The wind was cool that night, brushing gently across the city skyline. Lights shimmered on every tower, casting golden reflections on the glass façades. On the 39th floor of a private hotel under the Gu Group, Gu Chenyan stood at the balcony, a wine glass in hand, untouched. Below, the city moved like it always did—fast, loud, indifferent.
But he wasn't watching the city.
He was waiting for her.
Lin Nian'an.
He had sent the invitation three days ago. A formal one. No expectations, no pressure. Just a time, a place, and two words scrawled at the bottom:
If you're willing.
Downstairs, in the hotel lobby, Lin Nian'an stood still for a moment, her heels clicking softly on the marble floor. The receptionist had smiled knowingly when she gave her name and led her to the private elevator. No questions asked.
She looked stunning—hair swept up, a crimson silk gown hugging her figure, eyes lined in smoky hues that deepened her already cold aura. She didn't wear perfume. She never needed it.
The elevator doors closed silently behind her.
She didn't know why she came.
Maybe curiosity. Maybe anger. Maybe… hope.
The door to the suite was ajar when she reached it. She stepped inside quietly.
Warm lighting bathed the space in gold. There were no assistants. No bodyguards. No distractions.
Just him.
Gu Chenyan turned slowly when he heard the door.
His breath caught.
He had seen her in hundreds of versions—childhood pigtails, student uniforms, sharp designer coats. But this… this version of her, standing there like a painting lit by candlelight, stunned him.
"You came," he said, voice low.
"I almost didn't," she replied, stepping into the room.
"I wouldn't have blamed you if you hadn't."
"Then why invite me?"
"Because I needed one night," he said simply. "To say what I couldn't back then."
She looked at him, unsure. "You had five years."
"I was a coward," he said, placing the untouched wine glass on the table. "I thought silence would protect you."
"It destroyed me," she whispered.
Silence fell between them like glass shattering. The weight of it pressed against her chest.
"After my father passed away," she said suddenly, "you didn't come to the funeral."
"I did," he said quietly. "I stood far back. I couldn't face you. I was grieving, but I was also guilty."
Her fists clenched at her sides. "You were my only family left. And you left me alone."
"I know."
"I waited for you. Every day, in that empty apartment, thinking you'd come knocking. But you never did."
"I should have. I regret it every single day."
She turned her face away, blinking fast. "Don't do this now. Don't say the words I used to beg for."
"Then let me say them for my sake," he said, taking a careful step toward her. "I never stopped thinking about you, Nian'an. Not one damn day."
She didn't respond.
He took another step. "When I saw you again, standing in my office, looking at me like I was a stranger—it killed me."
"You were a stranger."
He nodded. "I deserved that."
More silence.
Then she finally asked, "Why tonight?"
He looked her in the eye. "Because I was afraid if I waited any longer, you'd walk away again. And this time, I wouldn't get another chance."
Her voice trembled despite herself. "You had your chance. You gave it up."
"I know."
He pulled a box from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. Small. Black. Simple.
"I'm not proposing," he said with a wry smile. "Not that kind of box."
He opened it. Inside was a ring. Not a diamond. Not gold.
Just a simple silver band.
"I bought this before you left for London. I carried it for five years. I never found the right moment… because I kept losing them."
She stared at it. "You still kept it?"
"I couldn't throw it away. It reminded me I had something worth chasing. Even if I didn't deserve it."
She turned her back to him. "It's too late, Chenyan."
"I'll still wait," he said.
She closed her eyes.
"Don't," she whispered. "Don't wait for something that won't come back."
He stepped forward slowly, and for a moment, she thought he might touch her.
But he didn't.
Instead, he placed the box on the table behind her.
"When you're ready," he said. "Not for marriage. Not even for forgiveness. Just for closure."
And then he left.
He didn't ask her to stay.
Didn't beg.
He just walked past her and disappeared down the private hallway.
She didn't move for a long time.
Not until the room was quiet again.
She turned slowly, walked to the table, and looked down at the box. It sat there like a silent question.
Part of her wanted to throw it away.
Part of her wanted to cry.
But instead, she opened it again.
Just once.
And closed it just as quickly.
That night, she returned to her apartment. She didn't sleep.
She drew instead.
Page after page.
Sketches of a ring box.
A hand reaching out.
A man walking away.
And a woman standing still.