The night hung low and heavy; beyond the floor‑to‑ceiling windows, the city nightscape glowed in gold.
Seated at the head of the top‑floor conference room, Song Lie tapped the tabletop with her slender fingertips, each crisp sound like a countdown clock.
She pushed a black card to the other end of the table, her tone without warmth.
"This month's living expenses. The password is six zeros."
On the other side, the man held a fountain pen between long fingers, his eyes lowered as if he hadn't heard. His face was sharply contoured, his brows and eyes still youthful, yet there was a steadiness in him out of keeping with his age.
At last he looked up, the corner of his lips lifting in the faintest smile.
"Thank you—sister."
Song Lie did not like him calling her "sister." From his mouth, those two syllables always seemed wrapped in a thin, sharp sarcasm.
Three years ago, when her father was critically ill, he entrusted the guardianship of a stranger to her, saying: the son of a friend who had once saved his life. The boy's name was Lu Yu. The Lu family went bankrupt; his parents met with an accident while on the run, and he was the only surviving heir.
Song Lie was a queen of the business world, accustomed to control and decision‑making. She arranged everything for him: the best school, a private apartment, a fixed monthly allowance. Generous, proper, and with clear boundaries drawn. In her plan, this relationship was simple and safe—she was the one in control; he would be grateful, dependent; and when he graduated from university, they would go their separate ways, not interfering with each other.
But Lu Yu neither tried to please her nor kept his distance. He could endure in silence; there was a quiet patience hidden in his eyes that often gave her a strange illusion—as if she was the one being watched from the dark.
The conference room door was pushed open; the secretary brought in a few documents. Song Lie stood, her steps neat and brisk, and said coolly, "Next month's card, go to Finance and collect it yourself. There's no need to come to me specially."
Lu Yu gave a soft "Mm," stood up, and walked toward the door.
Just as the door was about to close, he suddenly looked back, smiling gently:
"Sister, see you next time." It sounded like a farewell, and also like a promise.
Song Lie had always been decisive; this time, she chose to take the initiative to create distance. First she called the driver: "From now on, don't pick Lu Yu up to and from school. Let him take the subway himself." The reason—students need exercise. Then she reduced his living expenses from twenty thousand a month to eight thousand, with a cool suggestion attached: "Learn to manage your money. Don't cultivate a habit of dependence."
Not only that, she also found him a part‑time job—temporary data entry at a remote storage center.
Just the commute took two hours; in winter, the cold cut to the bone. She had thought these arrangements were enough to make a young man complain, even turn against her. But when Lu Yu received the assignment, he only said, lightly, "Alright," without a single extra word.
A week later, late at night after a business engagement, as Song Lie was on her way home, she passed a high‑end Western restaurant downtown and, through the floor‑to‑ceiling windows, saw a familiar back.
In the dim, warm light, Lu Yu wore a bartender's uniform, the cuffs of his shirt neatly rolled to his elbows. His movements were smooth as he shook the cocktail shaker; the liquor drew a perfect arc in the air, fell into the glass, and shone with a golden glow.
As if sensing her gaze, he raised his head and met her eyes through the glass. After a beat, he curved his lips and said softly, "Sister."
The sound was cut off by the glass, yet it was as clear as if spoken right beside her ear. Song Lie withdrew her gaze and turned away, her steps a little faster than usual.
But she knew those eyes followed her back all the way.