Paris awakened like a lover stirring from a long, luxurious dream. The morning sun glided over the city's centuries-old rooftops, spilling molten gold across ornate balconies draped with flowers. A chill lingered in the air, laced with the perfume of wet cobblestones and distant espresso. Car horns crooned lazily from the boulevard below, blending with the clatter of porcelain cups and the low hum of French chatter.
From the seventh floor of Le Bristol, where the world felt suspended between time and wealth, Yun Xiao sat alone at his desk—poised yet restless, framed by tall windows that opened into a pale, cloud-streaked sky. The suite around him exuded quiet grandeur: silken drapes breathed in the faint Paris breeze; antique paintings gazed down in solemn silence; the faint scent of cedar and paper filled the air.
He hadn't slept. His tie was perfectly knotted, his collar starched, his cufflinks catching the light—but his eyes betrayed him. They were rimmed in fatigue, their calm depths shadowed by the weight of too many thoughts. Before him, a pile of documents lay sprawled like fallen soldiers—contracts, proposals, figures—each demanding his attention, yet failing to hold it.
His pen scratched furiously at a line in a contract until, with a sudden press, the nib pierced through the paper, splattering ink in an ugly blot. The dark mark spread like the thought he couldn't suppress.
Wang Jie.
That name had become both a prayer and a wound.
The younger twin, the golden echo of his own reflection. Once inseparable—two halves of a single promise. Now, oceans apart and bound by silence.
At first, Yun Xiao had thought his brother's absence was merely rebellion, a bid for freedom from the weight of legacy. But as the months stretched into years, unease had fermented into guilt. Was Wang Jie running from the world… or from him?
The tick of the ornate clock filled the room. Its rhythm was too steady, too indifferent, as if mocking the man who had everything—except peace.
He exhaled sharply, pressing the bridge of his nose between his fingers.
Wealth. Power. The empire he'd built—none of it silenced the hollow throb in his chest. The SeanJie Corporation might have conquered continents, but it hadn't brought his brother home.
A soft knock at the door broke the spell.
He didn't look up. "Come in."
The door opened with a faint hiss, letting in a trace of hallway perfume and brisk footsteps.
Baobao entered, balancing a silver tray with two steaming cups of coffee. Sunlight caught in his hair, which was slightly tousled—as though Parisian air refused to obey his comb. His shirt was clean but creased near the cuffs, his sleeves rolled in quiet defiance of formality. A thick folder was tucked under his arm, and there was something about his presence—grounded, human, unpolished—that cut through the sterile perfection of the room.
"Morning, Boss," Baobao greeted lightly, setting the tray down. "You look like hell."
Yun Xiao's pen stilled midair. His gaze lifted, cool and razor-sharp. "Neither did you sleep. Don't state the obvious."
Baobao chuckled, unfazed. "True. But at least I don't have a billion-dollar meeting in three hours. You might want to do something about those dark circles before the French think you've been mugged."
Yun Xiao ignored the remark, reaching for the folder. "Is the schedule finalized?"
Baobao slid it toward him, the corners smoothed as if out of habit. "Meetings at the Grand Palais, investor luncheon at noon, contract review at three. I confirmed the transport. And—" he added, his tone dipping playfully—"your translator's on standby. Though honestly, Boss, you could use the chance to practice your French. Bonjour, merci, croissant—not too hard to memorize, right?"
"Do you think this is a vacation?" Yun Xiao asked without looking up, his voice calm but sharp.
Baobao leaned casually against the marble table, arms crossed, a small grin teasing the corner of his lips. "To me? Yeah. Closest thing I'll ever get to pretending I'm not a broke secretary tagging along with a billionaire who refuses to smile."
Yun Xiao's eyes flickered up, unreadable. There it was again—that strange mix of levity and sting Baobao carried in his words, like he was both mocking and protecting him.
The younger man tilted his head, studying him quietly. Behind Yun Xiao's perfect composure, Baobao saw what few ever noticed: exhaustion disguised as discipline, loneliness hidden behind the precision of success. He'd seen it before—in the way Yun Xiao stared out of plane windows for minutes too long, or how he hesitated before deleting old voice messages he never replied to.
"Boss," Baobao said after a pause, softer now, "whoever you're thinking about… maybe it's time to call them. Or at least admit you miss them."
Yun Xiao froze.
His hand hovered above the coffee cup, the faint steam curling around his fingers. For an instant—barely a heartbeat—his expression faltered. The silence that filled the room was delicate, fragile, like crystal about to crack.
Then the mask returned, smooth and impenetrable. "You're a secretary, not a therapist," he said quietly. "Stick to your job."
Baobao only smiled, unoffended. "Maybe. But the best secretaries know when their boss needs more than files."
Yun Xiao's jaw tightened. How did this man—this ordinary, talkative, stubborn man—always manage to see through him?
Before he could respond, the desk phone rang, slicing through the tension.
He answered, his tone clipped and professional. A few brisk sentences later, he hung up.
"The concierge says the car is ready. We leave in thirty minutes. Go prepare."
Baobao straightened, giving a playful mock salute. "Yes, sir. But for the record—motorcycles are cheaper than therapy."
He turned and left, the door closing softly behind him.
For a moment, Yun Xiao sat in stillness. The faint scent of roasted coffee hung in the air, mingling with the distant sounds of Paris waking below—bakers calling out, carriages rattling, laughter from the street. He looked at the second cup of coffee, untouched, and wondered if the warmth of it would reach him before it went cold.
He didn't throw the cup. He simply watched the steam fade, whispering into nothing,
and thought of Wang Jie, somewhere far away, beneath a sky just as gold.
____
The ride through Paris unfolded like a moving painting. The sleek black car slid through the early morning haze, its tinted windows reflecting the golden light spilling over the Haussmann facades. The city was waking—slowly, gracefully—as if stretching from a centuries-old dream. Café owners pulled up their shutters, releasing the bittersweet scent of roasted beans into the crisp air. Delivery trucks hummed past in quiet rhythm. Pigeons fluttered along the cobblestones, and somewhere, a street violinist began playing a tune so tender it bled into the heartbeat of the city.
Inside the car, however, the atmosphere was worlds apart.
The hum of the engine was the only sound between them. Sean Xiao sat poised and silent, every line of his posture sculpted with discipline. His dark suit blended with the leather seats, his reflection ghosting faintly in the window beside him. The Parisian streets blurred into streaks of cream and blue as he stared out—seeing nothing, thinking of everything.
His hand rested on the folder across his lap, but his mind was light-years away. Numbers, negotiations, names—they all blurred into a single thought pulsing beneath his calm exterior: Wang Jie.
His younger brother's face rose before him unbidden, soft and defiant all at once. The letters they once exchanged had grown colder, the silence longer. Sean had convinced himself it was time and distance, but deep down he knew—something in his relentless ambition had pushed his brother away.
A muscle flickered in his jaw. He turned his head, pretending to study the passing city. The truth he had never admitted, even to himself, tasted like iron in his mouth.
Across from him, Baobao sat with one arm draped over the window ledge, his chin propped in his palm. He watched Paris the way dreamers watched the sky—half in awe, half in disbelief that such beauty could exist so casually. Flower stalls burst with color at every corner. Street painters dappled their canvases with morning light. The city seemed alive, breathing art and history in every exhale.
But Baobao's mind was elsewhere.
Aunt Jin.
He could still see her small frame wrapped in that faded blue cardigan, still hear her voice—warm, stubborn, full of grace even as her illness hollowed her out. He could almost smell the faint jasmine soap she loved, the way she would hum while folding his shirts, pretending she wasn't tired. His heart clenched.
When this trip ends, he promised silently, he'd go straight home. He'd buy her favorite red bean pastries, tell her about the fancy hotel, the boss who barked but secretly cared, and the ridiculous luxury of Parisian life. She'd laugh, soft and proud, as if it were her who had made it all happen.
Sean glanced briefly at Baobao's reflection in the window. The younger man looked peaceful—too peaceful for someone who carried the weight of responsibility behind his jokes. He'd noticed how Baobao's eyes lingered on things like flowers and sunlight, as though memorizing what happiness looked like before it slipped away.
Sean said nothing. He never did. Words were dangerous—they opened doors he preferred to keep sealed.
The car slowed as they turned onto Avenue Winston Churchill, and the Grand Palais came into view. Its vast glass dome caught the sunlight like a crown of crystal. Flags rippled above the ornate façade, and a line of sleek cars already filled the forecourt.
When the vehicle stopped, Sean adjusted his cufflinks and exhaled quietly. "We're here."
Baobao followed his gaze, eyes widening slightly. "I've seen palaces before," he murmured, "but this one actually looks like it knows it's royal."
Sean gave him a look that said focus.
Baobao grinned. "Right, right. No jokes before millionaires. Got it."
---
Inside the Grand Palais, the air shifted from soft morning to electric luxury. Sunlight fractured through the glass ceiling, scattering gold across marble floors. Every sound seemed deliberate—the low hum of conversation, the soft clink of glass, the echo of polished shoes. Waiters in black and white glided between clusters of investors. Laughter came in elegant bursts, rehearsed and hollow.
Sean stepped into this world like a blade slipping into its sheath. Perfectly at home.
Heads turned as he passed—the quiet magnetism of a man used to control. His stride was measured, his gaze sharp. Behind him, Baobao followed, not like a servant but like a quiet storm—a presence steady enough to notice and forget, until needed. His suit was simple but neat, the faint scent of his cologne threading subtly through the air.
They took their places at the long glass table where the meeting awaited. The investors—French, British, Korean, American—sat with polite smiles that hid a thousand calculations. Documents gleamed under the skylight, glasses of Perrier fizzed gently beside untouched croissants.
Sean began to speak.
His French carried the faintest accent—precise, confident. The numbers he laid out were not just numbers but architecture, a structure of logic and power. The table listened, some impressed, others skeptical.
Then, midway through, the first crack appeared.
"Monsieur Xiao," said a silver-haired Frenchman with a mustache sharp enough to slice arrogance itself, "your proposal is… admirable. But you ask for too much trust, non? These projections—how you say—castles in the clouds."
A ripple of amusement swept the table. Sean's jaw hardened almost imperceptibly. He countered, his words calm, but the investor's smirk deepened—a hunter scenting weakness.
Baobao watched from behind, unseen but not unseeing. The man's tone wasn't professional—it was a challenge, a test of pride. He'd seen this before: powerful men poking at others just to prove they could.
When the mustached investor let out a scoff, Baobao leaned forward.
"Excuse me," he said softly.
The table fell silent.
Every head turned. Sean froze.
Baobao's expression remained courteous, but his eyes were razor-sharp. "Monsieur," he continued, his French lightly accented but fluent, "perhaps you have not looked closely enough at the data. The European market reports from last quarter—particularly your own country's renewable sector—align perfectly with Mr. Xiao's projections. If anything, he's being too cautious."
The investor blinked, his composure faltering. Baobao smiled faintly, leaning back.
"But if you prefer to underestimate potential," he added, voice like velvet drawn across steel, "others will seize what you hesitate to believe. And those who wait too long, pay twice later to catch up."
A pause.
A long one.
Sean's gaze cut sideways—part astonishment, part… reluctant admiration.
The investor looked away first. Adjusting his tie, he muttered something about reconsideration. The smirks around the table vanished. The air had shifted—Sean's authority now doubled, his every word carrying the weight of vindication.
The meeting continued, smoother than before, ending with handshakes and murmured promises of collaboration.
---
Outside, sunlight spilled like honey across the marble steps. The air smelled faintly of flowers from the nearby gardens.
Sean's composure cracked the moment they reached the car.
"You—" he began sharply, then exhaled. "What the hell was that?"
Baobao shoved his hands in his pockets, eyes dancing. "That? That was me saving your deal from a man with a mustache shaped like bad decisions."
"You overstepped."
"Maybe." Baobao shrugged. "But you can't deny it worked."
Sean turned away, lips pressing into a thin line. He hated the truth of it.
"Don't do it again," he muttered, low.
"Of course not, Boss," Baobao said brightly. "Unless, of course, you start losing again."
Sean shot him a glare sharp enough to wound. Baobao only smiled wider.
They entered the car. The silence between them was not the same—it was alive now, threaded with tension and something dangerously close to respect.
---
That night, Paris wore its diamonds. Street lamps spilled gold over the Seine, and boats drifted like floating lanterns. Laughter spilled from cafés, clinking against the cool river wind.
In his suite, Sean stood before the window, the Eiffel Tower glowing in the distance like a promise he couldn't keep. His phone sat heavy in his hand—his mother's number glowing on the screen. His thumb hovered. He almost pressed call. Almost. But pride—cold and familiar—won again.
Across the city, Baobao lay in his small hotel room. The laughter from the streets drifted up through his open window. He stared at the ceiling, sleepless, Aunt Jin's voice echoing in his mind.
Tomorrow, he thought, eyes burning. Tomorrow I'll call her.
Two men—one weighed down by success, the other by love—lay awake beneath the same Parisian sky.
And as the city hummed with secrets and starlight, fate quietly began to weave their destinies tighter than either could imagine.