"Something funny, Mr. Fang?" Wang Zhixin smiled.
"Nothing. Just… had a drink or two. Feeling good. Fire away." He flushed, caught off guard.
"You're newly appointed as Special Assistant, right?"
"Officially, as of eight hours ago. Not announced yet."
"The press banquet—you said you want to uncover the truth. But isn't this also about intimidating Zhengyang?"
She saw right through him. Impressive.
"Why Zhengyang? No proof links them. We want the real culprits."
"From what I've heard, Zhengyang partnered with a Japanese firm to take over Tianfu's core project. They even got planners to swap the commercial street for villas, costing Donghua a fortune. That's motive."
"Is it?"
"Donghua dug up the only road to their villas, freezing their construction. This attack? It reeks of Zhengyang."
Fang Tianzhuo hid a smirk—she'd said exactly what he wanted the world to think.
"If that's how you see it, I can't stop you."
"Tomorrow's headlines will scream it. But I won't."
He blinked, surprised.
"Why?"
"Because that'd play right into Donghua's hands. You laid out the timeline, the grudges—never naming Zhengyang, but pointing every camera at them."
He admired her sharpness, her nerve. Pretty, smart—was there a connection? He found himself comparing her to Yanran, over and over.
"With all due respect, that's speculation. Not evidence. If you'll excuse me." He stood, ending the interview.
Outside, the night air bit at his skin. Less than 24 hours ago, he'd watched his girlfriend walk into a hotel with another man. Now he was here, center stage. Life moved too fast, jagged and unforgiving.
Where to go? Home? Had Yanran left? What if she hadn't? He checked his phone—still no calls. Two decades of love, reduced to silence. He pulled up her number, finger hovering over "call." What would he say? Congratulations? Screw you?
"Mr. Fang? No car?"
He turned. Wang Zhixin leaned out of a sleek Mercedes sports car, smiling.
"Just… stretching my legs. Needed air." Fresh air? In this winter wind? He was hiding his lack of a ride, and he knew it.
"Where do you live? I'll drop you off." She sounded genuine.
"No, thanks. Not sure I'm heading home yet." Panic flared—what if she wanted to "check in" at his shabby apartment? It'd ruin the image he'd built. Men were such fools for pride.
"Fair enough. See you around, Mr. Fang." She gunned the engine, vanishing into the night.
Watching her go, he wondered: Who was Wang Zhixin? Young, driving a Mercedes… Like Chen Yuqi, another rich beauty in a city where he felt poorer by the second. Maybe she was some tycoon's mistress. He didn't care. Pretty women came with stories—too many to keep up with.
Home was empty. Yanran was gone, no trace left—no clothes, no note, nothing. The bed felt huge, foreign. The place might as well have always been a bachelor pad.
He survived the night, reporting to Luo's office at dawn. Rui Jie, the secretary, ran the chairman's office—managing paperwork, schedules, confidential matters. Though they were equals in rank, they worked side by side in glass-walled offices, curtains open, visible to each other. Efficient for oversight, awkward for… everything else.
By 10 AM, he'd briefed Luo, who praised his speed. The city was ablaze with Tianfu news—newspapers, TV, social media. Zhengyang was in the crosshairs, just as planned.
With the next step—visiting officials—on hold (timing was key; he needed them to feel the heat first), Fang Tianzhuo found himself with time to kill. Through the glass, he watched Rui Jie work. Sunlight slanted over her, highlighting her long, pale legs beneath a short skirt. She was around 30, divorced, a top grad from a prestigious foreign language school. Years had stripped away girlishness, leaving a mature allure—sharp features, hair pulled back, a pink suit clinging to curves that screamed experience.
Heat coiled in him. She was stunning. Did she and Luo…? He studied her, like a painting.
Suddenly, she turned, catching his gaze. A moment later, his phone rang.
"Mr. Fang? Need something?" Her voice was crisp, professional.
"Uh, yes. I need to schedule visits to government offices. How do I arrange a company car? Through you?" He scrambled for an excuse.
"Actually, you should have your own car by now. I'll ask the chairman this afternoon." She softened, seeing through him.
"Thanks, Ms. Rui."
"Please—we'll be working closely. Call me Sister Rui. I'm older, after all."
"Then call me Tianzhuo. No 'Mr. Fang'—too formal. Let me treat the office to lunch today, get to know everyone. You'll come, right?" He'd learned to smooth-talk these past few days.
"How kind. I should be the one welcoming you, but today's packed. Rain check? Tomorrow, my treat." She was as polished as Luo—words, actions, all perfectly calibrated.
After lunch, he checked in with lawyers and department heads, fine-tuning the official visit strategy. By evening, the office was empty—except for Rui Jie.
He tapped on her door. "Still here? Dinner? My treat."
"Can't—college friends are dragging me shopping. Here." She handed over a Volkswagen key.
"Talked to the chairman. Your car's in the lot—plate ends with 3542. No driver, though. You can drive, right?"
"Absolutely. Thanks, Sister Rui."
He hurried out, grinning. In the lot, a sleek black Passat—slightly used, but hers—waited, plate 3542 glinting in the fading light.