Gu Wanyin arrived at the apartment exactly at seven p.m., suitcase in one hand, laptop bag in the other. She had spent the afternoon in back-to-back meetings, pushing through reports, signing off on contracts, making sure no one could say she was distracted by the CEO's ridiculous game.
The building was in the most expensive district in the city—glass and steel, private elevator, the kind of place that screamed old money trying to look new. The keycard Ye Beichen had couriered to her office that morning worked on the first try. The door slid open without a sound.
He was already there.
Leaning against the kitchen island, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a glass of red wine in one hand. The apartment smelled of garlic, chili, and something citrus. He was cooking.
She stopped just inside the threshold.
"You're early," he said, not looking up from the stove.
"You said seven."
"I said dinner at seven. I didn't expect you until eight."
She set her suitcase down. "I don't like being late."
He glanced at her then, eyes unreadable. "Good to know."
The apartment was everything the company brief had promised and more. Open plan, minimalist, expensive in that understated way that cost more than flashy. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city lights. A kitchen big enough for a restaurant. Two bedrooms down a hallway that suddenly felt too narrow.
"I'll take the guest room," she said.
"The master has the bigger closet."
"I travel light."
He turned off the stove, plated the food—stir-fried beef with black pepper, steamed greens, jasmine rice—and set two places at the island.
She didn't move.
"Eat," he said. "We have rules to discuss."
She sat. Kept her back straight. Armor on.
The food was good. Too good. She hated that.
They ate in silence for five minutes.
Then she set her chopsticks down. "Let's get this over with."
He leaned back, wine glass in hand. "Rules?"
"Professional boundaries. No personal questions. No unnecessary conversation. Separate schedules as much as possible. We appear together only when required for work."
He listened, expression neutral.
"Anything to add?"
He took a sip of wine. "One."
She waited.
"No lying."
She laughed, short and sharp. "You rigged a company-wide lottery for personal reasons and you want to talk about lying?"
His jaw tightened, just for a second. "I didn't say no deception. I said no lying. There's a difference."
"Not to me."
He studied her. "You think I did this to sleep with you."
The words hung between them, blunt and ugly.
She didn't flinch. "Didn't you?"
"No."
"Then why?"
He set the glass down. "Because three years ago, you were the only person who saw me when I was invisible. And I've spent every day since trying to become someone you couldn't ignore."
The silence that followed was heavier than any she'd ever known.
She stood. "I'm going to bed."
"Wanyin."
She paused at the hallway.
"The guest room bed isn't made up. I didn't think you'd take it."
She didn't turn around. "I'll manage."
In the guest room, she locked the door.
Sat on the edge of the bed, hands clasped tight in her lap.
Three years ago.
She remembered a junior analyst who worked late nights, who asked smart questions, who never complained. She had mentored him because he was good. Because he reminded her of herself before the world taught her to be hard.
She hadn't known his name was Ye Beichen.
She hadn't known he would become the man who could buy her company twice over.
She hadn't known he would remember.
The walls of the guest room felt too close.
Thirty days.
She could survive thirty days.
But as she lay in the dark, listening to him clean the kitchen—quiet, methodical, deliberate—she wondered if survival was the same as winning.
And if, for the first time in years, she wasn't sure she wanted to win.