The morning light inside HanLi Tower had no warmth.
It was silver—unforgiving, the color of perfection polished to pain.
Ayla stood before her desk, on a small island amid the ocean of the Executive Floor. Every cubicle was immaculate: white glass panels, silent computers, assistants who typed like synchronized machines. Even the hum of the air conditioner seemed to obey the rhythm of the CEO's footsteps.
She had barely slept the night before. Her badge still felt strange against her chest. The thin gold letters read:
AYLA REHMAN — Executive Support, Section C.
Every time she looked at it, she remembered his words: "Let's see if you can survive here."
8:02 A.M.
She was two minutes late.
Not by her watch—but by his.
At exactly 8:00, the glass door to the executive corridor had opened, and Li Jianhao had walked past without a word. His assistant, Mr. Tang, followed like a shadow.
Now, as Ayla hurried to her desk, she caught a brief glance from the senior secretary—a look that said everything: rookie mistake.
She bowed slightly. "Good morning."
No one replied.
HanLi's first rule wasn't written anywhere, but everyone knew it: Silence is respect.
By noon, her fingers ached from transcribing minutes of a meeting conducted entirely in Mandarin. She typed words she barely understood, pausing every few sentences to match tone and structure. The office felt like a breathing organism—efficient, mechanical, cold.
Across the glass wall, she could see Jianhao in his office.
He stood before the window, phone pressed to his ear, and his expression unreadable.
He didn't sit often. He commanded space the way other men commanded armies.
She couldn't hear his voice, but somehow, even the silence around him sounded expensive.
At 4:10, she made her first mistake.
A single numerical error in a budget sheet—an extra zero in a column. Small, invisible in most offices. But not here.
At 4:25, his voice sliced through the floor.
"Who prepared this report?"
Ayla froze.
Every head turned slightly, but no one answered. Then, Mr. Tang stepped forward hesitantly. "Sir, the assistant—Miss Rehman—compiled the draft—"
"Bring her in."
The entire corridor held its breath.
His office was vast and bare—like being summoned before a king who'd forgotten what mercy was.
Ayla stood by the glass table as Jianhao dropped the printed sheet in front of her.
"One extra zero," he said. His tone wasn't loud—it didn't need to be. It was the quiet kind of anger that burned slower and deeper. "Do you know what this error would cost in a merger file?"
She swallowed. "Yes, sir. I… I'm sorry. It won't happen again."
He stepped closer, and for a second, she caught his reflection beside hers on the glass wall—two distant shapes, one fire, one frost.
"'Sorry,'" he repeated, voice low. "Everyone says that when it's too late. If you can't handle precision, Miss Rehman, you shouldn't be here."
Her throat tightened, but she didn't defend herself.
"I understand."
"Do you?" His eyes were sharp, testing.
"Yes."
He waited for her to crumble, to plead, to explain. She didn't. She only nodded once, gathered the paper quietly, and said, "May I correct it now?"
Something in her calmness threw him off balance. He blinked once, masking it behind indifference.
"Do it. And next time," he said coldly, "think before you waste my time."
"Yes, sir."
She turned and left. Her shoes barely made a sound.
When the door closed, Jianhao realized his heart was beating faster than it should.
He hated that.
That evening, Ayla stayed long after the floor had emptied. The lights had dimmed to a faint silver glow.
She redid the report line by line, cross-checking every figure until her eyes stung.
Outside, the rain returned—soft, steady, like a quiet witness to her endurance.
At 10:17 p.m., she slipped the corrected file onto Jianhao's desk. She didn't knock—he was still in the building, but she didn't want to disturb him.
As she turned to leave, she noticed a small framed photo on his shelf—faded, black-and-white. A woman smiling, holding a boy with sharp eyes and uncertain warmth.
She looked away quickly.
"Miss Rehman."
His voice came from behind her. He was there, leaning against the doorway, coat slung over his arm.
Her breath caught.
"I've received the file," he said, tone neutral. "You stayed late."
"I wanted to fix my mistake properly."
He nodded once. "Don't make it a habit."
"No, sir."
He left without another word, yet his footsteps didn't sound like dismissal. More like retreat.
That night, when Ayla finally stepped out into the rain-soaked street, she realized her fear of him had changed shape. It was no longer terror—it was something quieter, heavier. The feeling of being seen, judged, and… remembered.
She didn't know yet that he couldn't stop thinking about her calm voice under pressure.
And he didn't know why her silence had sounded so much like the voice of the woman he'd loved most—and lost first.
The week ended with rain.
Shanghai's skyline blurred behind the glass walls — a river of silver and light, like the city was exhaling its exhaustion.
Inside HanLi Tower, the staff moved with the same mechanical grace as ever. But something in Jianhao's rhythm had shifted, almost imperceptibly.
He caught himself pausing too often — eyes drifting toward Section C, where Ayla Rehman worked silently, never raising her voice, never wasting a motion.
He told himself it was efficiency that drew his attention. Nothing more.
Friday. 8:45 P.M.
Most of the staff had gone home. The corridors were hollow, the echo of heels fading like memories.
Only two lights remained on: his office — and hers.
Jianhao sat behind his desk, scanning documents. His pen moved fast, but his mind didn't follow. Every time he saw her name on the project roster, something tugged. Rehman. Unfamiliar, yet strangely close.
He sighed and loosened his tie. She'll quit soon, he thought. They always do.
No one lasted long under him — not the assistants, not the secretaries, not even the executives who swore loyalty.
He preferred it that way. Distance was easier. Attachment was costly.
Then came a sound — faint, muffled through the thin glass walls.
A voice. Crying.
He frowned and looked up.
In the small break room across the corridor, two figures stood by the vending machine.
The younger intern, Mina, was crying quietly, shoulders shaking. Ayla stood beside her, holding a paper cup of tea in both hands — her tone soft, unhurried.
Jianhao couldn't hear every word, only fragments. But her voice — that calm, steady cadence — it slipped through the cracks of his armor.
"Mina… mistakes don't make you worthless," Ayla murmured. "They just remind you you're still learning. You'll get better. Don't let fear make you smaller."
Her hand brushed the intern's shoulder, gentle but firm — the kind of touch that didn't pity, but steadied.
"You don't need to be perfect," Ayla added softly. "Just honest. And kind. That's enough."
Something in Jianhao froze.
That voice.
It wasn't just her words — it was her tone. The same warmth, the same rhythm — it was her mother's.
The woman from that old photograph.
The one who used to tell him, when he was ten and crying in silence after his father left:
"Jianhao, you don't need to be strong all the time. Just kind."
He had hated that phrase for years.
Because kindness had cost her everything.
A sudden memory flashed before him —
The sound of glass shattering, his father's voice shouting, his mother's tears, the slammed door.
Then silence.
Always silence.
He blinked it away, but the echo stayed.
When Ayla left the break room, Jianhao had already turned off the lights in his office.
He didn't want to be seen — didn't want her to know he had been watching.
She walked past, unaware, humming faintly under her breath — a tune so old, so familiar, he almost whispered it with her.
He didn't realize he'd clenched his hand until his knuckles went white.
For the first time in years, Li Jianhao felt something stir beneath the ice — something he didn't understand.
Not attraction, not yet. Something older. Something dangerous.
Recognition.
The next morning, he arrived earlier than usual.
The staff looked startled — the CEO never came in before eight.
He gave no explanation. But as he passed Ayla's desk, his gaze lingered for a second too long.
Long enough for her to notice — and drop her pen.
Their eyes met briefly.
Her heart raced, but she didn't know why.
And he — he looked away first.
"Morning," she said quietly.
He hesitated. The word sat on his tongue like a foreign language.
"…Morning."
The staff froze.
Mr. Tang nearly dropped his files.
Jianhao walked away, expression unreadable. But for the rest of the day, he didn't raise his voice once.
That night, in his penthouse high above the city, Jianhao stood by the window again — glass, chrome, and silence.
Below him, the lights of Shanghai pulsed like veins of gold.
He looked down at the city he owned — and realized, for the first time, that something was slipping beyond his control.
He saw her reflection in his mind — her soft tone, her steady eyes, the quiet way she refused to break.
And for the first time since his mother's death, Li Jianhao whispered a truth he could never admit aloud:
"You remind me of something I thought I'd buried."