shape.
"Fate has interesting ways of acting."
I'm not entirely convinced this has anything to do with fate. A heavy silence settles between us. Too many questions hang in the air, but none will receive real answers.
"I hope my presence won't be a bother," he says with irritating calm. "I'll try not to cause any trouble."
Of course. Because Mr. Han is the very embodiment of discretion.
"I'm sure you'll know how to behave," I reply without thinking, and the amused glint in his eyes tells me I've reacted exactly as he expected.
He nods slowly.
"Of course. Though I should warn you—my work keeps me busy at odd hours. You may see me coming in late."
His tone holds something strange, as if there's a layer hidden beneath the surface. Or maybe it's just my imagination.
"I hope that won't be an issue," he adds, as if waiting for a protest.
"It won't be a problem," I answer as formally as possible.
I don't want my thoughts to betray my words. He glances at the boxes beside his door before focusing on me again.
"I'm still settling in. I'll have to ask for a bit of patience while I adjust to my new surroundings."
I can't tell if he's being sincere or if there's something more beneath his words. With him, it's never easy to distinguish what's obvious from what's deliberately hidden.
"I hope you have a pleasant stay," I say with a slight nod, eager to end the conversation.
He doesn't move right away. His gaze remains locked on mine, as if evaluating every reaction, as if searching for something I can't quite grasp. Finally, he exhales an almost imperceptible breath.
"Sleep well, Zhi Ling."
His voice—low and modulated—turns every syllable into a command disguised as courtesy. My name, spoken by him, rings with an unsettling familiarity, as if it had always been resting on his lips, waiting for the right moment to be said.
I nod without replying and step back, closing the door more carefully than necessary. When I turn around, Bo is sitting on the floor, watching me with inquisitive eyes.
"Don't say anything," I mutter, resting my forehead against the wood.
Bo yawns lazily and lies down, as if he's just scolded me without saying a word. Ignoring him seems like the wisest choice. I inhale deeply, trying to sort out my thoughts.
Mr. Han is my neighbor, and I'm sure this has nothing to do with termites.
CHAPTER 17
The alarm rings insistently, piercing the stillness of dawn. I open my eyes with difficulty, feeling the weight of sleep clinging to my eyelids. I inhale deeply and sit up slowly in bed, fully aware that this isn't just another day.
Mr. Han is my neighbor.
The thought slips into my mind like a silent warning. It's no longer enough to keep my guard up at the office; now I must do it here as well, in my own home. I run a hand over my face and glance toward the other side of the bed. Bo watches me from the pillow with his usual lazy eyes, as if waiting for some earth-shattering revelation.
"How am I supposed to act now?" I ask him, letting my head fall back.
I don't expect an answer, but talking to Bo always helps me sort through the chaos in my mind.
The cat blinks with absolute calm, completely oblivious to my dilemma.
"It's not just the office anymore," I add with a sigh. "Now I have to stay alert here, too. What do you think, Bo?"
Bo lets out a meow the exact moment I place his breakfast in the dish. I press my lips together in resignation.
"You're selfish," I mutter with feigned indignation. "All you care about is food. You're no help at all. Do you even remember who feeds you?"
Unbothered, he begins devouring his food with utter devotion. My problem, clearly, is of no concern to him. I shake my head with a tired smile and get moving. I need to hurry.
The hallway is quiet when I step out of the apartment. Just as I close the door behind me, a shadow enters my peripheral vision, and I freeze.
There he is: Mr. Han, immaculate in his dark suit, watching me with a calm so perfect it seems rehearsed.
"Good morning, Miss Zhi."
His voice sounds as composed as ever, not a hint of awkwardness or hesitation in his gaze.
"Good morning," I reply, trying to make my tone sound equally indifferent.
I take a step forward to continue my journey, but his next words stop me cold.
"Since we're both headed to the office, you'll come with me."
The ease with which he says it throws me off. It's not a question, not even a suggestion. It's a foregone conclusion. I open my mouth, ready to refuse, but I know any excuse would be pointless.
"I had a taxi booked…"
"Cancel the booking," he says without looking away. "There's no reason to take separate cars when we're going to the same place."
I cross my arms, skeptical. It could be a coincidence, but something about this feels too convenient. Was this really unplanned? I hesitate. I can't say yes, but I don't dare say no.
He presses the elevator button with the assurance of someone who already assumes I'll follow, and he doesn't even look at me. He knows I will. I bite my lower lip in irritation and take a deep breath before giving in. There's no way out.
Outside the building, a sleek black luxury car is waiting. One of Mr. Han's bodyguards moves to open the rear door, but he stops him with a slight gesture. The man steps back without a word of protest.
My boss takes a few steps toward the vehicle and, with a disconcerting ease, opens the door himself. A small gesture—if it weren't for what follows: he places a hand on the car's metal frame to keep it from hitting me as I get in.
My mind goes blank.
The movement is so fluid, so instinctive, it doesn't feel rehearsed. It's not a forced courtesy but something he does as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I step in silently, still processing what just happened.
He walks around the car and this time allows his bodyguard to open the door. He sits beside me with the same flawless posture as always, as though nothing had happened. But something has happened—because I'm still unsettled.
I didn't expect that gesture. I can't find a logical explanation for it, and that unsettles me more than anything else.
The ride passes in silence. My thoughts are still tangled in the moment he held the door for me. When the car stops in front of Tian Enterprises, I gather my courage. I need to prevent rumors.
I get out quickly, and as soon as I enter the lobby, I step aside. I don't want anyone to assume we arrived together. I'll pretend we only happened to meet at the door.
But the whispers begin instantly. Glances are exchanged, conversations fade, and eyes follow us with a curiosity that's far too obvious. I can feel it. He feels it. And yet, his expression remains unchanged.
"Seems we caused a stir," he remarks with total indifference.
I look at him in disbelief.
"I didn't cause anything."
He remains composed.
"Nor did I."
I sigh, feeling the frustration creep under my skin. Of course he won't admit anything.
"I don't want there to be misunderstandings at work."
Mr. Han stops and turns toward me, not losing even a shred of that impenetrable calm.
"I can't control what others think."
His tone is so neutral I can't tell whether he speaks from genuine detachment or if there's something hidden beneath his words. Before I can respond, he walks off with that unhurried, steady gait, as if none of it affected him in the slightest.
I remain in place, still feeling the stares on my back. This can't go on. I need to put distance between us. I have to.
But when I step into my office and set my bag on the desk, a question forces its way in—heavy, inevitable, like a shadow I can't outrun:
Can I really walk away?
CHAPTER 18
The monitors flicker with sequences of encrypted code, access logs, and real-time server analysis for Tian Enterprises. Nothing escapes my watch: every transaction, every query, every suspicious access attempt is recorded in the system with the precision of a well-calibrated machine.
I am the first line of defense.
My responsibility is to protect the company's most valuable asset—strategic data, financial operations, everything that, in the wrong hands, could become a weapon. Every day, I analyze vulnerabilities, reinforce firewalls, and ensure that no intruder breaches our security.
Today, there are no alerts. No anomalies. I breathe deeply and allow myself a moment of calm. And yet, the instant I glance away from the screens, my reality shifts abruptly.
Han Qiang has moved into an apartment across from mine.
"Coincidence," he said.
I swipe my fingers across my tablet and review the schedule. Every meeting, every encounter, every decision of the day is synced with his. Even lunchtime, which—coincidentally—we now share. Just in case he ever needs my assistance.
Assistance? For what? When his assistant handles every detail, when everything he does is planned… why does he need me so close?
My fingers tap impatiently on the desk just as the phone rings. I glance at the screen: Han Qiang. I press my lips together before answering.
"Mr. Han."
His deep voice rumbles on the other end of the line.
"Bring me a coffee."
I blink.
"Sorry?"
"A coffee. From your office."
I glance at the state-of-the-art coffee machine resting in the corner. This isn't the first time he's asked—and more than once, I've seen him not even take a sip. Is it just an excuse? But for what?
I take a breath and respond calmly:
"I'll be right there, sir."
I hang up, a strange knot forming in my chest. I shouldn't dwell on it—but it's already too late.
I step into his office with the cup in hand. The scent of freshly brewed coffee fills the air, but it's not that familiar aroma that greets me—it's his gaze. Steady. Direct. As if he'd been waiting for me for a while.
He's not reviewing documents. Not on the phone. He's just there, sitting with one hand resting on the desk and the other on his chin, watching me with an intensity that's impossible to ignore.
"Your coffee, Mr. Han."
I place the cup on the immaculate surface of his desk. He takes it with a slowness that feels almost deliberate, and in that motion, his fingers brush mine. It's a minimal contact, barely perceptible—but enough to leave a lingering sensation on my skin that I struggle to define.
"Thank you," he murmurs, without looking away.
I straighten instantly, forcing myself to ignore what I just felt. He says nothing else. He leans back in his chair, leaving the coffee untouched—just like so many times before. I knew it.
"Is there anything else you need, sir?"
"No."
Then why did he call me? Why repeat this routine?
I shouldn't ask. I should remain silent. But the words escape before I can stop them.
"If you don't need it… why ask me for coffee?"
He raises an eyebrow—just slightly—and for a second, he almost seems amused.
"Are you questioning me?"
His tone isn't harsh, but it's not playful either. I swallow.
"It was just an observation."
"Then allow me to make one in return."
He leans forward slightly, locking eyes with me with a steadiness that roots me to the spot.
"You always bring it, even though you know I often don't drink it."
My pulse quickens. He's doing it on purpose. The realization hits me harder than I expected. Is it a game? Or is there something more I still don't understand?
I try to respond, but the sound of heavy footsteps echoes down the hallway. A voice—sharp and furious—bursts in without warning.
"You have no shame!"
The tone is rough, dripping with rage. A man storms into the office, his presence filling the room. He ignores me completely, as if I weren't even there. Han Qiang doesn't flinch.
"Good morning, uncle."
A chill runs down my spine.
The man plants himself in front of the desk, and the air turns thick, nearly unbreathable.
"Don't give me pleasantries, you bastard! That company was mine!"
"No. It wasn't."
My boss's reply is as sharp as it is calm—a dangerous blend of composure and resolve. But his uncle doesn't back down.
"You knew I was negotiating it!"
"But you didn't buy it."
"Because you stole it from me!"
The shout shakes the walls. His fists clench so tightly that the veins bulge violently beneath his skin. His face, flushed with rage, looks seconds away from the explosion.
"No. I won it. I was the highest bidder."
Han Qiang's words land with the finality of a verdict. The silence that follows is dense, threatening.
"You just want to humiliate me."
My boss leans back slowly, adopting a posture that, in another context, might seem detached.
"I want what's best for my company."
The uncle lets out a dry, humorless laugh.
"For your company?"
His voice turns darker.
"Let me remind you, boy: the only reason you're in that chair is because your father stole it from me first."
A wave of discomfort surges through me. Han Qiang's family past unfolds before me like a dark, tangled history I'm only beginning to glimpse.
"I built this. It was mine."
He remains unmoved.
"Maybe you should take something for your memory, dear uncle—because the facts aren't exactly how you remember them."
The provocation ignites the air. The man steps forward, his expression twisted with threat.
"I'm going to destroy you. I'll tear down everything you have."
His voice drops—low, venomous.
"Let's see how long you can stand before you fall."
And just like that, he turns and leaves. But the threat hangs in the air like a bomb yet to detonate.
Only then do I realize I haven't moved a muscle. I'm still standing, clutching my notebook to my chest, my breathing shallow.
Han Qiang remains motionless. There's no trace of anger in his face, no tension in his posture. Just that same contained silence as always, as if he hadn't just been threatened—but had merely heard a routine statistic.
I draw a breath, still trembling, before murmuring:
"Would you like me to go? Do you need to be alone?"
He lifts his gaze, and his answer comes with unwavering certainty:
"No."
A single word, laden with calm authority that leaves no room for argument. He doesn't explain. Doesn't justify. He simply decides. And somehow, that moves me more than anything else that happened.
He isn't asking for comfort. He isn't seeking support. But he doesn't want to be alone either. He has chosen for me to stay.
Han Qiang is not untouchable. He's surrounded by enemies—even within his own family.
And I… am now part of his world.
CHAPTER 19
The sound of the elevator accompanies me as I ride up to my floor. I don't rush. My mind is still wrapped around the last conversation with my investigator.
"Your uncle's company is on the verge of collapse. He's made too many financial mistakes and is now desperately looking for a lifeline."
That's why he was so out of control. That's why he hurled threats as if they carried any real weight. But I'm not worried about him. I'm worried about Ling.
Before entering my apartment, I pull out my phone and call my assistant.
"I want dinner from the best restaurant in the city. All their signature dishes."
"For how many people, sir?"
"Two. And have it delivered to Ling's address."
I give no further explanation. He doesn't need one.
"Don't worry, it'll be there in an hour."
I hang up and step into my home. The silence greets me with its usual chill.
I toss the keys on the table and walk straight to the bathroom, unbuttoning the top of my shirt. I close my eyes for a moment, and Ling's image rises in my mind: her expression back in the office, the way her breathing quickened as she tried to stay composed, the slight tremble in her fingers as she held the notebook to her chest.
It wasn't fear. It was the sensation of facing something she couldn't control. I know what that feels like.
That's why I want to see her.
I finish undressing and step into the shower. Hot water runs down my skin, easing the tension in my muscles, but my mind stays fixed on her—the way she holds her gaze when she wants to appear defiant, the way she keeps moving forward even in the middle of a storm.
She's brave. More than she realizes.
I dry off calmly and put on comfortable clothes. Without a second thought, I step out of my apartment and cross the hallway. I raise my hand and knock on Ling's door. I hear her footsteps from the other side. I wait.
The door opens and… I freeze.
My brain processes the scene in fragments, like a puzzle I can't quite piece together: her hair casually pulled up, a headband with cat ears perched on her head, soothing under-eye patches giving her the look of a sleepy panda, an oversized worn-out t-shirt with a message that seems aimed directly at me—"I'm an angry tigress"—black leggings, and house slippers shaped like kittens.
I don't know what I expected to find on the other side of the door. Certainly not this.
For the first time in a very long while, I want to laugh. Not out of mockery, but because the image is so unexpectedly tender, so familiar, that for an instant I feel like I've stepped into another world. One without business, without enemies. Just her, with her most authentic side on full display.
"Mr. Han?" Her voice pulls me from my thoughts. "Is something wrong?"
Her brows draw together in concern. I try to compose myself. It's not easy.
"He won't bother you again. Or scare you."
I see her inhale softly, as if needing to be sure it's true. I don't say those words lightly. I've already ensured my uncle can't set foot in the company again. Still, there's something in her expression. Something that doesn't vanish with a single statement. And then, I give in. For the first time in my life, I speak honestly, without barriers.
"I don't want to be alone."
Her eyes widen, but there's no judgment in them. Only surprise. Then, gently, she nods and steps aside to let me in.
"Please, come in."
I cross the threshold of her home and the first thing I notice is the warmth.
Not just the temperature—but everything about it. This is not a sterile space like mine. Here, every object has a story. The walls aren't bare. There are framed photographs holding pieces of her life: an elderly couple I recognize instantly—her parents—and beside them, an old woman with a serene expression and a warm smile—her grandmother. I know how much she means to Ling. I know she has no other family.
My gaze continues scanning the room until it lands on a larger photo: Ling, holding her cat, a soft smile on her lips. The frame is carefully placed, as if it were something sacred in this space.
Something draws my attention away—as if by instinct. I lift my eyes, and I see him.
Bo.
Perched atop the back of the couch, upright and regal, those emerald eyes study me in silence. He doesn't blink. Doesn't move. He's watching.
I know that the first impression with someone Ling loves is critical. So, I wait. I don't call him. I don't approach. I give him space and let him decide.
I hear Ling close the door behind me. I know she's watching too. She wants to see what Bo will do. And the cat, after a long moment of contemplation, leaps gracefully to the floor. With poised steps, he approaches, unhurried. His gaze never wavers as if evaluating every aspect of my presence before passing judgment.
I remain still. I wait.
From years of facing opponents in business, I've learned that some battles are won through patience, not pressure. And this little king of the apartment seems to live by the same rule.
Behind me, I sense Ling's presence. I don't need to turn to know her arms are crossed, that she's quietly assessing the moment. She says nothing—but her silence speaks volumes.
Bo finally stops right in front of me. I crouch down slowly and extend my hand. Not to beckon him—just to let him decide.
The cat sniffs my fingers, his whiskers twitch faintly, and after a few long seconds of deliberation, he presses his head into my palm. I stroke his back gently, feeling the light weight of his body resting trust in me.
"Hello, little one. What's your name?"
The purring he gives me is a silent but unmistakable answer.
Acceptance.
Then I hear it. Ling's breath catches for a moment. I don't look at her right away, but I know she's stunned. Because this isn't normal. Because Bo doesn't do this with just anyone.
I keep petting the cat before lifting him gently. Bo doesn't resist. He settles in my arms naturally, as if he's always belonged there. And when I finally raise my eyes, I find Ling's face frozen in pure astonishment. Her mouth slightly open, brows furrowed in a mix of disbelief and confusion. I can practically see her mind trying to process what she's witnessing.
"He's very affectionate," I remark calmly, stroking Bo's head.
Ling takes too long to respond. She stays there, lips pressed tight, her eyes scanning every detail, as if searching for some kind of logic in what just happened. At last, she steps forward, stops beside me, and mutters in a voice that sounds almost childlike:
"Traitor."
A low, rough laugh escapes my lips. I don't provoke it. I don't plan it. It just happens. Watching her this flustered is, to my surprise, genuinely entertaining. I'm not sure what shocks me more: that Bo accepted me without hesitation—or that I'm enjoying this little betrayal so much.
Ling sighs and gestures toward the couch.
"Don't just stand there."
"Thank you."
I settle into the seat she indicates, and Bo makes no move to leave my arms. On the contrary, he stretches out, rests his head against my arm, and purrs so contentedly it's almost as if he's mocking her. From the corner of my eye, I see her shake her head in resignation.
"I honestly don't understand what's happening here," she mumbles to herself.
Before she can continue lamenting, she turns toward the kitchen.
"I'm going to make something to eat."
"Don't bother, Ling. I've already ordered dinner for both of us."
"What?"
She stops dead in her tracks. Her shoulders tense, and slowly, she turns to face me with an expression of disbelief. I don't know what surprises her more—that I used to with her, or that I planned on dining with her tonight. I study her for a few seconds, unhurried. Bo is still resting on me. I have the upper hand—for now.
"If they're on schedule, they shouldn't be long," I add, still stroking the cat.
"Fancy dinner?" she asks, as if accusing me of living a life without complications.
"The best in the city," I admit, just as she lets out a huff. I raise an eyebrow. "Would you prefer instant noodles?"
She clicks her tongue and crosses her arms.
"I'd prefer you not take control in my home."
"I'll note that down for next time," I reply in the same tone I plan to use with her for the rest of my life.
Ling holds my gaze for a few moments before exhaling quietly and turning back around.
"At least let me make the tea."
I nod without taking my eyes off her. I love seeing her like this. I savor her presence, her small flashes of temper, those barely restrained gestures… and I hope to witness them every single day.