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Chapter 6 - Chapter 6: Made of Silk and Storms

Wang Yibo did not like change.

He liked structure, the quiet hum of control, and the predictability of silence. His world was ruled by contracts, quarterly reports, and the solemn weight of legacy—nothing less, nothing more.

But now, every time he stepped into his office, the scent of jasmine lingered like a whisper. He had not asked for it again. And yet, the tea still appeared. Perfectly brewed, always with a touch of honey.

A habit had been born.

One that unnerved him more than it should have.

He never saw Xiao Zhan place it there.

It was just… there.

Like the man himself—quiet, smiling, unsettling.

Xiao Zhan had his own storm to wrestle with.

In the early mornings, he still called his mother in Japan. He never said much. Just enough to ease her fears. But she never asked him when he was coming home anymore. Perhaps she knew he never truly would.

After all, he was no longer their prince.

He had chosen exile.

He had chosen anonymity.

But in China, he had become something else—seen. And that frightened him more than being invisible ever did.

"You're working late again," Secretary Lan noted as she passed by his desk one evening. She tilted her head. "Trying to impress the CEO?"

Zhan gave a weak chuckle. "Trying to survive the CEO."

She smirked. "Well… if anyone could melt that iceberg, it would be you."

Zhan blinked. "What?"

"Nothing," she sang, walking off.

But the words lodged themselves in his mind.

That Friday, an invitation arrived at his apartment.

No sender listed.

Just a cream-colored envelope, embossed in velvet gold. The Wang Family crest shimmered faintly on the seal.

Zhan opened it with careful fingers.

> You are formally invited to the Wang Conglomerate Charity Gala, hosted at the Royal Family Estate.

Attire: Formal.

Arrival: 7:00 PM sharp.

- W.Y.

His chest tightened.

He had not expected this.

Most assistants were not invited. Especially not new ones. The Gala was less a corporate event, more a royal display of influence—a curated gathering of the nation's most powerful, most dangerous, most untouchable.

Why him?

But then, the initials said enough.

W.Y.

Not a company seal.

A personal invitation.

Saturday night arrived cloaked in gold and marble. The Wang Estate stood on a quiet hill outside the city, walled by silver gates and guarded by tradition. As Zhan stepped out of the car, he felt the weight of the past pressing on him—from both sides of his bloodline.

He wore a simple black suit, tailored but not ostentatious. His hair was neatly styled, his fingers trembling slightly as he clutched the invitation in his pocket like a charm.

Inside, the ballroom shimmered with candlelight and music. People spoke in low voices, glasses clinking like soft chimes. Zhan recognized no one—and yet, they all seemed to see him.

He was no longer invisible.

"There you are."

The voice was cool, level—and achingly familiar.

He turned.

Wang Yibo stood not far away, dressed in a charcoal-black tuxedo that made the emerald pin on his lapel gleam like a secret. His eyes met Zhan's with that same unreadable weight he always carried. But tonight, it was... softened. Just slightly.

"I wasn't sure you'd come," Yibo said.

Zhan swallowed. "I wasn't sure I was supposed to."

"You were."

That was all.

No smile. No compliment.

But Yibo's gaze lingered on Zhan's collar just a second too long.

"Come with me," he said.

Not a request.

They walked through the long glass corridor behind the ballroom, away from the murmurs and lights. The city twinkled below like stars had fallen and made a home there.

"I never bring employees here," Yibo said quietly.

"Then why me?"

Yibo didn't look at him right away. His eyes were fixed on the horizon, jaw tight, hands behind his back.

"Because you're not like the others."

Zhan's breath hitched.

"That's not an answer."

"No," Yibo said. "It's not."

They stood in silence. Only the wind filled the pause between them.

Then Yibo turned, slowly, and leaned his back against the glass. His face was less guarded now, like something within him had cracked—just enough to let the light in.

"I was raised to be a crown," he said, voice lower. "Not a person. I don't feel things the way others do."

Zhan didn't move.

"I wasn't allowed to."

He continued, "My mother was a queen, in everything but title. My father was cold. My tutors were colder. I was never taught how to feel anything without measuring its cost first."

"And now?" Zhan asked, softly.

Yibo looked at him.

"I can't measure you."

The words hit like thunder beneath calm skies.

Zhan's lips parted, but no sound escaped.

"I can't figure out how you became so much a part of my day," Yibo went on, quieter. "How I wait for your voice without realizing it. How I drink tea I used to hate because you made it sweet."

Zhan stepped back, almost afraid.

"I can't tell if you're a threat to my silence or the reason it's breaking."

That stopped everything.

The night air pressed against them. Neither spoke.

Finally, Zhan lifted his head.

"I didn't come here to break you, Yibo."

"I know."

"I just wanted to start over."

Yibo took a step closer.

"You're not what I expected."

"You're not either."

A smile—barely there, but real—touched Yibo's lips.

And then, he said something that neither of them was prepared for:

"Stay."

Zhan blinked. "Tonight?"

"No. Just… in my world."

The silence between them turned velvet.

Zhan didn't say yes.

He didn't have to.

Hours later, as the guests thinned and the gala dwindled into memory, Yibo watched Zhan speak with one of the company's foreign partners—fluent, confident, charming in that soft, endearing way of his.

He had invited him into his world.

But he didn't realize Zhan had already become its brightest star.

That night, when Zhan returned to his apartment, he opened the drawer beside his bed and stared at the royal family crest he'd hidden for years.

Then slowly, carefully—he took it out.

He didn't wear it.

Not yet.

But he placed it beside a photograph he hadn't looked at in years.

Two boys.

Two legacies.

Bound by silk, and storms, and something far more dangerous than duty.

Possibility.

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