Roses are red
Violets are blue
I do want you
And you do too
That's what they wrote under my picture last week.
Not "congratulations on the IPO." Not "future leader of Zhang Industries." Not even "Gregory Zhang, youngest systems architect to crack quantum optimization at scale."
No. Just that.
Four lines, stitched together like a cheap love spell, sitting beneath a photo of me in a tailored suit, jaw sharp, eyes empty. It got a million likes in three hours.
I remember staring at it longer than I should have.
Not because it was clever.
But because it was wrong.
Or maybe… it wasn't.
—
My name is Gregory Zhang.
Son of Christopher Zhang.
Yes, that Christopher Zhang. The one whose name floats in financial news like gravity itself. The one whose company owns pieces of things people don't even realize they're using.
If the world were a chessboard, my father wouldn't be a king.
He'd be the hand moving everything.
And me?
I'm the piece everyone assumes will replace him.
The heir.
The next move.
The continuation of a story that never asked if I wanted to be written.
—
People think I have everything.
They're not entirely wrong.
I have penthouses that feel like museums. Cars that drive smoother than thoughts. Security teams that watch me like I'm both treasure and target. My name opens doors before I even reach them.
And my body?
Yeah. I know what they say.
"Perfect proportions."
"Built like a sculpture."
"Unfair genetics."
Sometimes I catch my reflection in glass buildings, and I understand what they mean. Broad shoulders. Defined lines. The kind of presence that makes people look twice, then pretend they didn't.
But reflections lie.
They don't show you what's missing.
—
I stopped talking a lot when I was eight.
That's when my mother died.
People always expect a dramatic story when you say that. Something cinematic. Something that justifies the silence that followed.
There isn't one.
She just… got sick.
And then she wasn't there.
No grand speeches. No final words that echo forever. Just a hospital room that smelled like something trying too hard to be clean, and a version of my father I've never seen again.
He cried that day.
Only once.
And then he became something else.
Stronger, maybe.
Colder, definitely.
He buried himself in work, and I buried myself in… nothing.
Because at eight, you don't know where to put grief.
So it just sits inside you.
Growing.
—
After she died, the house got bigger.
Not physically.
It just felt that way.
Rooms stretched longer. Hallways echoed louder. Silence became a permanent resident.
Nannies came and went. Tutors rotated like seasons. Security guards changed faces but kept the same posture.
No one stayed.
No one mattered.
And slowly, I learned not to either.
—
By the time I was sixteen, I had already built my first independent system architecture. My father didn't say "I'm proud of you."
He said, "Good. Now scale it."
So I did.
Because that's what I was trained to do.
Produce.
Improve.
Advance.
Feelings weren't part of the equation.
—
At twenty-two, they started calling me a genius.
At twenty-three, they started calling me dangerous.
At twenty-four, they started calling me inevitable.
I didn't call myself anything.
Because names don't fill emptiness.
—
The invitation to England came wrapped in prestige.
Global Tech Summit. London.
Panel discussions. Networking. Media coverage.
A stage designed for people like my father.
And apparently, now, for me.
"You should go," he said, not looking up from his screen. "They need to see you."
They.
The world.
The investors.
The future.
Not me.
Just the idea of me.
I nodded anyway.
Because that's what I always do.
—
London greeted me with gray skies and cameras.
Lots of cameras.
Flashes popping like silent fireworks. Voices calling my name with practiced enthusiasm.
"Gregory! Over here!"
"Greg, how does it feel to follow in your father's footsteps?"
"Greg, any comment on the latest acquisition?"
I walked through it like I always do.
Calm.
Measured.
Untouchable.
Security forming a subtle barrier around me, turning chaos into a controlled current I could glide through.
I've learned to look at people without really seeing them. To hear questions without listening. To exist in public without actually being there.
It's a skill.
A necessary one.
—
The venue was already buzzing when we arrived.
Glass walls, high ceilings, the kind of place designed to make important people feel even more important.
Inside, it was worse.
Journalists packed together like waves against a shoreline. Microphones, cameras, recorders, all pointed in one direction.
At me.
At us.
At the Zhang name.
I adjusted my cuffs, a small habit I picked up years ago. Something to do with my hands when my mind drifts.
And it was drifting.
Like always.
Until it wasn't.
—
She wasn't supposed to stand out.
Not in that crowd.
Everyone there was loud in their own way. Bright outfits, sharp voices, aggressive energy.
But she moved differently.
Not louder.
Just… more real.
She was squeezing through the crowd, one hand clutching her camera, the other holding onto a press badge that kept slipping against her chest.
Rebecca Quinn.
That's what it said.
Her hair was slightly out of place, like she didn't have time to fix it. Her expression was focused, but not desperate. Determined, but not aggressive.
She wasn't trying to own the room.
She was just trying to get through it.
And somehow… that made her impossible to ignore.
—
I don't know how long I watched her.
Long enough for the noise around me to fade.
Long enough for something unfamiliar to stir in my chest.
Curiosity, maybe.
Or something more dangerous.
—
She finally broke through to the front line of journalists, adjusting her grip on the camera as she steadied herself.
For a second, she looked up.
And our eyes met.
It wasn't dramatic.
No slow motion. No music.
Just a moment.
Brief.
Unscripted.
Real.
And then she looked away.
Like it didn't matter.
Like I didn't matter.
—
That doesn't happen to me.
People look.
They stare. They linger. They calculate.
But they don't dismiss.
Not like that.
Not so… effortlessly.
Something about it irritated me.
And intrigued me.
A dangerous combination.
—
The interviews blurred after that.
Questions. Answers. Polished responses that sounded like they were pulled from a script I never wrote but somehow memorized.
All the while, I was aware of her.
Not looking directly.
Just… aware.
Like you are of a song playing faintly in the background. You don't focus on it, but it shapes everything you feel.
—
When it was over, the crowd loosened.
People started moving, conversations breaking into smaller, more manageable pieces.
That's when I saw her again.
Standing off to the side, reviewing something on her camera. Brows slightly furrowed, lips pressed together in concentration.
No one was talking to her.
No one was paying attention.
For once, neither was I.
At least, not the way I usually do.
This wasn't observation.
This was… intention.
—
I moved before I could overthink it.
Security shifted subtly, but I raised a hand just enough to tell them to hold back.
This wasn't a moment that needed a barrier.
—
Up close, she looked… normal.
Not in a bad way.
In a way that felt unfamiliar.
No exaggerated features. No deliberate perfection.
Just… her.
And somehow, that felt more striking than anything else in the room.
—
"Rebecca Quinn," I said, glancing briefly at her badge.
She looked up, slightly startled.
"Yeah?"
Her voice was softer than I expected.
Not weak.
Just… unforced.
"I'm Gregory."
A small pause.
"I know who you are."
Of course she did.
Everyone did.
But the way she said it… it didn't carry weight.
Just fact.
—
"You were trying to get a shot earlier," I said.
She shrugged lightly. "That's the job."
No smile. No attempt to impress.
Just honesty.
It was… refreshing.
Unsettlingly so.
—
"You got it?" I asked.
"Not really," she admitted, glancing at her camera again. "Too many people in the way."
I could've offered her a private interview.
An exclusive.
Something valuable.
That's what people expect from me.
That's what I'm used to giving.
But that's not what came out.
—
"Let me make it up to you," I said instead.
She looked at me properly this time.
Not like she was analyzing.
Not like she was impressed.
Just… looking.
"And how would you do that?"
There was a hint of curiosity now.
Careful.
Measured.
—
I hesitated.
That doesn't happen often.
Not in business. Not in negotiations. Not in anything that involves control.
But this wasn't that.
This felt… different.
"Dinner," I said finally. "Or coffee. Something simple."
Her expression didn't change much.
But something behind her eyes did.
A shift.
Subtle.
Like a door closing before it ever opened.
—
"I'm working," she said.
"You won't be forever."
That was smoother than I felt.
She almost smiled.
Almost.
—
"You always this persistent?" she asked.
"Only when I'm interested."
There it was.
Truth.
Unfiltered.
I don't know why I said it like that.
Maybe because with her, pretending felt pointless.
—
She looked at me for a second longer.
Long enough for me to think…
Maybe.
—
Then she shook her head gently.
"Sorry," she said.
Simple.
Clean.
Final.
"I've got a boyfriend."
—
And just like that, the moment collapsed.
No drama.
No hesitation.
Just a line drawn where I didn't expect one.
—
I nodded.
Because what else do you do?
Argue?
Convince?
That's not me.
Not here.
Not like this.
—
"Right," I said.
It sounded distant.
Even to me.
—
She adjusted her camera again, like she had already moved on.
Because she had.
And then she turned.
And walked away.
—
I stood there longer than I should have.
Watching her disappear into the same crowd she fought to get through minutes earlier.
Swallowed by noise.
By movement.
By everything that usually defines my world.
Except this time, it felt different.
Quieter.
Emptier.
—
People started approaching again.
Voices. Questions. Expectations.
The usual storm.
But something had shifted.
A small crack in the glass I didn't know I was living behind.
—
For the first time in a long time, I felt something real.
Not admiration.
Not pressure.
Not obligation.
Something else.
Something I didn't have a name for yet.
—
And the worst part?
It walked away from me without a second thought.
—
"Sorry," she said.
"I've got a boyfriend."
And walked out on me.