Yinlin woke to the scent of linen and cedar.
The sheets beneath her were softer than anything she owned, and for a long, disoriented moment, she didn't move—only blinked up at the pale morning light filtering through sheer curtains.
This wasn't her bed.
Her breath caught.
She sat up too fast, heart pounding. Her head ached dully, her limbs heavy, her dress wrinkled from sleep. The room was unfamiliar, but luxurious. Tastefully masculine. Cool-toned art on the walls. Dark wood furniture. The kind of suite someone powerful would keep ready — not to impress, but to control.
And then she smelled it.
Faint, but unmistakable.
Cologne. Subtle, expensive, and sharp — bergamot, smoke, and something darker. The same scent that lingered on elevator buttons and passed her in the hallway at work. The same one she swore clung to her skin some nights after he stood too close.
Xu Tao.
Panic licked up her spine. Her eyes darted around — her heels by the wall, her purse neatly placed on a low marble table. Her coat draped over a chair.
Everything untouched.
Too untouched.
There was also a steaming cup of coffee on the bedside tray. And a folded note with her name on it, written in a hand she somehow recognized without remembering why.
A bedside tray held a cup of coffee, steam curling lazily upward. Beside it, a small plate of cut fruit. Pears. Skinned. Seeded. Arranged. And a folded note, her name written across it in a hand she somehow recognized without knowing why.
Her stomach twisted.
She slid out of bed. Her feet sank into plush carpet. Her body ached—not bruised, not sore, but unsettled, like it had been moved without permission and was still catching up.
She didn't need to look at the note.
She heard him before she saw him.
The quiet clink of porcelain. The soft scrape of cutlery. Domestic sounds, absurdly normal, drifting in from the adjoining room.
She pushed the door open.
Xu Tao stood at the dining table, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tablet propped in one hand as he buttered toast with the other. The morning light caught in his hair, softened the sharp lines of his face. He looked rested. Unbothered. Like this was an ordinary morning following an ordinary night.
He glanced up.
"Good morning," he said calmly. "You're awake."
Her throat worked. No sound came out.
"I was about to check on you," he added, as if that were the most natural thing in the world. "Sit. You'll feel worse if you stand too long."
She didn't move.
He set the tablet aside and pulled out a chair for her, unhurried. "Breakfast?"
"What happened," she said finally. It wasn't a question.
"You passed out," he replied smoothly. "After one drink. You hadn't eaten much. Low blood sugar, most likely."
The explanation came pre-packaged. Reasonable. Gentle. Almost considerate.
"I don't remember anything."
"I know." He poured coffee into a second cup, added cream without asking. "You were exhausted. Completely gone."
Her hands curled into fists. "Where am I?"
"My suite."
Her pulse jumped. "Why?"
"I didn't want to leave you in a cab like that."
"Where are my clothes?"
He looked at her then, genuinely puzzled. "You're wearing them."
She flushed, fingers instinctively gripping the fabric at her chest. She was. Fully. And yet—something felt missing. A sense of space. Of proximity. Like waking to find a shadow had been beside her and slipped away just before dawn.
"Did you—" The words stuck.
"No," he said immediately.
He met her eyes without flinching. No humor. No irritation.
"You were never touched."
She searched his face for something wrong. A crack. A lie. A glint of triumph.
There was nothing.
Xu Tao looked exactly as he always did—composed, faintly amused by the world, utterly in control of himself.
"You slept," he continued quietly, "like you haven't in years."
Her breath hitched before she could stop it.
She looked away.
"I want to go home," she whispered.
"I already arranged it," he said. "A driver's waiting. Xiao Mei is still at Ah Jia's."
Her head snapped up. "How do you know that?"
"I remember things," he replied mildly. "About you. I remember what matters."
The room felt smaller.
The night was gone—smoothed over by civility and silk sheets and the quiet horror of someone who had anticipated her needs before she voiced them. But the warmth lingering in the bed. The scent on the pillow. The unsettling sense that she had not been alone, even while unconscious—
Something was wrong.
She just didn't know what shape it had taken.
Xu Tao set a plate in front of her. Pear slices. Precisely arranged.
"Eat," he said gently. "You'll need the energy."
She stared at the plate like it might bite her.
He checked his watch, almost absentmindedly. "I have a flight this morning. Hong Kong. Serious work."
Her chest tightened unexpectedly.
"I'll be gone a few days," he added. "Don't miss me too much."
The corner of his mouth lifted—not quite a smile. More like a private joke.
She didn't touch the food.
He didn't insist.
He just waited.
As if this—this quiet morning, this borrowed domesticity—wasn't an intrusion at all.
As if she were the one who had come home.
********
Yinlin pressed her forehead to the taxi window.
The glass was cold, but not enough to anchor her.
She watched the city stream past — people going to work, cyclists weaving through traffic, couples holding hands, neon signs blinking off as morning pushed them out.
It was all too normal.
Which made her feel even more wrong.
Her hands were steady now. Her dress unwrinkled, her coat neat, her heels in place. She was — by all accounts — pristine.
Untouched.
That was the word that echoed in her skull like a cruel joke.
He didn't touch me. He said he didn't. And I believe he didn't.
But why do I feel like something was taken?
Her breath hitched as she remembered waking — the scent of his cologne in the sheets. The heat in the pillow beside her, like someone had lain there, close enough to press against her in sleep.
But her body bore no signs of anything. No bruises. No soreness. Her undergarments hadn't been touched. Her lipstick barely smudged.
And yet.
She felt… hollow.
Split down the center.
As if someone had opened her while she slept and looked inside.
No violence. No crime. Just a theft so subtle she couldn't find what was missing.
She had bathed the moment she got home. Twice. Scrubbed her skin until it flushed. Still couldn't wash the feeling off.
Ah Jia had greeted her at the door with a warm smile, telling her Mei was perfect as always — fell asleep mid-sentence with a stuffed rabbit in her arms.
Yinlin had smiled back, lied, thanked her.
But now she sat in her bedroom, the sunlight too harsh, her fingers trembling over her phone screen.
No strange photos.
No messages.
Just a simple text from Tao, hours ago.
I hope you slept well. Let me know if you need anything.
She locked the screen and tossed the phone aside like it burned. Why is he suddenly acting so thoughtful?
No proof. No bruises. No story to tell.
But inside her, alarm bells screamed.
She felt violated — not by touch, but by something worse.
Presence.
She closed her eyes.
And in the darkness behind them, she could almost feel it again — the weight of someone watching her sleep. His breaths in her ears. Close. Still. Waiting.
She pressed a fist to her chest.
She didn't know what happened that night.
But something had.
And Xu Tao… knew what it was.