The quarterly review had been scheduled for an hour, but it ended in eleven minutes.
Director Huang stood before the conference screen, palms damp against his folder. Three department heads had checked the report themselves. Their teams had checked it again. No one brought Zhao Jingshen a document without wishing they'd reviewed it one last time.
Yet here they were.
"Regulatory delays at Port Luyang, Chairman. We're working with—"
Zhao Jingshen turned a page.
"Which regulation?"
Huang opened his mouth and closed it.
No one moved. Even the man seated beside him stopped tapping his pen.
Zhao Jingshen slid the manifest across his desk. One container appeared on two arrival records, at ports separated by hundreds of kilometres. Four hours apart.
It was impossible.
He didn't ask Huang to explain what the document already proved.
"Original records and security logs. Within the hour."
Huang swallowed. "Understood, Chairman."
The screen went black.
Chen Li, Zhao Jingshen's executive assistant, was already sending instructions. He knew his employer well enough not to mistake quietness for calm. At thirty-two, Zhao Jingshen had turned Zhao Corporation into an empire whose competitors watched his decisions almost as carefully as his own directors did.
He demanded accuracy because a careless signature could cost thousands of employees their livelihoods. He also knew the difference between a mistake and someone hoping he wouldn't notice one.
"Internal access?" Chen Li asked.
Zhao Jingshen nodded.
That was enough. Chen Li knew where to begin.
Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse office, cutting a hard line across the desk. Zhao Jingshen's charcoal suit was immaculate, his posture relaxed, his face giving away nothing. An industry magazine had once described his features as offensively handsome.
The journalist responsible had not been invited back.
Chen Li glanced at his tablet. "Sir, the Grand Imperial gala is tonight."
A pause.
"Must I?"
"The Zhao Foundation is a principal sponsor, sir."
Zhao Jingshen said nothing.
"Miss Lian has informed the organisers she'll be arriving with you. She requested photographers."
"Decline."
"I have. Twice."
The office door opened without a knock.
A woman in an ivory dress swept in, diamonds flashing at her throat. Lian Fei was beautiful in the carefully cultivated way of women accustomed to turning an entrance into an event.
Her perfume reached Zhao Jingshen before she did.
To other people, the fragrance was probably sweet. To him, its heavy floral notes had always been almost pungent, as though someone had crushed an entire garden into a bottle and left it in the sun.
"Jingshen! Why are you ignoring my calls?"
She used his name as though they shared an intimacy he had never granted her.
He continued reading.
"Your secretary said you were busy. Surely you can spare a moment for your future wife."
Chen Li studied his tablet. He had never been so grateful for a screen.
Lian Fei came around the desk. "Father says the Lian family should make an announcement at the gala. Everyone already expects it."
Zhao Jingshen signed a document and pushed it aside.
"No."
Her smile strained. "No to the announcement, or no to the photographers?"
He lifted his eyes.
"No."
"You know what our families want."
"Then marry our families."
Chen Li almost dropped his tablet.
A faint flush crept up Lian Fei's neck. "You don't have to humiliate me."
"You came uninvited."
She stared at him. Zhao Jingshen had already returned to his work.
For a moment, the polite mask slipped. The woman looking down at him was neither embarrassed nor heartbroken. She was furious at having something she considered hers withheld from her.
Then she smiled.
"Fine. We'll talk tonight."
She left with an angry click of heels. The perfume lingered long after the door shut.
"Should I arrange a separate entrance?" Chen Li asked.
"Yes."
"And prepare a statement?"
Zhao Jingshen turned another page.
Chen Li took that as permission.
---
By afternoon, the office had quieted to the faint whisper of air-conditioning.
Zhao Jingshen loosened his tie and crossed to a panel concealed beside the bookshelves. The wall opened onto a private room furnished with old wood, paintings and an antique desk.
Nothing in this room looked like the office outside.
On the desk sat a photograph of an eight-year-old boy, missing a front tooth, wearing a crooked paper crown. A woman stood behind him, laughing as she straightened it.
His mother.
He could still remember her scent—clean and faintly floral, mingled with fresh tea and the crisp air of the courtyard after rain.
She had loved her children fiercely. The rest of the world had received considerably less mercy.
Once, after a powerful guest insulted a household maid, his mother had ordered the man out before dessert. When the guest threatened consequences, she had simply asked which consequence he preferred to experience first.
He had adored her.
Then, when he was eight, she had left.
No funeral. No explanation he could understand. Only a farewell he had spent years trying to decipher.
If you want to find me, Shen, get to the top.
He had thought she meant the highest office in the family business.
Years later, he was no longer so certain.
He picked up the photograph. The boy's smile was so unguarded it almost hurt to look at.
His father had spent years searching for her, never quite hiding how badly he missed his wife. Three years ago, the moment Zhao Jingshen accepted control of Zhao Corporation, the older man handed over his authority and practically bolted.
He hadn't even waited for the farewell dinner.
For months there had been no news.
Then a message appeared on Zhao Jingshen's phone, sent from an untraceable number.
He's here.
Two words. That was how he learned his father had found her.
The messages from his mother had begun years before. They arrived without warning, always brief, sometimes absurdly well-informed, and never from a number he could call back.
The latest read:
My Shen could never be second. Don't go easy on the old imps.
A smile touched his mouth.
Only she could turn maternal encouragement into a declaration of war.
But he still didn't know where she was.
He set the photograph down and touched the boy's crooked crown with one finger.
"I reached the top, Mum."
The room held its silence.
"Apparently, you had somewhere higher in mind."
---
When Chen Li returned, Zhao Jingshen was back at his desk, his tie fastened, the photograph safely hidden.
"The gala's exhibition is being finalised. An emerging artist withdrew, so they're reviewing a replacement."
Zhao Jingshen held out his hand for the dossier.
"Miss Lian's office called again," Chen Li added.
He took the dossier without comment.
He had agreed to attend for the foundation's scholarship programme, not to provide Lian Fei with a public courtship. Arriving before the guests would allow him to inspect the exhibition and leave the photographers with nothing useful.
"Car."
"Yes, Chairman."
At the Grand Imperial Hotel, staff moved briskly through the corridors, carrying flowers and framed artwork. Zhao Jingshen followed an attendant toward the exhibition room.
He would have walked past its open door, but a painting caught his eye.
A city at dawn. A cleaner sweeping. A fruit vendor arranging her stall. The first sunlight touching a parked car.
Inside sat a man with his eyes closed.
From within the room came a woman's voice, easy and unselfconscious, explaining why the people in the painting had no time to admire the sunrise. Then her tone changed, just slightly, when she spoke about the man in the car.
Everyone else in the painting appeared to be moving forward. The man behind the glass looked as though he hadn't yet decided whether he could.
Zhao Jingshen stopped.
Something unpleasant tightened beneath his ribs.
He stepped into the room.
"Why is the man in the car alone?"