The morning after felt like a hangover.
A soul-deep, bone-aching hangover, but without the convenient excuse of alcohol.
Yu Zhen woke up in her own bed, but she felt displaced, as if she were a stranger in her own life.
Her lips still tingled with the phantom pressure of his.
It was just a kiss.
She repeated the words to herself, a mantra against the rising tide of chaos in her mind.
A moment of weakness.
The adrenaline from the competition.
The scotch.
She clung to the rationalizations like a drowning woman clinging to a piece of driftwood.
But her body was a traitor.
It remembered everything.
The solid wall of his chest against her fists.
The surprising softness of his hair tangled in her fingers.
The way he tasted, a complex, intoxicating flavor of power and coffee and something else, something uniquely, dangerously him.
Okay, stop.
Just stop thinking about it.
She threw back the covers and forced herself into the shower, turning the water to a punishingly cold temperature.
The shock of the cold water was a welcome distraction, a physical penance for her mental sins.
She scrubbed her skin raw, as if she could wash away the memory of his touch, the lingering scent of his cologne that seemed to have embedded itself in her senses.
It was useless.
He was under her skin.
He played you, you idiot.
That was the thought that echoed the loudest.
He had cornered her, provoked her, and then, at the peak of her emotional turmoil, he had used that moment to assert his dominance.
And then, just when she thought she understood the game, he had pivoted.
He had offered a compromise.
A brilliant, logical, and infuriatingly perfect business solution.
And then he had kissed her again.
But the second kiss... that was the one that truly terrified her.
It hadn't been a claiming.
It had been a question.
A tender, devastating question that her body had answered with a resounding, shameful yes.
He's a master manipulator.
He's using attraction as a business tactic.
He's getting you to lower your guard, to mix business with pleasure, so he can get everything he wants.
She had to believe that.
It was the only narrative that made sense, the only one that kept her safe in the role of the righteous victim.
The alternative was too terrifying to contemplate.
The alternative was that the kiss meant something.
That the connection was real.
That Chao Wei Jun, the ruthless corporate shark, was just as lost in this as she was.
No.
Impossible.
She stepped out of the shower, her resolve hardening with every drop of cold water that evaporated from her skin.
Today, she would be a fortress.
She would be Chef Lin, the Michelin-starred queen of her culinary kingdom.
She would go to the meeting they had scheduled for this morning to discuss the new proposal—the artisanal sauces, the premium brand.
She would be professional.
She would be cold.
She would be untouchable.
She would act as if the kiss had never happened.
She would prove to him, and to herself, that she could not be so easily conquered.
The meeting was set for ten o'clock, in the private dining room of Phoenix Rising.
Her territory.
Her rules.
She arrived at the restaurant hours early, needing the comfort of her kitchen, the familiar weight of a knife in her hand.
She moved through the motions of morning prep, her hands finding solace in the repetitive tasks of chopping vegetables and simmering stocks.
But her mind was a battlefield.
Mei Ling arrived around nine, taking one look at Yu Zhen's face and the mountain of perfectly minced garlic she had produced.
"Whoa," Mei Ling said, her eyes wide. "Either we're expecting an army of vampires, or you're working through some serious shit."
"I'm fine," Yu Zhen lied, not looking up from her cutting board.
"Bullshit," Mei Ling countered, leaning against the counter. "You have your 'I'm about to commit a homicide' face on. What did he do?"
Yu Zhen finally stopped chopping, the knife still in her hand.
"He kissed me," she said, the words coming out in a flat, dead tone.
Mei Ling's jaw dropped.
"He... what? Like, a real kiss? Not one of those 'I'm asserting my dominance' power moves?"
"Both," Yu Zhen admitted, a wave of shame washing over her. "And I... I kissed him back."
Mei Ling was silent for a long moment, processing the information.
"Okay," she said finally. "So the sexual tension that's been thick enough to cut with a cleaver finally exploded. I'm not surprised."
"You're not?"
"Bestie, please," Mei Ling said, rolling her eyes. "The way you two look at each other? It's like a goddamn nature documentary. Two predators circling each other before they either fight to the death or, you know, do that."
"It was a mistake," Yu Zhen insisted. "He's manipulating me."
"Or," Mei Ling offered, "and hear me out, because this is a crazy idea... maybe he actually likes you?"
"He doesn't 'like' people," Yu Zhen scoffed. "He acquires them. He sees me as an asset, and he's using attraction as leverage."
"And you're sure about that?" Mei Ling asked, her gaze soft and knowing. "You're one hundred percent certain that there isn't a tiny part of you that's intrigued? That wants to see what would happen if you just... let go?"
Yu Zhen hated her.
She hated her for seeing through the bullshit, for poking at the one truth she was desperately trying to ignore.
"He's coming here in an hour," Yu Zhen said, changing the subject. "We're going to discuss the new proposal. The sauces."
"And you're going to pretend that your faces weren't attached last night?"
"Yes," Yu Zhen said, her voice firm. "It's going to be strictly business. I'm going to be professional."
Mei Ling just shook her head, a sad smile on her face.
"Good luck with that," she said. "Let me know if you need me to hose you two down."
He arrived at ten on the dot, punctual as always.
He was back in his corporate armor. A perfectly tailored dark blue suit, a crisp white shirt, a tie that probably cost more than her monthly grocery bill.
There was no trace of the man from last night, the one who had admitted his loneliness, the one whose eyes had softened with a vulnerability that had shattered her defenses.
This was Chao Wei Jun, the CEO.
Good.
This is better.
This, I can handle.
"Chef Lin," he said, his voice a smooth, professional baritone. He extended a hand.
She took it, her grip firm, her expression neutral.
His hand was warm, his touch sending a jolt through her that she ruthlessly suppressed.
"Mr. Chao," she replied, her voice equally formal. "Please, have a seat."
She led him to the table in the Jade Chamber, the same table where his minions had tried to intimidate her just a few days ago.
It felt like a lifetime ago.
She sat opposite him, placing her notebook and pen on the table, creating a physical and metaphorical barrier between them.
The air was thick with an awkward, suffocating tension.
They were both trying so hard to be professional, to ignore the elephant in the room.
The elephant that was currently doing a tango on the table between them.
"So," she began, her voice sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet room. "The new proposal. Artisanal sauces."
"Yes," he said, opening his own sleek leather portfolio. "My team has already run some preliminary market analysis. The premium condiment sector is experiencing a seventeen percent year-over-year growth. There's a significant gap in the market for a chef-driven, high-quality product line. Your brand is perfectly positioned to dominate that space."
He was so smooth.
So polished.
He spoke about market share and brand positioning as if they hadn't been pressed against each other in a fit of desperate passion just hours ago.
It was infuriating.
And, if she was being honest, a little impressive.
"I've reviewed the initial concept," she said, forcing herself to focus on her notes. "The idea has merit. But I would require absolute, non-negotiable control over product development. Ingredient sourcing, flavor profiles, production methods... everything."
"That's acceptable," he agreed easily. "Your name is the brand. Your standards are the selling point. To compromise on that would be to devalue the entire enterprise."
They went back and forth like that for nearly an hour.
Discussing distribution channels.
Marketing strategies.
Profit-sharing models.
It was the most surreal, disorienting conversation of her life.
Every time he said the word "partnership," her mind flashed back to the feel of his lips.
Every time she talked about "long-term commitment," her body remembered the heat of his hands on her waist.
It was torture.
A slow, agonizing burn of unspoken desire simmering just beneath the surface of their polite, professional discourse.
She could feel his eyes on her, even when she was looking down at her notes.
She was intensely aware of every small movement he made.
The way he tapped his pen against his portfolio.
The way he loosened his tie, just a fraction.
The way his knee brushed against hers under the table, a brief, electric contact that made her entire body seize up.
She couldn't take it anymore.
The pretense was suffocating her.
She slammed her notebook shut, the sound echoing in the silent room.
He looked up, startled.
"This is ridiculous," she said, her voice shaking with a frustration she could no longer contain.
"I'm sorry?" he asked, his professional mask slipping for the first time, revealing a flicker of genuine confusion.
"This!" she exclaimed, gesturing wildly at the table, at their portfolios, at the suffocating space between them. "This whole... performance! We're sitting here talking about profit margins and marketing like we didn't... like last night didn't happen."
He leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable.
He picked up his glass of water, taking a slow, deliberate sip.
He was buying time.
He was calculating his response.
"I was under the impression," he said finally, his voice carefully neutral, "that we were proceeding with Option A."
"Option A?" she scoffed. "The one where we pretend we're robots who can just turn off a 'liability' like human attraction? Does that honestly seem like a viable strategy to you?"
"It is the most logical one," he said.
"Logical?" she laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. "There is nothing logical about this! There is nothing logical about the fact that I can't stand you, but I also can't stop thinking about you! There is nothing logical about the fact that you are my professional enemy, but you defended my reputation and... and kissed me like you actually meant it!"
The words were out before she could stop them, a torrent of confused, frustrated honesty.
The silence that followed was absolute.
He just stared at her, his face a blank canvas, his mind clearly working a thousand miles an hour.
"So that's what this is about," he said softly, his voice devoid of its usual confidence. It was quiet. Almost vulnerable. "You think I'm playing you."
"Aren't you?" she challenged, her voice trembling. "Isn't this just the most sophisticated business tactic of all? Seduce the difficult asset to get her to sign the contract?"
She wanted him to deny it.
She needed him to deny it with the same force and conviction he'd used to command his PR team.
But he didn't.
He looked away, his gaze fixed on the window, on the sprawling city below.
"It started that way," he admitted, his voice so quiet she had to strain to hear it.
The admission was a punch to the gut.
It was everything she had feared.
Everything she had told herself was true.
I knew it.
You stupid, naive fool.
A cold, bitter disappointment washed over her.
"I saw you as a challenge," he continued, still not looking at her. "An acquisition. The most beautiful, untouchable prize in the city. I told myself that the attraction I felt was just... a professional appreciation for a worthy opponent."
He finally turned to look at her, and his eyes were filled with a raw, unfamiliar emotion.
It looked like... confusion.
"But then I tasted your food," he said. "And I heard your story. And I saw the fire in your eyes when you defend your art. And somewhere along the way... the lines blurred. The game stopped being a game."
He stood up and walked to the window, his back to her.
"Last night, when I kissed you... that was not on the agenda. It was not a calculated move. It was... an impulse. An uncontrollable, illogical, and highly inefficient impulse."
He turned back to face her, and the look on his face stole the air from her lungs.
He looked lost.
Chao Wei Jun, the man who controlled everything, looked completely and utterly lost.
"I don't know what this is, Yu Zhen," he confessed, his voice raw. "I've never felt it before. It's distracting. It's inconvenient. And it's the only thing I've thought about for the past twelve hours."
He took a step towards her.
"So, to answer your question," he said, his voice dropping to a low, intense whisper. "No. I'm not playing you. I wouldn't even know how. I don't know the rules to this game."
He stopped in front of her, his presence overwhelming.
"That kiss," he said, his eyes searching hers, "was not a tactic."
He paused, and the silence stretched, thick with a terrifying, heart-stopping sincerity.
"It meant something to me," he said. "And I have a feeling... a very strong feeling... that it meant something to you, too."