The elevator ride feels longer than it should.
The soft hum of the machinery fills the silence between us, stretching it thin, pulling it tight. Zhang Wei stands beside me, his posture straight, his gaze fixed forward like he's afraid that if he looks at me, something sharp might slip out.
The doors open with a muted chime.
My floor.
The hallway is quiet—too quiet. Thick carpet muffles our steps as we walk toward my room, the numbers on the doors passing in slow succession. I can still feel the chill of the pool clinging to my skin beneath Yichen's jacket, the faint scent of chlorine mixing with his cologne. It's strange how smells linger longer than moments do, how they trap you in a feeling you're not ready to release.
We stop in front of my door.
Zhang Wei hands me the key card.
His fingers brush mine—brief, impersonal—but he doesn't let go immediately.
Instead, he turns.
Fully.
Faces me for the first time since the elevator.
The look in his eyes is not neutral. It's not professional. It's something colder. Sharper. Like anger that's been pressed flat and hidden under layers of control.
"You need to understand what you're risking," he says.
His voice is low, controlled, every word placed carefully, like stepping stones across dangerous water.
I straighten instinctively.
"What do you mean?"
He exhales through his nose, a quiet sound that carries more frustration than he allows to show.
"His father is already suspicious," he continues. "Every move. Every delay. Every unexplained absence." His gaze flicks briefly down the hallway, as if expecting someone to appear out of thin air. "If anyone from the company sees you two here—together—everything collapses."
My grip tightens on the key card.
"What… everything?" I ask, even though part of me already knows.
"The takeover," he says plainly. "The restructuring. The years of preparation. All of it."
I swallow.
"And you," he adds, looking directly at me now, "will be the one blamed."
The words land heavier than I expect.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
Zhang Wei studies my face for a moment—like he's trying to decide whether I'm naïve, reckless, or dangerous.
"His father won't forgive him," he says quietly. "But he won't destroy him either."
A pause.
"You're easier to sacrifice."
The hallway feels colder suddenly.
"I didn't ask him to come," I say, my voice steady despite the tremor in my chest.
"I know," Zhang Wei replies. "That doesn't change the outcome."
He steps back, the conversation already over in his mind.
"Be careful," he adds, softer now. "Not with your heart. With his future."
Then he turns and walks away, his footsteps swallowed by the carpet.
I stand there for a long moment, key card cold in my hand, his words echoing in the quiet space he leaves behind.
You're easier to sacrifice.
I slide the key card through the lock.
A soft beep.
The door clicks open—and before I can step inside, a shoe wedges itself between the door and the frame.
"Wait."
I gasp, heart jumping into my throat.
Yichen.
He slips in quickly, efficient and silent, pulling the door shut behind him before anyone in the hallway can notice. The movement is practiced, almost instinctive—like this isn't the first time he's had to sneak into a place he shouldn't be.
The door clicks closed.
Only then do I breathe.
He stands there for a second, back against the door, chest rising and falling as if he'd been holding his breath the entire time. The city lights spill through the wide windows behind me, catching the sharp lines of his face, carving shadows beneath his eyes.
He looks… tense.
His jacket is gone. Sleeves rolled up, white shirt slightly wrinkled—like he's dragged his hands through his hair one too many times while waiting for me. Like patience has never been his strongest virtue when it comes to me.
"You took longer than expected," he says.
I drop the key card onto the table.
"Zhang Wei came."
That gets his attention.
He stills. Just for a second. But I catch it—the way his shoulders tense, the way his jaw tightens before he schools his expression back into calm.
"What did he say?"
I shrug out of his jacket slowly, folding it over the back of a chair. The fabric is warm where it rested against me, reluctant to let go.
"He warned me."
Yichen exhales, a short, humorless laugh.
"Of course he did."
"He said your father is suspicious," I continue. "That if anyone sees us together here, your entire plan collapses."
He nods once, already knowing.
"And that I'd be the one blamed," I finish quietly.
That makes him look at me.
Really look.
Something flickers in his eyes—anger, guilt, something dangerously close to regret.
"I won't let that happen," he says.
"You can't control everything," I reply before I can stop myself.
The words hang between us, fragile and sharp.
He runs a hand through his hair, pacing the length of the room once before stopping near the bed. "This is insane," he mutters. "I should never have come."
But he doesn't sound convinced.
Neither of us does.
The air conditioner hums softly, a steady background noise that makes the room feel sealed off from the world. Outside, the ocean crashes. Inside, everything feels suspended—like we're caught in a moment that doesn't belong to time.
"So," I say, breaking the silence. "Partners in crime?"
He looks at me, surprised.
Then—slowly—he smiles.
"Looks like it."
We sit at the small table by the window, the city lights casting reflections across the glass. Between us lies a notebook from the conference welcome kit, its pristine pages about to be ruined by our handwriting.
"Okay," I say, uncapping the pen. "Rules."
"Rules?" he repeats.
"Yes. Survival rules."
He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. "I'm listening."
"You can't be seen," I start. "At all. Not by my colleagues. Not by your family. Not by anyone remotely connected to this trip."
"Agreed."
"I have mandatory events," I continue. "Breakfast briefings. Evening receptions. Panels."
"So I stay hidden during the day."
"And at night?"
A pause.
He meets my gaze. "At night, we improvise."
My stomach flips.
I scribble something on the paper, trying to ground myself in logistics instead of the way his voice drops when he says that.
"You move when the halls are empty," I say. "Service elevators if possible. No public areas."
"I can manage that," he says. "I've navigated worse."
I glance at him. "I don't doubt that."
There's a beat of silence.
Then, quieter, he says, "When I couldn't find you earlier… I thought I'd lost before I even started."
My pen stops.
I look up.
He isn't smiling now. His gaze is distant, unfocused, like he's replaying something in his head he doesn't want to see again.
"I searched everywhere," he continues. "Every floor. Every lounge. Every bar." His fingers curl slightly against the tabletop. "For a moment, I thought you'd disappeared."
The room feels smaller suddenly.
"And that scared you?" I ask softly.
He hesitates.
Just enough.
"Yes."
The admission sits heavy between us, fragile and unguarded.
"This is insane," I whisper. "We're risking everything."
"I know."
"And yet…"
"I've never felt more alive," he finishes.
The words mirror my own thoughts so closely it makes my chest ache.
There's a knock at the door.
Sharp. Sudden.
My heart leaps into my throat.
Yichen looks at me instantly, all softness gone, replaced by alert focus.
Another knock.
"Hua?" a familiar voice calls from the other side.
My blood runs cold.
Yiran.
"I was just checking in," he continues. "After earlier."
Yichen's eyes darken.
I move quickly, panic flaring. "Bathroom," I whisper. "Now."
He doesn't argue. He slips past me silently, disappearing into the bathroom just as I step toward the door.
I take a breath.
Then another.
I open it.
Yiran stands there, hands in his pockets, looking infuriatingly calm. His gaze drops briefly—taking in my damp hair, the faint redness of my lips—then lifts back to my face.
"You look flushed," he observes.
"I was resting," I lie.
He smiles faintly. "Mind if I come in?"
My pulse roars in my ears.
"Actually—"
Too late.
He steps inside, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
I'm acutely aware of the bathroom door behind me. Of the man hiding just meters away, listening to every word.
Yiran glances around the room, slow and deliberate.
"Nice view," he says. "Did you enjoy the pool?"
"Yes," I answer. "I needed it."
Lie, again.
He hums thoughtfully, stopping near the window. "Funny. I had the strangest feeling earlier. Like you weren't alone."
My breath catches.
In the bathroom, I imagine Yichen standing perfectly still, jaw clenched, fists tight at his sides.
"I'm tired," I say. "It's been a long day."
Yiran turns back to me, eyes sharp. Curious.
"I'll let you rest," he says finally. "But Hua?"
"Yes?"
He smiles. Not kind. Not cruel.
"Be careful who you hide."
The words land like a warning.
He leaves.
The door clicks shut.
Silence crashes down around me.
For a long moment, I don't move.
Then the bathroom door opens.
Yichen steps out.
His eyes are dark with something dangerous.
And the outside world has never felt closer.
---
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Hi again,
This chapter lives in the space between doors closing and secrets forming. Nothing explodes here. No grand confessions. No dramatic declarations. And yet, everything becomes more dangerous.
"You're easier to sacrifice."
That line isn't cruelty.It's realism.
Zhang Wei understands the rules of this world better than anyone else in the room. He knows who is protected, who is expendable, and how power chooses its victims. His warning isn't about jealousy or morality—it's about survival.
And Hua hears him.
What matters here is that she doesn't argue emotionally. She doesn't plead. She doesn't claim innocence. She simply states the truth: she didn't ask for this.
But the tragedy of systems like this is that intention doesn't matter nearly as much as perception.
This is the moment Hua truly understands what she represents in Yichen's world—not a partner, not a savior, but a liability.
Now let's talk about Yichen entering the room.
Because that entrance?
The way he slips inside, fast and silent, tells us something important: this is not new territory for him. He knows how to hide. He knows how to disappear. And that alone should raise questions.
When he says, "I should never have come," it's the most honest thing he's said so far.
And yet—he stays.
This chapter isn't about whether they should do this. It's about the fact that they already have.
The "partners in crime" moment might sound playful, even lighthearted, but don't be fooled. What they're really doing is acknowledging shared responsibility. From this point on, whatever happens—happens to both of them.
And then there's the confession.
"I thought you'd disappeared."
That fear isn't about losing a woman he desires—it's about losing a fixed point in his life. Hua represents something solid, chosen, real in a world full of strategy and performance. The idea of her vanishing destabilizes him in a way few things do.
Which makes the knock on the door inevitable.
Yiran's presence is meant to feel invasive—not because he's aggressive, but because he's observant. He notices details. He reads rooms. And he knows Hua well enough to sense when something is off.
"Be careful who you hide."
That line is a warning disguised as politeness.
Because Yiran isn't accusing.He's signaling awareness.
And awareness is often more dangerous than confrontation.
The chapter ends with Yichen stepping out of hiding—but emotionally, they're all exposed now. The walls are thinner. The margins for error are smaller. And the outside world is pressing closer with every breath they take.
So I'll leave you with a few questions:
– Is Zhang Wei protecting Yichen… or Hua?– At what point does secrecy turn into betrayal?– Do rules keep them safe—or only delay the inevitable?– And who do you think is watching more closely than anyone realizes?
Thank you, truly, for staying with this story through its quiet, dangerous moments. These chapters are built on tension you feel rather than see, and your patience as readers means everything to me.
Rest your hearts while you can.
Because the game has officially begun.