Over the next few days, the atmosphere on the twenty-eighth floor was so heavy it felt as though water could be wrung from the air.
Yan Hanxie remained the same "devout" president—Buddhist beads wrapped around her wrist, vegetarian meals for lunch, occasionally burning a stick of faint sandalwood incense. She acted decisively, spoke calmly, and seemed completely different from the subtle confrontation at the board meeting.
Yet certain small details had begun to change quietly.
For example, in small decision meetings that required director-level attendance or above, Yan Hanxie would always add one last sentence casually: "Director Zong should join as well."
For example, when cross-department coordination ran into obstacles, Yan Hanxie's email replies would precisely note: "Please have Zong Yi take the lead in following up."
And for example, Yan Hanxie's coffee—once handled by her assistant—was now brought in by Zong Yi during the daily morning briefing, "on the way" from the break room.
No sugar. No milk. The temperature had to be exactly seventy-five degrees.
Yan Hanxie could take one sip and judge precisely:
"The water temperature is half a degree too high today."
Or, "The grind size of the beans is wrong."
Zong Yi accepted everything without comment.
She worked like a precision machine running on a preset program—arriving earlier, leaving later, handling every one of Yan Hanxie's explicit and implicit instructions flawlessly.
The impenetrable calm had returned to her face. If anything, she seemed even colder than before, as if that brief loss of control in the office had never happened.
Only the faint bluish shadows beneath her eyes—impossible to fully hide even with the best concealer—revealed the toll of several days of overwork.
Friday afternoon.
One hour before the end of the workday.
Zong Yi had just finished a conference call. Her throat felt a little dry, so she stood up and went to the break room to get water.
Just as she reached the door, she heard hushed voices inside.
"…Really, I saw it myself. President Yan told her to go in, and the door was locked for quite a while." It was one of the new administrative assistants from the president's office. Her voice trembled with suppressed excitement and the thrill of gossip.
"That can't be true, right? Isn't President Yan a Buddhist believer? And Director Zong… she looks like someone who's cut off from all worldly desires," another voice said skeptically.
"So what if she believes in Buddhism? That's just the president's personal cultivation! Privately… Hey, didn't you see Director Zong recently when she came out of President Yan's office? Her ears were red. And that one time when I delivered documents—I happened to walk in when President Yan was talking to Director Zong. President Yan's finger was pointing right here…" The voice dropped lower, carrying a breathy hint of ambiguity, as if gesturing to show the location. "Director Zong's expression then—honestly, I've never seen her like that…"
Zong Yi's fingers tightened around the empty water cup, her knuckles turning pale.
She did not go in.
Instead, she turned and walked toward the spare break room at the other end of the floor.
Her steps were steady, her back straight. Only the straight line of her lips revealed the cold anger churning beneath the surface.
The spare break room was rarely used. At this moment it was empty.
She filled a cup with ice water and tilted her head back, drinking more than half of it in one go.
The icy liquid slid down her throat, temporarily suppressing the burning sensation.
She leaned against the counter and looked out at the sunset slowly sinking outside the window. The glow painted the city skyline in a hazy orange-red.
At that moment, the phone in her pocket vibrated.
It wasn't a work email notification—it was a call.
She took it out. On the screen flashed a number without a saved name, yet one she had already memorized.
Her finger hovered above the answer button.
Two seconds passed.
She pressed it.
"President Yan."
Her voice was calm and steady.
"Come to my office." Yan Hanxie's voice came through the receiver. The background was quiet, revealing nothing of her mood.
"Now."
"Yes."
Zong Yi hung up the phone, finished the remaining ice water, washed the cup, and placed it back where it belonged. Facing her blurred reflection in the glass window, she adjusted her shirt collar and cuffs.
The collar pin was straight. The cuffs were smooth.
Then she walked toward the walnut door.
She knocked. After receiving permission, she entered.
Yan Hanxie was on the phone, standing before the floor-to-ceiling window with her back to the door.
The glow of the sunset outlined her entire figure in gold. Her dark navy suit jacket was draped over the back of the chair. She wore only a white silk shirt, the sleeves rolled to her elbows, revealing the smooth lines of her forearms—and the string of dark Buddhist beads.
The call seemed to be with the abbot of a temple, discussing offerings and arrangements for a ritual next week. Her tone was something Zong Yi had never heard before—gentle, even… deferential.
Zong Yi stood quietly by the door without interrupting.
A moment later, Yan Hanxie ended the call and turned around.
When she saw Zong Yi, the lingering gentleness on her face quickly faded, returning to her usual cool detachment.
"Close the door," she said.
Zong Yi did so.
"Come here."
Zong Yi walked to the desk and stopped.
Yan Hanxie did not return to her chair. She remained standing behind the desk, looking at her across its wide surface.
Her gaze lingered on Zong Yi's face for several seconds, as if evaluating—or simply examining.
"I've read the quarterly analysis report on the new East China channels," Yan Hanxie said, speaking of work. "The data is thorough, and the conclusions are objective. But there is one issue." She paused. "Your prediction regarding the recent market movements of our competitor, Qiming Technology, is too linear."
Zong Yi frowned slightly. "Based on their behavioral patterns over the past year and the intelligence currently available—"
"The marketplace is a battlefield. People are not machines. They won't always act according to predetermined procedures." Yan Hanxie interrupted her, tapping her fingertips lightly against the desk. "Especially when the decision-maker on the other side is someone who believes in feng shui (ancient Chinese art of arranging spaces to balance energy and create harmony) more than in data."
A faint, almost mocking curve appeared at the corner of her lips.
"Like me," she added. "I believe in Buddhism, but I also know when it's time to break the rules."
The last two words were spoken lightly, yet they caused Zong Yi's heartbeat to skip.
"You mean we should incorporate an irrational decision-making variable into the model?" Zong Yi forced herself to focus on the issue.
"Smart." Yan Hanxie nodded approvingly, though there was little warmth in the praise.
"I want the revised version by Monday morning next week."
As she spoke, she walked around the desk toward a nearby filing cabinet, apparently to retrieve something.
But as she passed beside Zong Yi, she suddenly stumbled slightly, as if catching the edge of the carpet. Her body tilted sideways as she lost balance.
Zong Yi instinctively reached out to steady her.
Her palm supported just above Yan Hanxie's elbow. Through the thin silk shirt, she could clearly feel the warmth of her skin and the shape of the bone beneath.
Yan Hanxie's other hand waved instinctively in the air. The Buddhist beads on her wrist swung up, several of them knocking lightly against the inside of Zong Yi's forearm, leaving a faint tingling sensation.
Yan Hanxie regained her balance—but most of her weight still leaned on Zong Yi's hand.
She did not straighten immediately.
Instead, in that position, she tilted her head slightly and looked at Zong Yi, who was now extremely close.
The distance between them had suddenly shortened until their breathing could be heard.
Zong Yi could see each individual eyelash clearly. She could smell the faint scent on her—something that blended light sandalwood with a cold perfume. She could feel the unmistakable warmth and weight from her arm.
"Thank you," Yan Hanxie said softly.
Her breath brushed along Zong Yi's jawline.
Zong Yi reacted as if burned, abruptly releasing her and stepping back.
Yan Hanxie seemed not to notice her rejection. Instead, she stepped forward half a pace and raised the arm Zong Yi had just supported.
The silk sleeve had slipped down slightly, revealing her wrist bone and the Buddhist beads wrapped around it.
Her fingertips brushed lightly across her forearm. The spot where the beads had struck earlier now carried a faint red mark, barely visible.
"Did I hit you?" Yan Hanxie's finger hovered above the mark, not touching, merely tracing the air above it. "Does it hurt?"
There was something strangely gentle in her tone—almost tender—completely different from her usual coldness.
Zong Yi's breathing stalled.
She looked at Yan Hanxie's face so close to hers. She looked at the undisguised curiosity in her eyes, and something deeper beneath it. She looked at the dark beads on her wrist that seemed almost hypnotic.
The ambiguous whispers from the break room returned to her ears like hissing snakes.
"It doesn't hurt," she heard herself say hoarsely.
"Is that so?" Yan Hanxie's finger finally lowered—not to touch the red mark, but to rest lightly on Zong Yi's wrist.
Through the fabric of her sleeve, the pressure was not strong, yet it carried an unmistakable sense of restraint.
"But here," she said, pointing to the beads on her own wrist, "seems to hurt a little."
Zong Yi's blood seemed to rush to her head in an instant—then freeze the next second.
She looked at Yan Hanxie. At the glimmer in her eyes—a mixture of teasing, testing, and something unmistakably like desire.
She looked at the sandalwood beads that seemed to be silently mocking her.
"President Yan," she said, her voice cold as ice shards, "please conduct yourself with dignity."
She tried to pull her hand back.
Yan Hanxie tightened her grip.
"Dignity?" Yan Hanxie repeated, as though hearing something amusing. "Zong Yi, tell me—what does dignity mean?"
Her thumb slowly rubbed the bone of Zong Yi's wrist through the fabric.
"Is it like this? Clearly disgusted, yet still tolerating it because I'm your superior? Or like the rumors outside—that when you leave my office with red ears, it's because you're 'so focused on work'?"
Her voice remained low, yet every word cut like a blade, slicing through the calm mask Zong Yi struggled to maintain.
"Those rumors—"
"I don't care about rumors." Yan Hanxie cut her off sharply, her gaze piercing. "I only want to know what you're thinking right now."
Her other hand lifted—not to touch Zong Yi, but to reach toward her own wrist.
Slowly, she began unfastening the clasp of the Buddhist beads.
One loop at a time.
The soft metallic click of the clasp opening echoed in the silent office, startlingly clear.
Zong Yi's pupils shrank suddenly.
She wrenched her hand free with all her strength. The force sent her stumbling backward, bumping into the chair behind her with a harsh scraping sound.
Yan Hanxie stopped.
The clasp was only halfway undone.
She watched the shock and anger erupting in Zong Yi's eyes, the blood draining from her face, the rise and fall of her chest from rapid breathing.
Suddenly she felt that perhaps she had pushed too hard.
Or perhaps she had chosen the wrong direction.
She released the beads, letting them hang loosely from her wrist, half undone.
Then she stepped back, widening the dangerously close distance between them.
"The report," she said calmly, turning her back to Zong Yi as she walked toward the window, "don't forget. Monday."
"You can go."
Zong Yi remained standing where she was, her chest heaving. The place on her wrist where she had been held still burned faintly. The lingering touch—and the image of the beads about to be undone—burned repeatedly in her mind.
She stared at Yan Hanxie's straight yet distant back.
At the dark beads hanging precariously from her wrist.
After several seconds, without a word, she turned, opened the door, and walked out quickly.
The door closed behind her.
Yan Hanxie stood by the window, looking at her blurred reflection in the glass—and the half-hanging beads in that reflection.
The last trace of sunset sank beneath the horizon, and the office rapidly darkened.
She raised her hand and fastened the clasp of the beads again, tightly and neatly.
Then she let out a quiet sigh.
The sound quickly dissolved into the deepening dusk.
Outside the window, the city lights began to flicker on one after another, forming a brilliant yet cold sea of light.
—
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