The morning air in the dorm was thick with the scent of Chen Lu's expensive hairspray and the unspoken tension of the previous night. I had barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Lin Xuan on that bridge, the golden light catching the sharp line of his jaw as that beautiful girl looked at him like he was the center of the universe.
I sat at my small desk, nursing a lukewarm tea that Meiling had bought for me. Meiling was relief – a girl who liked ink washes and didn't look at me like I was a bug under a microscope. But even her kindness couldn't stop the nagging feeling that I was invisible in the ways that actually mattered.
"You're brooding," Chen Lu remarked, checking her reflection for the tenth time. "It's a very unflattering look. Almost as unflattering as that thrift store cardigan."
"I'm just tired, Chen Lu," I said, not looking at her.
"Well, wake up. The Dean's assistant was here ten minutes ago while you were in the communal kitchen. You're wanted in the main office. Something about the 'Grand Plan' for the Charity Ball." She turned, a cruel little smile playing on her lips. "I assume Xuan finally told you? Or did he forget you existed the moment a girl with an actual pedigree spoke to him?"
I didn't give her the satisfaction of an answer. I grabbed my bag and headed out.
The Dean's office was even more intimidating than the lecture halls. He sat behind his desk, looking at me with a fatherly sort of concern that felt entirely practiced.
"Miss Reed, sit down," he said, gesturing to a velvet chair. "I trust you are settling in? I hear you've made a friend in the Art Department. Excellent. Integration is key."
"Thank you, Dean. It's…a lot to take in."
"Indeed. Which is why I wanted to discuss the Mid-Autumn Charity Ball. It is the highlight of the semester. A chance for our international students to shine." He leaned back, his eyes twinkling. "I've been speaking with Lin Xuan. He was quite adamant about one thing."
My heart did a small, hopeful leap. Adamant? Maybe he did care about how I felt. Maybe he was going to apologize for the stairs, or the coldness, or…
"He feels that your comfort is the most important variable," the Dean continued. "He spoke very highly of your collaboration with Gu Huashu. He suggested – and I have agreed – that it would be best for you to attend the ball with Huashu as your official escort."
The leap in my heart turned into a sinking drop.
"With…Huashu?" I repeated.
"Yes. Xuan felt that since you are working so closely on your project, and since you've developed such a…' resonance,' as he put it, you would feel more at ease. He was very insistent that he didn't want to overwhelm you with the rigors of his own social obligations."
I felt the blood drain from my face. It wasn't kindness. It wasn't "comfort."
It was a hand-off.
He didn't want to be stuck with me. He didn't want to have to translate for me, or watch me trip, or deal with the 'headache' of an American girl who didn't know which utensil to use. He traded me to his best friend like a piece of unwanted equipment so he could be free to stand on bridges with girls like Mina.
"I see," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "That was…very thoughtful of him."
"Isn't it? He's a remarkable young man. So focused on the success of the program." The Dean smiled, oblivious to the fact that he just confirmed my biggest fear. "Huashu is already planning the attire. I believe he wants to coordinate something 'artistic.' You're in good hands, Allie."
I walked out of the office, the marble hallway feeling miles long. I should have been happy. Huashu was kind, he was fun, and he looked at me like I was a real person. But as I reached the courtyard and saw the library in the distance, all I could think about was Lin Xuan's voice at the noodle shop.
"I am fulfilling my duty…Don't make it more than it is."
He had fulfilled his duty, alright. He had found a way to get rid of me for this event without breaking a single rule.
The Art Studio felt like a sanctuary, the air smelling of fresh cedar and oil paints. Gu Huashu was already there, pacing in front of a massive canvas with a measuring tape draped around his neck like a scarf. When he saw me, his entire face lit up – a stark contrast to the sterile, tight-lipped nods I received from Lin Xuan.
"There she is!" he chirped, tossing a charcoal pencil into the air and catching it with practical ease. "The star of the Mid-Autumn Gala. I assume the Dean gave you the news?"
I leaned against a paint-splattered stool, a swirl of conflicting emotions tightening in my chest. "He did. He said it was Xuan's idea. That he was… 'adamant' about it."
Huashu's smile softened into something more perceptive. He stopped pacing and looked at me. "You don't sound as thrilled as I am, Chicago. Are you disappointed you're stuck with the starving artist instead of the Ice Prince?"
"No! No, it's not that," I said, and I meant it. "I love spending time with you, Huashu. You actually talk to me. It's just…the way he did it. It feels like he looked at me, looked at his schedule, and decided I was a line item that could be easily moved to another column. He didn't even ask me. He just handed me off so he could go back to his fortress and his 'functional' partners."
"That's Xuan," Huashu said, stepping closer and giving my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "He thinks he's playing chess with everyone's lives. But forget him for a second. This is about us. Our project, our night."
My excitement surged, but then I looked down at my worn sneakers and the denim skirt I'd been wearing for two days straight. "Huashu, I can't go. I have nothing to wear. That emerald dress from the gala…that was it. That was my 'nice' thing. I don't have the budget for a Shanghai ballroom."
Huashu let out a dramatic gasp, clutching his heart. "Allie, please. Do you know who you are talking to? You are talking to the man who won the National Youth Award for Textile Design. You are talking to an artist whose father owns half the silk boutiques on Nanjing Road."
He stepped back, his eyes scanning me with a sudden, intense focus – not the cold, judgemental look of Lin Xuan, but the visionary gaze of a creator.
"You aren't buying a dress," he said, his voice dropping into a tone of pure excitement. "We are going shopping for the foundation, and then I am going to customize it. We have a date. Saturday morning. Wear comfortable shoes, because I'm going to turn this city upside down until we find the right fabric."
I stared at him, feeling a flush of warmth. "You've planned this out?"
"I've planned everything," he said, grinning. "The dress, the hair, the shoes. You won't have to worry about a single thing. I'm going to make you the most beautiful exchange student that anyone in that ballroom has ever seen. When we walk in, people are going to forget how to breathe."
For the first time, I didn't just see Huashu as the "nice friend" or the "fun artist." As he stood there, silhouetted by the afternoon sun, radiating confidence and a certain poetic power, he looked…incredible. He was handsome in a way that felt like a melody – fluid, effortless, and magnetic.
It felt like a modern Chinese romance drama that I was always binge-watching late at night, fantasizing about with heart eyes. The cold, distant lead had pushed me away, but here was the second lead, the one with the soul and the smile, promising to turn me into a princess.
"Trust me," Huashu whispered, leaning in so his face was inches from mine. His eyes were bright with a creative fire. "Xuan thinks he's being efficient by giving you to me. But he's actually made the biggest mistake of his life. He's giving me the chance to show everyone – including him – exactly what happens when you let a slow bloom finally reach the sun."
I smiled, my heart fluttering. "Okay. I trust you."
"Good," he said, spinning back to his canvas. "Now, let's get to work. We have a masterpiece to prepare – and I'm not just talking about the mural."
The Saturday sun was a pale, honeyed glow over the Huangpu River, turning the glass of the skyscrapers into pillars of fire. When Gu Huashu met me at the North Gate, he wasn't in his paint-stained linen. He was wearing a tailored black trench coat over a cream sweater, his hair styled in a way that made him look like he'd stepped straight off a billboard in Xintiandi.
"Ready to conquer the city, Chicago?" he asked, twirling a set of car keys around his finger.
"I think the city might conquer me first," I admitted, looking at the bustling streets.
He didn't take me to a student haunt. He drove us to a rooftop terrace overlooking the Bund. The air was crisp, smelling of salt water and the faint, expensive scent of blooming osmanthus. As we sat down to a spread of delicate dim sum and French pastries, the city felt infinite – a sprawling, silver and steel playground.
"Before we start," Huashu said, pulling out a small, leather-bound notebook. "I need to know the 'spirit' of the look. Close your eyes. Don't think about what's 'appropriate.' Think about what feels like you."
I closed my eyes, the sound of the city humming below us. "Gold," I whispered. "But not the shiny, fake kind. Like the light right before it disappears. And…deep, ink wash black. Like the sketches I do late at night."
I heard the scratch of his pencil. "Sunset and ink. I love it. It's dramatic, but grounded. Now," he leaned in, his voice playful, "if you were a flower, what would you be?"
"A peony," I laughed, opening my eyes. "But one that's still a bit tightly wound. Waiting for the right temperature to open."
"A Slow Bloom," he echoed, his eyes crinkling. "Perfect."
The rest of the day was a whirlwind of silk and laughter. Huashu didn't just take me to stores; he took me to ateliers hidden in old villas. We ran through rows of fabric that felt like water between my fingers.
In one shop, he found a bolt of midnight-blue velvet. He draped it over my shoulder, pulling me in front of a mirror. "Too heavy," he decided, though he took a quick photo of me anyway. "It hides the lines of your neck."
In another, he found a gold-leafed silk that looked like molten metal. I tried on a floor-length gown that made me feel like an empress.
"Wait, stay there," he commanded, whipping out his phone. "Look toward the window. Give me that 'I-just-discovered-a-new-world' face."
I laughed, feeling a sudden, giddy sense of freedom. For the first time, I wasn't the "headache" or the "variable." I was a muse. We spent hours like that – me spinning in and out of dressing rooms, and Huashu critiquing every stitch with the precision of an expert and the heart of a friend.
By mid-afternoon, we were in a high-end boutique that felt more like a gallery. I was wearing an almost perfect dress – a sleek modern silhouette with a traditional high collar, waiting for his custom touches.
"Allie, you look…incredible," he said, his voice actually losing its teasing edge for a moment. He stepped behind me, adjusting the fall of the skirt.
We looked at ourselves in the three-way mirror. He stood tall and striking, his hand resting lightly on my waist, and I looked like a version of myself I hadn't met yet. He looked at the reflection, and then at me, and pulled out his phone.
"The word needs to know that the Art Department has officially won the semester," he said, snapping a selfie.
He posted it to the university's social feed instantly: "Designing a masterpiece with my favorite muse. The ball isn't ready for her. #SlowBloom #ShanghaiNights"
I saw the notifications start to roll in – likes, comments, heart emojis. It felt like a public declaration. I wasn't hidden in a library anymore.
"You're spoiling me," I said, leaning my head back against his shoulder as we looked at the photo.
"I'm giving you what you deserve," he countered softly. "And besides, it's a scientific fact: looking this good increases your confidence by 200%. Even Lin Xuan couldn't argue with that math."
We spent the rest of the day getting my hair tested in different styles and picking out shoes that sparked the skyline. As we walked back to the car, laden with bags and the scent of expensive perfume, I realized I hadn't thought about the "stairs" or the "ice" once.
I was the sun. And for the first time, I was starting to believe that I could actually shine in this city.
The day didn't end at the boutiques. As the neon lights of the city began to bleed into the twilight, Huashu steered us towards a restaurant tucked into the upper floors of a glass tower in Xintiandi. It was the kind of place where the water was infused with rose petals and the view made you feel like you were dining among the stars.
"Last stop on the 'Allie Appreciation Tour," Huashu announced, pulling out my chair with a flourish.
We sat by a floor-to-ceiling window, the pulse of Shanghai throbbing below us. Over plates of delicate Wagyu beef and truffle-infused dumplings, we finally dove into the specifics of our project.
"I was thinking," I said, leaning over the table, my eyes bright. "For the mural, we should use that ink-wash technique for the Chicago skyline, but let the Shanghai side be the one that bleeds in color. Like a conversation between two souls."
"Brilliant," Huashu said, though he wasn't looking at the city. He was looking at me. He picked up his phone, the lens capturing the way the candlelight flickered in my eyes. "Stay right there. Don't move."
He snapped a photo – me, laughing, a half-eaten dumpling on my plate, looking more vibrant than I had since I stepped off the plane. He uploaded it to Weibo immediately. The caption read: "Fueling the muse after a day of rewriting the rules of style. #ArtInTheCity #ChicagoToShanghai
"Okay," he said, setting the phone down. "Pickup time for the ball is 7 PM sharp. I'm sending a car for you, and then I'll meet you at the entrance of the Grand Hall. I want us to make a separate entrance. I want everyone – especially a certain someone – to see the finished product all at once."
As we waited for dessert, Huashu's phone buzzed incessantly with notifications from his Weibo post. He laughed, scrolling through the comments, then paused. His thumb hovered, and he tilted the screen slightly.
"Oh, look," he said, his voice losing a bit of its playfulness.
"Looks like the Finance and CS crowd is having their own 'functional' dinner."
I leaned in, looking at his WeChat Moments.
There, at the top of the feed, was a photo posted by Zhang Mina.
It was a stark contrast to our warm, messy dinner. It was a high-end French restaurant, all white linens and sharp silver. Mina was leaning toward the camera, her smile perfectly practiced. Beside her sat Lin Xuan. He wasn't smiling, but he looked devastatingly handsome in a dark suit, his eyes focused on something she was saying. The caption was simple: "Strategic planning for the gala with the best partner. #Efficiency #CharityBall"
I felt a small, cold prick in my chest – the ghost of the "Ice Prince" trying to reclaim my attention.
Huashu noticed my gaze lingering on the screen. He saw the way my smile faltered for a fraction of a second. Without a word, he flipped the phone face-down on the table and slid it into his pocket.
"Don't," he said softly. "The data on that screen is irrelevant to our day."
I took a deep breath, the scent of the expensive osmanthus tea filling my senses. I looked back at Huashu – at how decently handsome he was today, and the way he had spent twelve hours making sure I felt seen.
"You're right," I said, my smile returning, stronger this time. "Nothing can ruin today. Not even a 'strategic' dinner.
When we finally made it back to the international dorms, the moon was high and silver. Huashu walked me all the way to the elevator – the one that, I now knew, worked perfectly.
He was laden with shopping bags from the boutiques, his arms full of the silk and velvet that would soon become my armor. He handed them to me one by one, his movements careful and deliberate.
"Here is your courage," he joked, handing me the largest bag. "And here is your 'Slow Bloom' essence."
He stood in the doorway of the elevator, holding the door open with his foot. He reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear, his fingers warm against my skin.
"Sleep well, Allie. Tomorrow, we will start tailoring. And Saturday? Saturday, we show them that some things can't be calculated."
"Goodnight, Huashu," I whispered. "Thank you for…everything."
"Don't thank me yet," he winked. "The masterpiece isn't finished."
The elevator doors closed, and for the first time in Shanghai, I didn't feel like I was taking a lonely trip to the fourth floor. I felt like I was rising.
The morning of the Mid-Autumn Charity Ball didn't begin with an alarm clock; it began with a rhythmic, authoritative knocking on the dorm room door that sounded like a drumroll.
I sat up, blinking against the harsh morning light, just as the door swung open. A troupe of three people marched in, led by a woman in a sharp black suit with a headset tucked into her bobbed hair. They were carrying rolling vanity cases, garment bags, and a portable ring light.
"Allie Reed?" the leader asked, checking a tablet. "I'm Yuki. Gu Huashu sent us. We have ten hours until the red carpet. We're behind schedule."
Chen Lu bolted upright in the neighboring bed, her silk sleep mask shoved up to her forehead. "What is this? Who are you people? This is a private room!"
Yuki didn't even look at her. She snapped her fingers, and two assistants began transforming my cramped desk into a high-end salon station. "We are the 'Masterpiece' team. Move your moisturizer, dear," she told Chen Lu without looking at her. "We need the surface area."
I sat there, stunned, as the garment bags were unzipped. The dress was – well, calling it a dress felt like an insult. Huashu had taken the gold-leafed silk we found and had it structurally reinforced with a midnight ink overlay. It looked like a sunset caught in a storm.
"Is that…custom?" Chen Lu stammered, climbing out of bed. She walked over the hanging silk, and her hand reached out to touch the fabric.
"Don't," Yuki barked. "Oils. Bad for the gold leaf."
Chen Lu's face turned a shade of purple that matched her expensive pajamas. "Gu Huashu did this? For her? He's a student, not a couturier. This is ridiculous. It's a university ball, not the Met Gala."
"For some, perhaps," Yuki said, and expertly pinned my hair back. "For Mr. Gu, it's a premiere. Now, Allie, skin prep. We are going for 'Glass Skin' with a 'Celestial' finish. Close your eyes."
For the next several hours, I was a living canvas.
The skin: they started with a series of cooling masks and lymphatic massages that made the puffiness of weeks of stress vanish. My skin didn't just feel clean; it felt like polished porcelain.
The hair: Huashu's vision was "Modern Scholar." They didn't give me pageant curls. Instead, they pulled my hair into an intricate, architectural updo that utilized silver ink-wash pins. It made my neck look a mile long and highlighted the sharpness of my jawline.
The makeup: Yuki used a palette of warm ambers and deep charcoals. She didn't hide my features; she sharpened them. A touch of gold leaf was applied to the outer corners of my eyes, shimmering only when the light hit it – like a secret shared between the artist and the muse.
Chen Lu spent the afternoon in a state of agitated silence. She tried to do her own makeup at her tiny mirror, but her hand kept shaking. Every time she looked over at the professional team buffing my skin to a glow, her eyes flashed with a mixture of envy and genuine disbelief.
"You're going to look like a fool," she muttered, though she sounded like she was trying to convince herself. "Xuan hates over-the-top displays. He likes elegance. He likes…restraint."
"Then it's a good thing I'm not going with Xuan," I replied calmly, looking at my reflection. I didn't recognize the girl in the mirror. She looked powerful. She looked like she belonged in a palace.
At 5:30 PM, it was time to put on the dress. It fit like a second skin, the silk whispering against my legs. The bodice was structured like a piece of armor, but the skirt flowed like liquid ink.
Yuki stepped back, crossing her arms. "Mr. Gu was right. The 'Slow Bloom' has finally happened."
She handed me a pair of heels that looked like they were carved from obsidian. As I stepped into them, I gained three inches of height and a mountain of confidence.
The door opened one last time. It was a courier holding a small, refrigerated box. Inside was a single, white peony, its edges dipped in gold.
"For your wrist," the courier said. "Compliments of the artist."
I looked at Chen Lu. She was fully dressed in her own gown – a beautiful, expensive red silk that would have been the star of any other room. But standing next to the "Masterpiece," she looked like a shadow. She didn't say a word as I grabbed my clutch. She just watched me with wide, stunned eyes as I walked toward the door.
I wasn't just going to a ball. I was going to a revolution.
The black university sedan glided to a halt in front of the Grand Hall, its polished surface reflecting the blinding flashes of the paparazzi and student press. The air outside was electric, humming with the sound of a string quartet and the collective gasp of the crowd as the door was held open for me.
I stepped out, the obsidian heels clicking firmly against the red carpet. I didn't stumble. I didn't look down. I felt the weight of the gold-leaf silk trailing behind me like a comet's tail.
And then, I saw him.
Gu Huashu was standing at the base of the grand marble staircase, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe. If he had looked like a drama lead before, he now looked like the emperor of one.
He was dressed in a bespoke tuxedo of the deepest midnight navy – so dark it was almost black, until the light hit the lapels. The lapels weren't silk; they were embroidered with the same gold-leaf thread that adorned my dress, a subtle, swirling pattern that mimicked the movement of ink in water. His shirt was a crisp, snowy white, held together by obsidian studs, and his bow tie was hand-painted silk.
He ditched the haphazard "artist" hair for a sleek, swept-back style that revealed the full, striking symmetry of his face. He looked expensive. He looked intentional. He looked like the most dangerous kind of beauty – the kind that knew exactly how much power it held.
He stepped forward, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made the surrounding crowd fade into a static blur. A slow, triumphant smile spread across his face.
"Chicago," he murmured, his voice a low vibration as he reached for my hand. He bowed slightly, his movements fluid and courtly. "I told you. A masterpiece."
He tucked my arm into his, his hand resting firmly over mine. The contrast was stunning: the ink-black of his sleeve against the golden glow of my gown. We weren't just a pair; we were a composition.
As we began our ascent up the marble stairs, the sea of students and faculty parted like a wave. I could hear the whispers – "Who is she?" "Is that the American?" "Look at Huashu…"
But halfway up, I felt a familiar, chilling pressure. I looked up.
Standing at the top of the stairs, framed by the massive, gliding doors of the ballroom, was Lin Xuan. He was the picture of perfect, cold tradition. His black tuxedo was flawless, sharp enough to cut, and his expression was a mask of unreadable stone. Beside him, Zhang Mina clung to his arm, her red dress a vibrant splash of color that suddenly felt too loud, too simple.
Xuan's gaze was fixed on us. Or more accurately, it was fixed on the way Huashu's hand was pressed against my waist, and the way the gold on my dress perfectly complemented the gold on his lapels.
He didn't blink. He didn't move. But I saw his jaw tighten, a microscopic fracture in his 'functional' armor. He looked at me – really looked at me – and for the first time, I didn't see a guide looking at a student. I saw a man realizing he had handed over the keys to his own kingdom to the person he trusted most.
Huashu felt the tension. He didn't shrink away. Instead, he pulled me a fraction closer, his head leaning down toward mine as if sharing a private, intimate secret.
"Keep walking, Allie," Huashu whispered, his eyes never leaving Xuan's. "The ice is starting to melt. Don't look back."
The ballroom was a cavern of light, mirrored walls reflecting the shimmering heat of a thousand candles. As we crossed the threshold, the low hum of conversations didn't just dip – it died.
I could hear the frantic, hushed murmurs rippling through the crowd like wind through wheat.
"Is that Huashu? In a suit?"
"He hates these things. He usually hides in the back and sketches the buffet…"
"He made that dress, didn't he? Look at the details. He's never done a custom piece for anyone before. Not even for the Dean's daughter."
The realization hit me harder than the weight of the gold silk. I looked up at Huashu's profile – the sharp line of his jaw, the way he carried himself with a quiet, regal authority I hadn't seen in the studio. He had always been the laid-back artist, the one who didn't care about rules or prestige. But tonight, he had stepped into the very center of the spotlight.
He hadn't just "taken care of the clothing." He had made a public declaration. He had used his talent, his family resources, and his own reputation to shield me – to transform me from a "variable" into a masterpiece. This wasn't just a favor; it was a sacrifice of his own privacy.
"Huashu," I whispered, my voice trembling. "They're saying you've never done this before. Why?"
He didn't look away from the path ahead, but his grip on my hand tightened just enough to ground me. "Because usually, the muse isn't worth the effort," he murmured, his voice thick with a sudden, raw honesty. "Tonight, she is."
The orchestra transitioned from a lively concerto to a sweeping, cinematic waltz. The Dean stepped onto the small dais, his voice booming over the speakers.
"In the spirit of the Mid-Autumn Festival – a time for harmony and connection – I invite our Student Ambassadors and their partners to open the floor. Let us celebrate the 'Spirit Resonance' of our international community.
My breath hitched.
At the top of the floor, Lin Xuan moved. He didn't look at the crowd; he looked straight ahead, his expression a fortress of duty. He led Zhang Mina to the center. They moved with a clinical, icy grace – perfectly timed, perfectly spaced, a masterclass in efficiency. Mina looked triumphant, her red dress swirling around his black-clad legs, but Xuan looked like a man executing a complex algorithm. He was there, but he was vacant.
"Our turn," Huashu said.
I hesitated, the fear of tripping in front of the entire university suddenly clawing at my throat. "Huashu, I…I'm not a dancer. I'm going to ruin the dress."
He stopped and turned to me fully, ignoring the hundreds of eyes boring into us. He reached out, his hand cupping my cheek for a brief, electric second. The gold leaf on his lapel caught the light, matching the shimmer on my skin.
"Look at me, Chicago," he said, his eyes burning with that creative fire. "Forget the room. Forget 'Ice Prince.' Forget the steps. Just trust me. I've been composing this moment since the day you walked into my studio. I won't let you fall."
He led me onto the polished wood, stopping just a few feet away from where Xuan and Mina were circling. As Huashu took my hand and placed his other firmly on the small of my back, I felt a shift in the atmosphere.
Xuan's head turned. For a split second, the 'functional' mask slipped. His eyes didn't go to my dress or my hair; they went to the way I was looking at Huashu – with a trust I had never granted him.
The music swelled, a crescendo of violins that felt like a heartbeat.
"One, two, three," Huashu breathed against my ear.
And then, we flew.
The waltz was no longer a dance; it was a physical dialogue. Huashu moved with a predatory grace, his steps larger and more fluid than the rigid, metronomic timing of the Finance students around us. He guided me through the sea of silk, the gold of my skirt fanning out like a sunburst with every turn.
"Watch this," Huashu whispered, a spark of mischief returning to his eyes.
With a masterful pivot, he steered us toward the center of the floor, cutting a diagonal path that brought us directly into the orbit of Lin Xuan and Zhang Mina. The proximity was jarring. One moment, we were drifting in our golden bubble; the next, I was close enough to see the individual silver threads in Xuan's tie.
As the orchestra hit a dramatic minor chord, the two pairs rotated in perfect synchronization. For a heartbeat, we were face-to-face, barely inches apart.
Lin Xuan's hand, resting on Mina's waist, looked like it was made of marble, his knuckles white. His eyes, usually so focused on the horizon of his own ambition, were locked onto mine. They weren't cold anymore. They were dark, turbulent, and filled with a silent, sharp reprimand – as if my very presence in this dress, with this man, was a violation of the laws of his universe.
"You're out of step, Xuan," Huashu said, his voice carrying easily over the violins. It wasn't an insult; it was an observation, delivered with the casual confidence of a man who had already won.
Xuan's gaze flicked to Huashu. "The tempo is 120 beats per minute, Huashu. Perhaps your 'artistic' interpretation has blinded you to the rhythm."
"Maybe," Huashu countered, spinning me in a dizzying circle that forced Mina to sidestep to avoid a collision. "Or maybe I've just found a better song."
Mina's smile was a jagged line of red lipstick. "It's a beautiful costume, Allie. Truly. Though I'm surprised you'd want to stand out so much. In Shanghai, the tallest nail is the one that gets hammered down."
"Then it's a good thing she's a peony, not a nail," Huashu shot back, his hand tightening protectively around mine.
The music shifted again, the strings becoming frantic and high-pitched. As we moved into a series of rapid turns, Xuan's 'functional' mask finally cracked. As he swept Mina past us, he leaned in, his voice a low, dangerous hiss intended only for my ears.
"This isn't you, Allie," he said, the words cutting through the music like a blade. "You're playing a part in a drama you don't understand. Do you think this gold leaf changes the fact that you can't even navigate the stairs of this city?"
I felt the sting of his words – the reminder of the lie he'd told me, the way he'd watched me struggle. But instead of the familiar shame, I felt a surge of something hot and defiant.
I pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes as we passed. "I'm not the only one playing a part, Xuan. I'm the one who finally stopped following your script."
The shock on his face was worth every hour of the makeover. He stumbled – just a fraction of an inch – but it was enough. Mina let out a soft gasp as her heel caught on the hem of her own dress.
Huashu didn't miss a beat. He caught me in a dramatic, sweeping dip, my hair nearly brushing the polished floor. Over the curve of my waist, I saw Lin Xuan standing paralyzed in the middle of the floor, his 'perfect' dance interrupted, his 'perfect' partner flustered, and his 'perfect' control shattered.
The music reached its final, thundering crescendo. The ballroom erupted into applause, but for the four of us, the silence was deafening.
The balcony air was a sharp, cool relief against my heated skin, tasting of the humid river and the heavy scent of incense from a nearby temple. Below, the lights of Shanghai stretched out like a spilled box of jewels, but I couldn't focus on the view. My heart was still thundering in time with the waltz, my blood singing with the adrenaline of finally standing my ground.
"I'll get us some champagne," Huashu whispered, his eyes lingering on mine with a look of fierce pride. "Don't move. You look too much like a lunar goddess to let you out of my sight for too long."
He disappeared back into the golden warmth of the ballroom, leaving me alone with the silence of the stone balustrade. I leaned my weight against the cold marble, the gold-leaf silk of my dress shimmering under the moonlight.
Then, the heavy glass doors groaned open again.
I didn't have to turn around. I knew the cadence of those footsteps – precise, heavy, and deliberate. The air behind me seemed to drop ten degrees.
"The dress is a distraction," Lin Xuan said.
His voice was a low vibration in the night air, stripped of the clinical detachment he used in the lab. I turned slowly. He was standing in the shadows of the stone archway, his tuxedo jacket unbuttoned for the first time, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He looked less like a statue and more like a man who was unravelling.
"Is that all you have to say?" I asked, my voice surprisingly steady. "After everything? After the stairs, and the library, and handing me off to Huashu like I was a problem you couldn't solve?"
Xuan stepped forward into the moonlight, and I saw the dark circles under his eyes – the evidence of the 'efficiency' he'd been using to bury whatever he was feeling.
"I handed you to him because he is the only one who can afford to be reckless," Xuan hissed, stepping closer until the scent of his woodsy cologne mingled with the river air. "I have a path, Allie. A legacy. My life is a series of calculated risks, and you…you are a variable I cannot quantify. You make me skip lines of code. You make me lie to myself."
"You lied to me about the elevators, Xuan," I reminded him, my voice trembling with a mix of anger and something I didn't want to name. "You wanted me to be tired. You wanted me to be small."
"No," he whispered, his hand reaching out as if to touch the gold on my shoulder before he caught himself. "I wanted you to see that this city is hard. I wanted to see if you would give up before I let myself… before I let myself care."
He looked at me then, his gaze traveling over the 'Masterpiece' Huashu had created. "He made you beautiful," Xuan admitted, the words sounding like a confession of defeat. "But he doesn't know the cost of gold. He doesn't know what it's like to be the person who has to keep the world from freezing over while you're busy dreaming of living a life you know nothing about, in a city you know nothing about."
He was inches away now. I could see the pulse jumping in his throat. The "Ice Prince" was gone, replaced by something raw and desperate.
"Then why are you here, Xuan?" I challenged him. "If I'm such a dangerous variable, why didn't you stay inside with Mina? Why are you out here in the dark with me?"
Xuan didn't flinch. He didn't look away. Instead, he took one slow, deliberate step towards me. The moonlight hit his face, and for the first time, I saw the "Ice Prince" look human – exhausted, frustrated, and hauntingly beautiful.
"Because the logic doesn't hold," he whispered, his voice cracking. He reached out, his fingers hovering just an inch from my cheek, close enough that I could feel the radiant heat of his skin. "I told myself you were a distraction. I told myself you were a project. But I spent the entire night in that ballroom watching the doors, Allie. Not because I was waiting for the Dean. Because I was waiting for you."
His hand finally made contact, his thumb grazing my jawline with a touch so light it was almost a question.
"I handed you to him because I thought it would fix the system," he said, his eyes searching mine, dark and turbulent. "But watching him look at you…watching the way he's allowed to see you…" He trailed off, his jaw tightening. "It didn't fix anything. It just made me realize that I've spent my entire life building a fortress, and I forgot to leave a door for anyone to get in."
I looked at him, the silver pins in my hair feeling heavy, the gold on my skin feeling like a lie. "You don't get to do that, Xuan. You don't get to be cold for weeks and then come out here and tell me you've been watching the door. You let me walk up those stairs. You let me think I was a 'headache'."
"I know," he breathed, leaning in until our foreheads almost touched. "I know. It was a failure of the highest order."
Before I could respond, the heavy glass doors creaked open. The spell shattered.
Huashu stepped out, two crystal flutes in his hands, his expression shifting from a triumphant grin to a sharp, narrowed suspicion as he saw how close we were.
"Xuan," Huashu said, his voice dropping an octave, losing every bit of its usual playfulness. "I thought you were busy calculating the ROI of your dance with Mina."
I felt Xuan's hand drop from my face as if he'd been burned. I looked at Huashu, then back at the man who had just admitted his entire world was failing. The anger, the champagne, and the sheer hurt of being a "variable" boiled over into a sudden, reckless decision.
I didn't want to be a variable anymore. I wanted to be the one who chose the outcome.
I turned away from Xuan, reached out, and snatched the full glass of champagne from Huashu's hand. I drained it in a single, burning gulp, the bubbles stinging my throat as I slammed the empty flute onto the marble railing.
"Allie?" Huashu started stepping towards me. "Wait, maybe –"
I didn't let him finish. I grabbed him by the lapels – the gold-threaded silk he'd made for me – and pulled him down into the kiss that changed everything.