The next morning, Lin Nian'an arrived at the Gu Group headquarters earlier than usual. The large conference room on the 65th floor was already abuzz with quiet chatter and the soft tapping of laptops. Assistants arranged folders on the long mahogany table while project directors shuffled through slides.
This was the first formal joint meeting for the cross-industry art initiative. Every major department was present—including marketing, finance, and even PR.
And, of course, Gu Chenyan.
He entered the room just minutes before the meeting began, dressed in a charcoal-gray suit and a steel-blue tie that perfectly accentuated his silver hair. He didn't glance at her. Not once.
Yet Lin Nian'an could feel the air shift the moment he entered.
When the assistant announced the meeting's start, everyone straightened in their seats. A large projection screen lit up at the head of the room, and the lights dimmed slightly.
Gu Chenyan spoke first—concise, commanding, every sentence cutting through the air like a blade. "Our objective is clear: To position Gu Group not just as a leader in finance and real estate, but as a patron of the arts. Lin Nian'an's studio has been selected as the lead design team. Her work speaks for itself."
A few whispers swept the room. Many here knew the name "Lin Nian'an" as an overseas success, but few knew the past she shared with the man at the head of the table.
She stood calmly, clicking the remote in her hand. The screen behind her shifted to a series of concept images—urban installations, immersive galleries, and high-concept interactive designs.
"I believe art should be felt before it's understood," she began. "Our proposal reimagines public space not just as structures, but as emotional experiences. Each exhibit is a story. Each installation, a conversation."
She felt him watching her. Not interrupting. Just… watching.
When she finished her presentation, a round of polite applause followed. A few younger staff looked genuinely intrigued. A few older executives exchanged skeptical glances.
"Will this appeal to investors?" someone asked from the finance side.
"It already has," Gu Chenyan answered before she could. "Three of our international partners have agreed to sponsor pilot installations."
The room fell silent for a moment.
Then the questions began to die down.
When the meeting ended, people slowly filtered out of the room, leaving behind only the core team and senior directors. Lin Nian'an began packing up her materials.
She didn't notice Gu Chenyan moving closer—until his voice was directly behind her.
"You handled that well."
She didn't look up. "You doubted I would?"
"No." He paused. "But I wanted to see how you'd face a room full of doubters."
She zipped up her tablet sleeve. "I've faced worse."
"I know," he said quietly.
She finally turned to him, her expression unreadable. "Why did you choose my studio for this project?"
"Because it's the best."
She didn't buy it. "Try again."
He met her eyes. "Because I want you close."
She blinked.
The words were so direct. No mask. No pretense.
"I don't know if that's brave or stupid," she said.
"Maybe both," he replied.
Later that day, she found herself alone in the rooftop garden of the Gu Group building. The space was rarely used—just a quiet open terrace with trimmed hedges, a few benches, and a view of the city's glittering core.
She came here to breathe.
To think.
The city below moved in fast forward, but up here, time seemed to pause.
She sat on a bench, legs crossed, tablet resting beside her.
"Your heart races when he's near you," a voice said behind her.
She looked up.
Qin Yue, Gu Chenyan's cousin and one of the Group's board advisors, approached with a smile. He was charming as always, dressed in a wine-red suit and carrying two cups of coffee.
"Black, no sugar," he said, handing her one. "Still your style?"
She smiled faintly. "Still is. Thanks."
Qin Yue sat beside her, elbows resting on his knees as he glanced toward the skyline.
"I saw the meeting. You're good," he said.
"I know."
He laughed. "Still cocky."
"Just confident," she corrected.
There was a short silence.
Then Qin Yue's tone turned serious. "Why did you come back, Nian'an?"
She looked at him. "To work. To live. Isn't that enough?"
"Is it, though?" he asked. "You knew returning meant seeing him again."
She didn't answer.
"Chenyan never got over you," he continued. "Even when he tried to pretend otherwise."
"He has no right to ask for anything anymore," she said quietly.
"He's not asking."
"Then why all this?"
"Because he's trying," Qin Yue said. "In the only way he knows how."
She closed her eyes briefly. "He doesn't get to try now. Not after he stayed silent when I needed him most."
"You're right," Qin Yue said gently. "But maybe this time… he won't be silent."
She didn't respond.
Because part of her was afraid he might be right.
That night, as she lay in her apartment overlooking the river, the city lights flickering through the tall windows, she pulled out the sketchbook—the one she had finally opened again.
And she turned to the page where the letter had been tucked.
She hadn't told him everything. The truth was, she had read the letter years ago.
And it had broken her.
But she wasn't ready to face that. Not yet.
She stared at the blank space beside the page and picked up a pencil.
Then she began to draw.
Not a building. Not a sculpture. Not a concept.
But a man standing alone on a balcony, beneath a sky full of stars, watching a woman disappear into the night.