The private elevator to the top floor of Gu Group headquarters opened with a soft chime. Lin Nian'an stepped in, clutching a slim tablet to her chest, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor. The mirrored walls reflected her composed face, the elegant fall of her red hair, and the deliberate confidence in her stride—none of which hinted at the chaos in her heart.
It had been two weeks since she returned to the country, two weeks since she received the offer to lead the joint art curation project between her studio and Gu Group. And now, two weeks since she'd avoided meeting him in person—until today.
The elevator stopped at the 66th floor.
The doors parted with a hiss, revealing a clean, sleek hallway bathed in warm golden light. A sharp contrast to the cold pressure that seemed to settle over her shoulders the moment she stepped out.
"President Gu is in a meeting," the assistant outside the glass door said with a polite nod. "But he asked you to wait in his office."
Nian'an gave a small nod, offering a brief, "Thank you."
She stepped into the office—the space was massive, cold in its design, yet luxurious to the smallest detail. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a sweeping view of the city skyline, the sunset bleeding gold and crimson across the horizon.
And there, on the wide, dark oak desk, sat a single photo frame.
She paused.
It was the same photo from years ago. A faded snapshot from high school—two teens standing under a cherry blossom tree, him in uniform, arms crossed and cold as ever; her smiling brightly, unaware that he was watching her, not the camera.
Her throat tightened. She looked away.
But before she could take another breath, a deep voice came from behind her.
"You still break into people's offices without knocking."
The air froze.
She turned slowly. Gu Chenyan stood at the doorway, tall and straight in his custom-tailored navy suit. The silver of his hair gleamed faintly under the ambient lighting, and his sharp eyes—those eyes that once softened only for her—were unreadable.
"I was told to wait here," she replied, voice calm.
He walked in, closing the door behind him with a soft click. "Convenient excuse."
She didn't answer.
He moved past her to the desk, taking off his cufflinks with precise, slow movements. "You've been back for two weeks."
"Yes."
"And you didn't think to say hello?"
"I didn't think it was necessary." She kept her tone neutral, not cold, not soft. Measured.
He looked up sharply. "Not necessary?"
"We're working together now, aren't we? Isn't that enough?"
He didn't speak for a moment.
Then he said, almost too quietly, "You've changed."
"And you haven't," she said, setting the tablet down on the table. "Still controlling. Still expecting everyone to orbit around your world."
His jaw tightened. "You used to be part of that world."
She offered a brittle smile. "I left it. And I'm not planning to reenter."
Silence stretched between them, heavy with things left unsaid.
Gu Chenyan stared at her for a long while. "Is this how it's going to be, Nian'an?"
"We're business partners now. Nothing more."
Something in his eyes flickered—hurt, maybe, or anger. But it was gone in a second.
"Fine," he said, turning his attention to the tablet she brought. "Let's keep it professional."
She watched him scroll through the proposal she had poured nights into, fingers grazing the screen without reaction.
After a long pause, he said, "You still paint with emotion. I can see it in the colors you chose. Passion, restraint, longing…"
She blinked. "That's part of the concept. It's meant to reflect duality."
He looked up. "You always hide behind concepts when you're trying not to feel."
Her lips parted, then closed.
She had no answer to that.
He set the tablet down and walked to the window, looking out over the city.
"Nian'an," he said quietly. "Do you hate me?"
She hesitated.
"No," she said finally. "But I don't love you either."
His back was still to her, but his hands clenched at his sides.
"That's a lie," he said.
"Believe what you want," she replied, and turned to leave.
But just as her fingers touched the doorknob, he spoke again.
"Did you read the letter?"
Her body froze.
He knew.
She turned around slowly, heart pounding. "What letter?"
"The one I left the night you left Paris."
"I never received it."
He walked toward her, each step measured and quiet. "I slipped it into your sketchbook. The one you always carried."
Her mind raced. That sketchbook. She had left it behind… or had she?
"You meant for me to find it after?" she asked, voice shaky.
He nodded. "It explained everything."
And yet she had never read it.
A thousand possibilities surged in her mind—what did it say? Apologies? Confessions? Promises?
She felt suddenly unsteady.
"You came back," he said gently. "But you still haven't really returned."
She turned away again, this time pulling the door open with force.
"I didn't come back for you," she said.
He didn't stop her.
But as the door closed between them, his eyes lingered on her retreating figure, and he whispered words no one would hear.
"But I'm still here. Waiting."