Gu Jing Yu did not sleep.
He never really did anymore, not the deep, dreamless kind that normal people took for granted. Sleep came in fragments, stolen between three a.m. board calls and the constant low hum of his mind refusing to shut off. Tonight was no different, except the reason had shifted from quarterly projections to a twenty-four-year-old waitress who had just been handed the keys to half his future.
He stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of his penthouse on the seventy-eighth floor of the Gu Tower, hands in his pockets, staring down at Beijing's midnight sprawl. The city glittered like broken glass under a thin veil of smog and rain. Lightning flickered in the distance, silent and useless. He watched it the way a man watches a fuse burn, detached, calculating how long before the explosion.
The envelope still sat on the glass coffee table behind him, unopened since he'd returned from the diner. He hadn't needed to reread the will. The words were branded into his skull.
…Miss Fan Xiao Ying… no substitutions… no exceptions…
His father's handwriting had been shaky at the end. Parkinson's had taken the steadiness from his hand long before the heart attack took the rest. Jing Yu had watched the decline from afar, monthly visits squeezed between meetings, brief conversations that never went deeper than surface pleasantries. He'd told himself it was enough. Duty fulfilled. Legacy secured.
Apparently not.
He turned away from the window and crossed to the bar. The whiskey bottle was already open; he poured two fingers into a tumbler and didn't bother with ice. The burn down his throat was familiar, almost comforting. He carried the glass to the leather armchair and sat, legs stretched out, ankles crossed.
Fan Xiao Ying.
He'd run the background check himself the moment the lawyer had read the clause aloud. Twenty-four. No criminal record. No social media scandals. Lived with her grandmother in a modest two-bedroom apartment in Chaoyang. Younger brother still in high school. Worked double shifts at the diner six days a week. A few fashion sketches posted on a private WeChat album, nothing professional, just talent waiting for money and opportunity.
No red flags.
Which made her more dangerous, not less.
People with nothing to lose were unpredictable. People with dreams were even worse. She'd take the money, he was certain of it. Five million yuan plus a black card with no ceiling? Most people would sell their soul for less. She'd smile sweetly, sign the papers, spend like she'd never spent before, and then vanish the second the year was up.
He hated that he needed her.
Hated more that his father had chosen her.
The old man had spent years complaining about Jing Yu's "coldness," his refusal to date seriously, his habit of treating relationships like transactions. "You'll end up alone in that big house," Gu Wei Long used to say over lukewarm coffee. "A man needs warmth, son. Not another merger."
Jing Yu had always answered the same way: "I have the company. That's enough."
Apparently it wasn't.
He drained the whiskey and set the glass down with deliberate care. His phone buzzed on the table. Wei Hao, his assistant.
**Incoming call: Wei Hao**
He answered on the third ring.
"Sir. The lawyer confirmed the timeline. Thirty days from probate filing, which starts tomorrow. We have twenty-nine days left after tonight."
"I know the math."
"There's also the matter of the press release. If we don't announce an engagement soon, the board will start asking questions. Madam Gu has already called twice. She wants to know why the shares haven't transferred yet."
Jing Yu pinched the bridge of his nose. His stepmother, always circling like a vulture scenting blood.
"Tell her nothing. And make sure the board knows I'm handling it personally."
"Understood. There's one more thing. The diner girl, Miss Fan. I pulled the financials you requested. She's… clean. But tight. Grandmother's medical debt is substantial. Brother's tuition is due in three months. She's been paying minimums on everything."
Jing Yu's jaw tightened. "So she's desperate."
"Motivated," Wei Hao corrected carefully. "There's a difference."
"Not when you're the one holding the checkbook."
Silence on the line.
Then Wei Hao: "Sir… are you sure about this? Marriage, even temporary is a legal entanglement. Prenup or not, public perception..."
"I'm not asking for your opinion, Hao. I'm asking if everything is ready on your end."
"Yes, sir. Marriage license application is prepped. Civil ceremony can be scheduled within forty-eight hours of her signature. Private villa in Thailand is on hold for the honeymoon period, PR will spin it as romantic getaway. Media package is drafted: 'reclusive CEO finds love in unexpected place.'"
Jing Yu almost laughed. Love. The word tasted like rust.
"Send a courier to the diner tomorrow morning. One black rose. Note attached. I want her reminded."
"Already arranged. Courier is scheduled for 8 a.m."
"Good. Keep the line open. If she calls, patch her through immediately."
He ended the call without waiting for confirmation.
The penthouse was too quiet after that. He rose, walked to the bedroom wing, and paused outside the door to the guest suite, the one he'd never used. It was pristine: king bed, silk sheets, walk-in closet already stocked with a few basic outfits in her size (Wei Hao's work again). He'd told himself it was practical. Backup plan.
Now it felt like a cage waiting for its bird.
He closed the door and went to his own room.
Sleep still wouldn't come.
Instead, he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, replaying the diner scene.
The way she'd laughed, short, disbelieving.
The way her eyes had widened when he said five million.
The way she'd picked up the black card like it might bite her.
And the way she'd looked at him, like she saw straight through the suit, the title, the money, down to the man underneath who was terrified of losing control.
He hated that most of all.
Because she was right.
He did hate her.
Not personally. Not yet.
But she represented everything he couldn't afford: vulnerability, dependence, emotion. She was the crack in the armor his father had tried to force open with a dying man's last wish.
And yet.
When she'd met his gaze and said, "Forty-eight hours," there had been steel in her voice. Not fear. Not greed. Just quiet defiance.
He turned onto his side, punched the pillow once.
Tomorrow he would find out if steel bent.
Or broke.
---
Morning arrived in shades of gray.
Rain streaked the windows of the Gu Tower like tears the city refused to shed. Jing Yu was already dressed, same black suit, fresh shirt, tie knotted with military precision. He stood in the kitchen, black coffee in hand, watching the city wake up below him.
His phone vibrated at exactly 8:03 a.m.
**Courier delivered. Rose and note received. No response yet.**
He exhaled through his nose.
Forty-seven hours left.
He set the coffee down untouched and headed for the elevator.
The board meeting was at nine. He needed to look like a man in control, not one being blackmailed by sentiment and a dead man's whim.
But as the elevator descended, his mind kept returning to the diner. To the girl behind the counter who had looked at him like he was the problem, not the solution.
He told himself it didn't matter.
She would sign.
She had to.
Because if she didn't, everything his father had built, everything Jing Yu had bled to protect would disappear.
And he would be left with nothing but the echo of a will that had chosen a stranger over his own son.
The elevator doors opened to the underground garage.
His driver was waiting.
"Head office," Jing Yu said.
As the car pulled out into the rain, he allowed himself one last thought about her.
If she said yes, she would learn exactly what it meant to be married to him.
And if she said no…
He stared out at the blurred city lights.
He didn't finish the thought.
Because the alternative wasn't an option.
Not for him.
Not anymore.