If not for Si Yuan's constant needling, Si Chen would never have come here.
It had started casually enough, him mentioning, with studied innocence, that a certain someone was so hard up he'd been wearing socks with holes in them. Then came the pointed look, and the firm reminder that this, apparently, fell squarely within her area of responsibility. When she thought about it, he had a point. It really had been a long time since she'd sorted out his wardrobe. Since dropping things off at his place directly was out of the question, the next best option was his office.
"Hi there, I have a delivery for Mr Yu Hao, clothes he ordered from our store. Could you make sure he gets these?"
She'd been navigating tricky situations like this for years—it was practically second nature. Mask up, parcel handed over, a flight-attendant smile fixed in place—bright, professional, and designed to close conversations. She was almost out the door.
Then she spotted Xiao Yang through the glass—a woman jabbing a folder in her direction, laying into her with the kind of sharpness that only came with years of practice.
Three things registered, almost simultaneously.
One: that was her person. She wouldn't dream of speaking to her like that herself—so no one else had the right to either.
Two: that woman's delivery was crisp and pointed, delivered with a performer's conviction, the kind of authority that takes years to build. You didn't get that sharp without practice.
Three: the rest of the office had gone completely still. Every face wore the look of someone walking on eggshells—and Si Chen felt a small, unexpected pang of sympathy.
Then came the parting shot, dropped with the casual authority of someone who'd already decided the matter: "From now on, anything for Mr Yu goes through me first."
Si Chen's brow lifted. A slow, cool smile crossed her face.
Big talk.
She exhaled through her nose, turned, and walked away.
In the lift, she typed a message to Xiao Yang: "12 p.m., coffee shop downstairs."
By the time they sat down, Xiao Yang's eyes were already threatening to spill over.
"Chen…"
There it was—she'd been wronged. Badly. She didn't need to ask. The words came tumbling out, weeks' worth of it, all at once.
"That woman… the marketing manager, barely been here a year, came over from Shanghai with Mr Yu… she's good at her job, I'll give her that, but she walks around like she owns the place. I'd just come back from maternity leave, was doing my reports the same as always, and suddenly every single document for Mr Yu has to go through her so-called 'review' first…"
Si Chen listened, already sorting through the key points in her head.
Li Xiaoyang. Her most dependable right hand, back in the day—thorough, steady, the kind of person who never made enemies on purpose. By the time Si Chen left four years ago, Xiao Yang could have run the foreign trade operation in her sleep. Three years ago, it was Si Chen who had personally placed Xiao Yang with Yu Hao, steering her into a finance role.
"There's one more thing, Chen." Xiao Yang dropped her voice, choosing her words carefully. "I think… she has feelings for Mr Yu."
Si Chen's expression didn't flicker. The corner of her mouth lifted, barely.
"I know."
That answer—and the complete absence of alarm behind it—was enough to put Xiao Yang at ease. Anything less would have been an insult to the years they'd stood shoulder to shoulder. It was the kind of calm that only came from knowing exactly where you stood.
Si Chen smiled and steered things where she needed them to go.
"So—what's the general verdict on the boss's lady?"
"Mr Yu is extremely self-disciplined and never lets anything about his personal life slip, nobody knows anything, really. Most people know he has a teenage son; Si Yuan's been interning here over the holidays. He doesn't go out much after work, just goes straight home. There was one time, though—the cashier Ms Weng forgot to get his signature for payroll and went to his apartment. She said a woman answered the door. Mid-forties, she guessed. Looked like she was from the countryside, plainly dressed, no education to speak of, no sense of style. That's all it took for the rumours to start."
"Perfect."
She had everything she needed.
Si Chen slid a bag of baby products and supplements across the table, steering the conversation toward the baby. Of course, it didn't work.
"Chen… if there's anything else you want to know—"
"There is. Your work email. Login and password."
Soon afterward, Si Chen turned the key in the familiar lock and exhaled slowly.
The moment the door swung open, something she hadn't expected hit her all at once—and something between amusement and resignation crossed her face. Everything was exactly as she'd left it. The same layout, the same palette, the same Eiffel Tower print leaning against the wall at its usual angle—not a degree off.
She couldn't help a wry smile. Two years ago she might have called this tasteful. Now, standing in it again, all that black and white and grey just felt tired now, worn out.
Why was she even here? Just for a few clothes, perfume, and facial cleanser? She couldn't entirely explain it, even to herself.
The shelves were bare. A handful of shirts hung in the wardrobe, almost startlingly sparse.
In the corner, a bottle of perfume was nearly empty. He'd never been one for wearing it; she used to leave the cap off and tuck it into the wardrobe so the scent would work its way into his clothes. He'd never said a word against it.
The bathroom was immaculate. She noticed the cleanser—the one Si Yuan had brought back from Europe last year. It had been watered down; he'd been stretching it out. No wonder Si Yuan had specifically asked her to bring a new one.
Had time really carried them this far, this quietly?
She dropped onto the sofa, staring at the grey walls, an itch she couldn't name, a need to do something—anything.
This place needed something fresh.
Three hours later, she was back from IKEA, replacing the old pieces one by one, cushion covers, throws, small ornaments, until the whole space felt different.
She stopped at the Eiffel Tower print. By rights, Van Gogh's Almond Blossom would have broken through all that oppressive black and white far better, the blues and whites would work beautifully with everything she'd just brought in.
The housekeeper arrived mid-transformation, took one look at the sea of blue-green, and her face fell immediately. Had Mr Yu approved any of this? Especially the painting, he'd left very specific instructions about keeping it at exactly that angle.
That painting. She had set it down against the wall by accident, years ago, hadn't even got around to hanging it. And he'd been maintaining its exact position ever since, as if it were a sacred relic?
The man's compulsions were truly beyond saving.
But if he wanted to make that his problem, fine. If it didn't make sense, she wasn't going to try.
The light was fading. Her eyelids were getting heavy. He was away all week—which meant the bed was entirely hers.
When the lights came on, Yu Hao stopped short in the doorway.
For a moment, he was convinced he had the wrong door.
The whole space had been rearranged—colour where there had only been monochrome, softness where everything had once been stark. Only the Eiffel Tower print, still leaning where it always had been, told him this was still his home.
She'd been here. It had to be her.
Nobody else could have done this.
He sat down heavily on the sofa, sinking into cushions that were new to him. His eyes moved slowly around the room. Every corner bore her mark. His clients had gone to the trouble of booking him into a hotel by West Lake, thinking the view might help him unwind. And yet here was the only view that actually did anything for him. This was his alone, worth driving back through the night for, no matter the hour.
Work filled his days. This—whatever she'd left behind—was what he came home to at night. It was the only thing that eased the longing he carried with him, endless and unrelenting.
Yuan's early Christmas present, the boy had said. He loved it. That boy could come and collect his reward whenever he pleased.
Warmth rose in his chest first, then something heavier, harder to name. She'd come. She'd been here. But was she still angry? The question settled in him and stayed, a tightness with nowhere to go.
He rubbed at the space between his brows, then crossed to the drinks cabinet and poured the last of the plum wine—barely half a glass. The cold came straight at him, and he let it sink deep into his bones, then raised the glass and drank.
The clock on her phone read 1:47 a.m., Beijing time.
Si Chen didn't know how long she'd been asleep, or how many times she'd surfaced and gone under again. She just knew she wanted to keep sleeping. Seven hours' time difference—hardly anything—and somehow her body still hadn't sorted itself out.
The sleeping pills were in her bag. She knew that. But getting up felt like an unreasonable amount of effort, and she kept telling herself that if she just lay there a little longer, sleep might come back on its own.
Fine. She was lazy. Too lazy to even fetch a glass of water.
Eventually, she couldn't hold out any longer. She padded barefoot to the kitchen, pulled the water bottle from the fridge, washed the pill down. The cold hit her throat and she shuddered.
She was turning back toward the bedroom when the balcony door swung open.
A rush of freezing air.
She went completely still.
"Yu Si Yuan, you absolute liar!"
Yu Hao was just as caught off guard. But he recovered faster—reaching back to pull the balcony door shut behind him. Then his eyes were on her, scanning her up and down, brow furrowed.
"Why are you dressed like that? Where are your shoes? You'll freeze."
Si Chen had nothing. She lowered her head without a word, and retreated to her corner of the sofa. Yu Hao was already moving—he picked up a jacket from nearby and draped it over her shoulders, and leaned down slightly, his voice lowering.
"What did you just take?"
"Sleeping pills… jet lag still hasn't sorted itself out."
Her voice came out small, like a child who knew she'd done something wrong. He looked at her for a moment—the particular look of someone deciding not to say the obvious thing—then got up and went to the kitchen. He filled a glass with water, put it in the microwave, and brought it back warm. Si Chen wrapped both hands around it and felt the heat work its way through her palms.
"I thought you were away."
"Something came up. Came back early."
Silence settled between them—not uncomfortable, just still.
Her eyes drifted to the wall, to the Almond Blossom print. She thought about his obsession with the Eiffel Tower canvas. A small, smug smile crept onto her lips.
"Not bad, right? I spent half a day on this."
"I love it."
He said it simply, without hesitation, and lowered himself onto the sofa beside her. They both looked at the Eiffel Tower print, still leaning against the wall where it had always been. Neither said anything for a while.
Then he exhaled softly and ran his hand gently over her hair.
"Don't take too many of those pills. Get some sleep."
Before she could respond, he'd already lifted her carefully and carried her back to the bedroom. He set her down, pulled the duvet over her, and folded her against him.
She didn't pull away.
The pills were doing their work. Her eyes fell shut, and she let herself go—breathing him in, that familiar mix of cigarette smoke and wine, and beneath it all, the faint trace of her own perfume lingering on him.