The headquarters of Aethel Technologies was a temple to innovation and intimidation. As we stepped into the vast, airy space , I couldn't help but feel a sense of awe at the gaint scale of it all. Employees moved through the space with a quiet, purposeful efficiency, their voices hushed as if in a library. It was like they were all part of some intricate order each one knowing their place and their role.
When Gu Yichen strode through the main doors, a path cleared before him. People averted their eyes, nodded in respect, and generally behaved as if a deity had decided to walk among them. I, on the other hand, felt every single pair of eyes snap to me, like I was some sort of curiosity on display.
The whispers were a physical force, a subtle recor that followed us to the private elevator. "Is that her?" someone whispered. "The one from the news?" another voice chimed in. "She doesn't look like a socialite," a third person murmured. "What is she wearing?" someone else asked, their tone laced with curiosity.
She was wearing one of the elegant, simple outfits from the closet, but here, amidst the razor-sharp fashion of the Aethel employees, she felt frumpy and exposed. She kept my chin up, channeling the persona she'd used at dinner: a blend of quiet poise and unshakeable confidence she was far from feeling.
The elevator shot them up to the executive floor. Gu Yichen's office was exactly as she remembered—a cold, beautiful cage with a view. He didn't pause, heading straight for his desk and the stack of tablets waiting for him.
"Zhang Wei will bring you the briefing materials for the lunch," he said, not looking up. "The delegation is from a German tech firm. They are considering a joint venture. They value… stability."
She raised an eyebrow"And nothing says stability like a hastily acquired wife from the countryside," Xiaowei murmured, wandering over to the window.
This time, he heard her. "Precisely. Your role is to be a visual representation of that stability. Smile. Nod. Appear devoted. Do not, under any circumstances, offer your opinion on the technology."
"What if my opinion is exceptionally insightful?" she asked, turning to face him a mischievous glint in her eye.
He looked up, his gaze tight "It won't be," he said flatly, "You are here to decorate my arm, not to consult."
The bluntness of it was like a slap, and she felt the heat rise to her cheeks. A prop. A decoration. She was starting to get the picture.
"Understood," she said, her tone laced with sarcasm. "I'll just sit there and look pretty and stupid."
"I didn't say stupid," he corrected, his attention already returning to his screens. "I said silent."
Before she could retort, Zhang Wei entered, his smile a warm change to the room. "Miss Lin! A pleasure to see you again. Here are the collection of documents on the key members of the German delegation." He handed her a thin tablet. "Just some basic biographical information to help with small talk. Herr Schmidt enjoys classical music. Frau Vogel has three badger dogs and so on"
Xiaowei took the tablet, feeling a sense of relief wash over her. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all. "Small talk. I can do that. As long as the topic isn't the subtle detailed engineering of espresso machines."
Zhang Wei's smile became slightly strained. Gu Yichen didn't react.
An hour later, they were seated in a private dining room within the Aethel building. The table was set with flawless precision. The Germans—Herr Schmidt, a large, jovial man with a booming laugh, and the more reserved, sharp-eyed Frau Vogel—were clearly important clients.
The conversation was a boring order of technical jargon and market analysis. Xiaowei sat beside Gu Yichen, her smile plastered on, her hand resting lightly on the table near his. She said nothing, as instructed. She was the picture of a dutiful wife to perfection.
Herr Schmidt, however, seemed determined to include her. During an abate, he turned his twinkling eyes on her. "And Mrs. Gu! It is a pleasure. Yichen has been hiding you away! What do you think of our proposed interface integration?"
Four pairs of eyes landed on her. Gu Yichen went still beside her. She could feel the silent command radiating from him: Say nothing.
But Herr Schmidt was looking at her expectantly. A bland, wifely answer wouldn't suffice. She recalled a line from the dossier about his love for vintage cars and took a chance.
She gave a soft, self-deprecating laugh and fluttered her free hand slightly. "Oh, Herr Schmidt, I'm afraid the technical details are far beyond me. My husband's genius is one of life's great mysteries to me." She leaned forward suggestively. "I'm much better at appreciating the… aesthetics. The sleekness of the design reminds me of the lines of a classic Porsche 911. It's not just functional; it's a work of art. My father," she lied smoothly, weaving a fragment of the original Xiaowei's memory of a wealthy village elder's car into her story, "always said that true quality, in machinery or in people, has a certain elegance you can't fake."
There was a beat of silence, and for a moment, Xiaowei wondered if she'd overstepped. Then, Herr Schmidt boomed with laughter, slapping the table. "A Porsche! She compares your software to a Porsche, Yichen! I like her! She has soul! My wife, she only cares about the color of the car!" The tension in the room dissipated, and Xiaowei felt a sense of pride and accomplishment.
Frau Vogel, who had been watching Xiaowei with a hawk-like intensity, allowed a small, genuine smile to touch her lips. "An interesting analogy. It speaks to user experience on an instinctual level."
Gu Yichen, who had been ready to intervene, slowly relaxed. He picked up his wine glass. "My wife has a… unique perspective," he said, his voice a low murmur. He didn't look at her, but the tension in his shoulder had eased.
The moment passed, and the conversation drifted back to safer topics. But the atmosphere had shifted. The Germans were warmer, more engaged. Xiaowei had, with a single, carefully crafted comment, broken the ice in a way Gu Yichen's cold logic never could.
As the lunch concluded and goodbyes were exchanged, Herr Schmidt shook Xiaowei's hand with both of his. "A pleasure, Mrs. Gu. You must visit Berlin with your husband. We will show you the real classics!"
Back in the silent elevator, riding up to his office, the air was different. The hostility from the morning had been replaced by a strerched, curious silence.
He didn't speak until the doors of his office closed behind them. He walked to his desk but didn't sit. Instead, he turned and looked at her, a long, appraising look.
"A Porsche 911?" he finally said.
"It was in the dossier. He likes classic cars," xiaowei shrugged, trying to play it cool though her heart was still pounding from the gamble.
"You manipulated the conversation."
"I facilitated it," she corrected. "You wanted stability. I gave them relatable, human stability. A wife who adores her brilliant husband but knows a thing or two about quality. It's a powerful narrative."
He was silent for a moment, processing this. She wasn't just a prop. She was a strategist. It was a complication he hadn't accounted for.
"The charity tea is tomorrow at three," he said, changing the subject abruptly. "Zhang Wei will provide you with the guest list and their profiles. Study them."
The reminder of the tea sent a fresh wave of anxiety through her. This wouldn't be a room of jovial German businessmen. This would be a shark tank.
"Any specific instructions for that?" she asked, her voice tighter than she intended. "Am I to be silent and decorative there, too? Or can I compare their hats to vintage automobiles?"
A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face. He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a small, black credit card, placing it on the desk.
"No," he said. "For the tea, you are not to be silent. You are to be impeccable. Take this. Go to the salon on the ground floor. Have them do whatever it is women do before such events. Your… current presentation is adequate for a business lunch, but it will not suffice for my grandmother's circle."
Xiaowei stared at the card, then at him. The unspoken words hung in the air between them: You are not enough as you are. You need to be remade.
It was another test. Another manipulation. But this one came with a weapon. A black credit card and a mandate to become a more convincing version of Mrs. Gu.
She picked up the card. It was cold, and decorated . A key to a new kind of armor.
"Fine," she said, slipping it into her pocket. "I'll go get polished. But just so you know," she added, meeting his gaze squarely, "this is going on your tab. All of it."
For the second time that day, she saw it—the faintest, most tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
"Naturally," he replied.
As she turned to leave, guided by Zhang Wei, a new thought struck her. She was no longer just a runaway or a shield. She was now a project. And she had a sinking feeling that the most dangerous part of this entire arrangement wasn't the enemies outside, but the process of becoming the woman she was pretending to be.