It took them an hour to reach the factory.
The dusty air trembled with shouts, slogans, and the acrid bite of cigarette smoke. The protestors were restless, a sea of tension and sweat under the afternoon sun. Banners were flapping, fists were raised, and the gates were blocked. Inside, the higher administration remained locked in, held hostage by the crowd's fury. The air was sharp with smoke and shouting.
The sun bore down with heat and rage, but the moment Xia Ruyan stepped out of the Range Rover, the temperature seemed to shift. It was as if winter had stepped into summer. Cold and Absolute.
She was all white.
A tailored coat draped over her shoulders like untouched snow, the faint glint of mother-of-pearl buttons catching the light. Her blouse was high-collared. Her trousers were crisp, and her heels quiet but firm against the gravel.
She walked through the chaos like a ghost, unbothered by the world of the living.
The shouting died mid-sentence. The crowd parted, uncertain whether out of respect or something closer to fear.
The man leading the protest muscular, cocky, sweat-streaked, watched her approach with narrowed eyes. His cigarette hung from his lips, half-forgotten. She stopped before him, the crowd a hush of breath behind her. He gave a mocking smirk, stepping toward her with exaggerated swagger.
"Well, well... what do we have here? An angel sent from corporate heaven?"
"You incited the chaos?" she said, her voice so calm it sliced cleaner than a scream. "Name?"
He snorted. "You think I'll give you anything just because you showed up looking like a frozen mannequin?" His words earned a few half-hearted chuckles from the crowd.
Ruyan tilted her head slightly. "No," she replied, her tone devoid of offense. "But I do expect you to follow the law."
The man stepped forward, aggressive now. "We'll follow the law when they pay us fairly. When they stop treating us like slaves—"
"I understand," Ruyan interrupted gently, "But locking your own management inside a building isn't negotiation. It's a crime."
He spat to the side. "So, what are you going to do? Report me?"
He took another step, and something flashed. It was a fast object flung from the crowd. A small plastic clipboard, thrown in anger, its metal paper cutter edge was rusted and sharp.
Instinct made Marie flinch, but Ruyan didn't move. The object nicked her neck. There was a whisper of sound like fabric tearing, and a thin red line bloomed across the white collar of her blouse.
The blood seeped slowly, rich and startling, a crimson whisper against snow.
The crowd collectively inhaled. Even the protest leader froze, expecting a cry, a flinch, or any reaction.
Ruyan did not blink.
Her hand rose, almost absentmindedly, and she touched the edge of the wound. A single finger came away stained. She looked at it calmly. "Is this your form of dialogue?" she asked softly.
The question wasn't loud, but it cut through the air like thunder. No one dared answer. She turned to Marie. "Inform the police that there's also an assault."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And detain the one who threw it. This is no longer a protest, it's attempted harm to corporate personnel." The crowd stirred uncomfortably. Murmurs of protest rose.
"I would recommend you all begin dispersing before charges follow," Ruyan added, voice still quiet. "But it's your choice."
She turned back to the leader. His bravado was gone. He wasn't smirking now; he was staring at the blood on her collar and at her unflinching face.
"You're bleeding," he muttered, uncertain.
Ruyan looked at him, eyes unreadable. "So?"
She walked past him, headed toward the factory gates. Not once did she touch her wound again. Not once did she falter. Behind her, the protest leader took a small step back. For the first time, he looked afraid.
Marie stepped forward, authoritative and composed. "Miss Xia requests that all formal complaints and demands be written and handed over by tonight. A report will be compiled and presented to upper management. Miss Xia will return tomorrow with an official response."
The crowd remained silent at first, then nods came, hesitant but real. They believed her.
Inside, Xia Ruyan held a brief, efficient meeting with the factory's trapped administrators. No panic or theatrics, just clarity. A few pointed suggestions, a firm timeline, and the wheels began turning again. Workers returned to their posts with an eerie sense of order, as though the chaos had never happened.
Back at Mo Corporation, things were less composed.
Mo Yichen didn't follow her as he'd originally planned. Nor did he send anyone else.
News of his marriage had reached the Ye family, and their eldest daughter had responded with theatrics: pills and crocodile tears. Yichen knew it was a farce, a performance for sympathy. Still, his mother had called him in tears, pleading and wailing.
He went out of obligation, not affection. For an old friend's sake. But he didn't sit long by her bedside. He only waited until his mother's sobbing turned to tired sniffling. People believed there was something between them. They always did. He just didn't care enough to correct them. Now it is biting him.
By the time he returned to the office, it was nearly 4 p.m. The day felt heavy.
"Find out where Secretary Xia is," he told Lee Jian, barely seated.
"The protest had been dissuaded, and operations have resumed". Lee Jian reported effectively.
"What, she was able to de-escalate it, was it not a big deal?" Mo Yichen muttered, half-distracted, still scanning the report. Li Jian opened his mouth to answer, but the soft click of heels on marble interrupted him. The glass doors opened.
She entered.
Back straight, chin slightly lifted, white coat still pristine except for the collar. That faint bloom of red. It was subtle. Controlled. But to Mo Yichen, it screamed.
"President," she said, tone even, "the protest has been stopped. Work has resumed."
He didn't hear her. Not fully. His eyes were on her neck.
"You're injured," he said.
She didn't acknowledge the words. "There are some demands from the workers," she continued, as if the bleeding wasn't real, as if it didn't matter.
Yichen stood abruptly. And walked toward her. She stepped back, just one pace. Enough.
"Damn it, you're hurt," he muttered, frustration edging into something sharper, something unspoken and unsettled.
"That was the whole idea," she said softly, looking directly into his eyes. It wasn't a blame. It was a statement. He stared at her at the red on her collar, at the iron calm in her face, at the storm she swallowed and never showed.
"You think this doesn't matter?" he asked hoarsely.
"It doesn't change the result," she replied. He hadn't expected to feel guilty. But now it sat heavy in his chest. She handed him the file and turned.
"Is that all?" she asked.
He couldn't answer.
She didn't wait.