Dinner should have been a respite.
After the council session and the tea with Han Yuchen, Lin Ze found himself craving something that didn't require strategy. He wanted a meal that was just food, conversation that was just words. Instead, he walked into a dining room that looked like a negotiation in disguise.
The restaurant was the same as always. The view, the table, the place setting. But tonight there was something different: a small vase with a single white lily at the center of the table. Its scent was sharp, almost medicinal. A deliberate choice. Lilies were for funerals. Or for beginnings.
Su Yanli sat with a drink in front of her. Not wine. Water with a slice of lime. Her posture was perfect as usual, but he saw tension in the way her fingers rested on the table—slightly curled, as if resisting the urge to curl completely into a fist.
"You're late," she said when he approached.
"You're early," he replied, taking his seat.
She didn't smile. "How was your meeting?"
He watched her for a moment. If he lied, she would know. He decided not to play games.
"Predictable," he said. "He offered me a partnership and threatened me with invisibility."
She arched an eyebrow. "He really thinks he can make you vanish," she murmured. "Interesting."
"I told him no," Lin Ze continued. "I told him you respect strength more than compliance."
Her mouth twitched. "Do I?" she asked softly.
"You do," he said. "You hate being managed. I told him not to try."
Silence settled between them. Their food hadn't arrived yet, but the tension was already being served.
"He told me he prefers uncertainty," Lin Ze said. "That he likes to control narratives. He thinks if I step back, everything will be neat."
She swirled her water with the tip of her straw, thinking. "And if I ask you to step back?" she asked. "Will you?"
He didn't answer immediately. He was aware of her eyes on him. Aware of the lily's scent. Aware that honesty was as dangerous as lies in this room.
"No," he said finally.
Her lips pressed together—not angry, but something else. "Because of ego?" she asked.
"Because of principle," he replied. "He thinks this city will forget me if he stands beside you. He thinks headlines erase substance. He's wrong. People talk about what bothers them. If I disappear, they'll look for me."
"And you want them to?" she challenged.
"No," he said. "But I won't let him control whether they do or not. He has his reasons. I have mine."
She leaned back. "You are not my soldier," she said. "I keep forgetting that. Perhaps because you are so efficient."
"I'm your partner," he corrected. "At least in this."
"In this," she echoed. Then she sighed, a rare sound. "This was easier before," she said quietly. "When my father arranged a match, it was a simple transaction. His empire for mine. Then he died. His lawyers delayed. My mother fell ill. Han's mother insisted on a contract that was more like a marriage license for properties than people. And then you appeared."
"Blame your lawyers for delaying," he said.
She laughed softly. "I blame no one," she said. "Blaming is a waste of energy. I spend energy only where it yields returns."
"And does dinner yield returns?" he asked.
"It yields information," she replied. "I need to know if you will sabotage my alliance."
He shook his head. "I don't sabotage," he said. "It isn't profitable."
"Then what do you do?" she asked.
"I adapt," he said.
"Even if adapting means stepping aside?" she asked.
"No," he said. "Adapting means finding a new route when the direct road is blocked. It means building my own bridge if necessary. It doesn't mean stopping."
She stared at him. Then she nodded slowly. "Fine," she said. "We'll adapt."
The waiter arrived with food. They ate quietly for a while. The tension eased as the plates emptied. Conversation drifted to logistics, stock prices, foundation paperwork. The comfortable language of numbers replaced the precarious language of feelings.
Halfway through dessert, she glanced up. "Han asked me to convince you to keep your distance," she said.
"And?" he asked.
"And I told him no," she replied. "He didn't like that."
"He'll get used to it," Lin Ze said.
"Or he'll look for leverage elsewhere," she said. "He doesn't give up easily."
"I noticed," he said.
She toyed with her spoon. "He's not a bad man," she said. "Just… exact. He thinks if he measures everything, he can control everything."
"Did he measure you?" Lin Ze asked.
"He tried," she said with a hint of a smile. "He failed."
He leaned back, dessert half-eaten. "Why do you stay engaged?" he asked quietly.
Her fingers paused. She looked down at her plate, then back up at him. For a moment, he saw something he hadn't seen before in her eyes. Not vulnerability exactly. But fatigue.
"Because contracts," she said simply. "Because my mother's health. Because my family's obligations. Because breaking an alliance has costs."
"And what about your happiness?" he pressed.
She laughed, a short, brittle sound. "Happiness," she said, tasting the word like it was foreign. "You're assuming I believe in that currency."
He didn't push further. There were conversations that moved the plot forward and conversations that only opened wounds. This felt like the latter.
They finished dinner. As they stood to leave, she reached for her clutch. "Walk me out?" she asked.
He did. In the elevator, she pressed the button for the lobby, then pressed another for the rooftop. They rose in silence. On the rooftop, she walked to the edge and looked out at the city.
"It's almost time," she said. "The gala. The donors. The brooch. The professor. The fiancé. The influencer. All on one stage. It will be messy."
"It will be real," he said.
She glanced at him. "Are you ready?"
"No," he said. "Are you?"
"No," she echoed. They smiled at the honesty.
Then she leaned in and kissed his cheek. It wasn't romantic. It wasn't even affectionate. It felt like a stamp, like a signature across his skin. "See you tomorrow," she said softly. "Please don't embarrass me."
He watched her walk to the elevator, the heels clicking softly. He touched his cheek where her lips had been and felt nothing but pressure. Pressure to perform. Pressure to navigate. Pressure to decide if he would let her fiancé define the narrative or if he would insist on writing his own.
Lin Meiqi waited outside.
She claimed she didn't stalk. She claimed she just had good timing. But Lin Ze wasn't naive. He knew there was a camera lens somewhere pointed at the restaurant entrance. Still, when he saw her leaning against a lamppost, hair in a messy bun, hoodie oversized, he was surprised.
"You look… normal," he said.
She grinned. "I am normal," she said. "Sometimes."
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
"Watching the show," she said. "I wanted to see if you and Su exchanged blows or kisses. Looks like kisses."
"It was not a kiss," he said.
"Ah," she said dramatically. "Then it was a signature. She stamped you."
He rolled his eyes. "Did you have a reason to be here, or are you just adding to the narrative?"
"Both," she said. "I know about your tea with Han. Of course I do. Do you think I only read my own posts?"
"He thinks he can erase me," Lin Ze said.
"He thinks he can outshine you," she corrected. "Erasing is impossible now. Outshining is possible if he stands in the right light. But I can dim the lights if you want."
"I don't need you to sabotage him," Lin Ze said. "I need you to be you. Loud, unpredictable, inconvenient."
She saluted. "As you wish, Captain Chaos," she said. "Speaking of which—tomorrow before the gala, I'm doing a charity livestream for the scholarship fund. You should join for five minutes."
"Why?" he asked.
"Because it will humanize you," she said. "And because it will make the donors nervous. They like the idea of their money helping faceless students. They don't like seeing actual faces. It makes them accountable."
"And you want them uncomfortable," he said.
"I want them aware," she corrected. "Comfort breeds laziness."
"I have a council meeting and a tailor and a dinner," he said. "I don't have time for a livestream."
"You have five minutes," she insisted. "Make them count."
He sighed. "Send me details," he said. "If I can, I'll join."
Her smile lit up. "Good," she said. "Oh, and wear something casual. The internet hates tuxedos before 7pm."
"You're impossible," he said.
"I'm adaptive," she echoed his earlier words. "So are you. See you tomorrow."
She walked away, waving her phone like a conductor's baton. He watched her go. He wondered if he was underestimating how much power she wielded not with money, but with attention. She controlled the narrative as much as Han thought he did. Perhaps more. Her followers believed her posts like they were scripture. And she had chosen to write him into them.
The night before the gala stretched long.
Lin Ze returned to his apartment. He poured himself a glass of water, then sat at his table with a notepad. He didn't often use pen and paper anymore, but there was something grounding about writing physically. He drew two columns.
"Problems" on one side. "Solutions" on the other.
He wrote:
Han Yuchen – controlling narrative – Solution: remain visible on my terms.
Su Yanli – engaged, but uncertain – Solution: support her publicly, maintain independence.
Lin Meiqi – unpredictable loyalty – Solution: leverage her noise to protect me.
Qin Ruo – academic scrutiny – Solution: prepare intellectually, let transparency be my shield.
Scholarship fund – donor backlash – Solution: maintain audits, share stories.
Gala – all eyes on me – Solution: practice neutrality, embrace ambiguity.
He tapped the pen on the paper. It all looked simple in ink. It would not be simple in reality.
His phone buzzed. Professor Qin Ruo's name.
: "Don't forget the donors' names." : "Dr. Wu likes being called Chairman." : "Mrs. Zhao hates being asked about her husband." : "Dr. Shah will test you on literature."
He chuckled. She knew her battlefield.
He typed back.
: "Noted." : "Any last-minute advice?"
She replied quickly.
: "Yes." : "If someone spills red wine on you, use salt." : "It removes stains."
He laughed out loud. Practical advice from a professor. He wondered if she had done this before—walked new donors through the minefield of old money.
The clock ticked. He showered, changed into comfortable clothes, and sat by the window. The city's lights flickered. Somewhere, people were dancing, arguing, sleeping. Somewhere, Han Yuchen was reviewing reports and planning his next move. Somewhere, Su Yanli was adjusting pearls and reading legal clauses. Somewhere, Lin Meiqi was scripting tomorrow's stream. Somewhere, Qin Ruo was grading essays and preparing for the gala.
He pulled out his phone and sent one last message.
To himself, he wrote, in the notes app:
: "Remember why you started." : "Remember you are not beholden." : "Remember they chose you because you don't accept games." : "Remember you are more than a sentence."
He saved it.
He went to bed, knowing sleep would be shallow. Tomorrow, all his worlds would collide under chandeliers and cameras. Tomorrow, he would stand beside a professor, a fiancé, an investor, an influencer, and dozens of donors. Tomorrow, he would navigate wine spills and subtle insults and veiled compliments.
Tomorrow, he would see if his bridge held.