The sun began to bleed over the horizon, painting the Philippine Sea in shades of bruised violet and gold. The 36 hours were over.
Linghe stood by the dock, his back straight, his expression restored to that of the untouchable superstar. He had spent the night in a cold, analytical fever. He knew he was being played, and his pride—the pride of a man who had conquered the most competitive industry in the world—refused to buckle.
"You're leaving," he said, not turning around as he heard the sharp click of Nyx's heels on the wooden planks.
"Efficiency waits for no one, Linghe," Nyx replied. She was dressed in a sharp, charcoal-grey power suit that screamed corporate executioner. The "vacation" Nyx was dead; the CEO-elect of the Zobel-Ishizaki empire had arrived.
She stepped up beside him, her presence as cold and refreshing as the morning dew. "You think by returning to Shanghai, you're escaping the board. You think that by immersing yourself in your scripts, you can erase the last 36 hours."
Linghe finally looked at him. His eyes were tired, but they burned with a defiant fire. "I'm an actor, Nyx. I've forgotten better women than you by the time the director yells 'cut.' Go back to your boardroom. I'm going back to my throne."
Nyx didn't look insulted. She looked... delighted. She reached out, her fingers smoothing the lapel of his coat in a gesture that was maternal, romantic, and utterly possessive all at once.
"I hope so," she whispered. "A King who doesn't fight back is a boring piece to play with. Goodbye, Linghe."