The autumn sun rose reluctantly over the steel and glass skyline of Beijing, casting long shadows across the Wang Conglomerate's main tower. Inside, the building stirred awake with the quiet grace of discipline. No one dared to be late when the cold-blooded heir, Wang Yibo, walked those halls.
But this morning, something felt… different.
Xiao Zhan stood by the glass wall of the 43rd floor break room, a cup of jasmine tea cradled in his slender hands. The world outside was unfamiliar, yet not unkind. He watched the morning traffic from above—tiny movements of lives he didn't know, free and unchained. That's what he wanted, wasn't it?
Freedom.
"New assistant," came a quiet voice behind him.
He turned, blinking, only to find the ever-precise Secretary Lan handing him a folder.
"You're shadowing Mr. Wang again today. Meetings begin in twenty."
"Oh," he smiled, setting his tea down gently. "Thank you."
Lan gave a curt nod, her sharp eyes briefly softening. "You'll do fine. He doesn't hate you yet."
"Yet?" Zhan chuckled nervously.
She didn't respond, only walked away in her usual no-nonsense gait.
—
When Xiao Zhan entered Wang Yibo's office, the man was already seated behind his expansive desk, dressed in charcoal grey—impossibly pristine. His fingers moved across his tablet with mechanical grace. Not once did he look up.
Zhan bowed his head in greeting. "Good morning, Mr. Wang."
Silence.
Then, finally—
"Sit."
Xiao Zhan obeyed, smoothing his shirt awkwardly as he took the seat across from the prince of the Chinese corporate world.
Wang Yibo didn't raise his head.
"Tell me," he said flatly, "Why did you choose this company?"
Zhan blinked, surprised by the question. It wasn't part of any HR form.
"I… I'd read about the innovation projects," he began, carefully choosing his words. "And I liked the structure. The precision. It feels like a place where I can start again."
Yibo looked up, eyes unreadable. "Start again?"
Zhan swallowed.
"I mean… I'm new here. In China. I left my past behind, and I wanted to… rebuild."
He expected silence.
Instead, Yibo stared at him with unnerving calm. His gaze cut through things, pulled truths from people. But this time, he didn't push.
"Fine," he said, finally. "You'll assist me in the Kintsugi proposal."
Zhan blinked. "Kintsugi? The Japanese partnership?"
Something flickered in Yibo's gaze, a shadow of curiosity—or warning.
"You know the term?"
"I'm Japanese," Zhan said softly. "Partly."
Yibo's fingers stilled on the desk.
"I see."
The air between them pulsed like a thread pulled taut.
Then, without changing tone, Yibo gestured to the seat beside his desk—not across, beside.
"Come here."
Zhan stood slowly, heart hammering, and walked the short distance. He tried not to be too aware of how close they would be, but when he sat beside Yibo, he could feel the coldness of the man's presence like chilled iron.
Yibo didn't look at him. "Take notes. Learn quietly. Speak only when necessary."
Zhan nodded.
And so began the longest five hours of Xiao Zhan's life.
—
What should have been unbearable was… strangely magnetic. Yibo spoke with cold authority, efficient but eloquent. He analyzed reports with surgical clarity. He commanded rooms without raising his voice.
And yet, it wasn't his power that stunned Xiao Zhan. It was the cracks.
Once—only once—Yibo's jaw clenched when a board member tried to override his decision. Another time, he tapped the pen against his palm in silent irritation when a call from someone named "Mother" was declined.
Xiao Zhan said nothing.
But he noticed.
—
That night, Xiao Zhan returned to his small apartment tucked between two aging art shops in Chaoyang. He sat by the window, legs curled under him, flipping through the documents from the Kintsugi proposal.
Wang Yibo's handwriting—sharp, neat, almost militaristic—danced across the margins. Notes. Arrows. Quiet thoughts etched without hesitation.
He traced one line with his fingertip.
"Imperfection is not weakness. It is memory made visible."
Zhan breathed out slowly.
"Who are you really, Wang Yibo?"
He looked at the stars above Beijing. They were dimmer here. Hidden.
Like him.
—
Meanwhile, back in the Wang estate, Yibo stood before the old study. His father's voice echoed from within—calm and cold.
"Still no background on him? You're slipping, Yibo."
"I'm not interested in his past."
"You should be. No commoner speaks like that. Walks like that."
Yibo's gaze sharpened. "He's not a threat."
"No?" the elder Wang stepped closer. "Then why do you watch him like he's a puzzle you want to solve?"
Yibo didn't answer.
He turned and left without another word.
But deep inside, something stirred.
He remembered how Xiao Zhan had smiled when explaining Kintsugi. The gentle pride in his voice. The small crease between his brows when he thought no one was watching.
Wang Yibo didn't smile often.
But he did now—just barely.
A dangerous kind of curiosity had bloomed.
And it would not die easily.